tiny tremor in her hand. Anger. Disappointment. Frustration. It could be all of them.
‘I’ll get rid of the military lawyer,’ she says. ‘You might only have twenty minutes. Take Ruiz with you. He’ll know what to do.’
The insinuation in her voice has not been there before. She turns and moves slowly along the passage towards the stairs.
I enter the interview suite. The door swings shut behind me.
We’re alone for a moment. The very air in the room seems to have congregated in distant corners. Gideon can no longer jump to his feet or pace the floor. His handcuffs have been secured on the surface of the table, fixed with bolts and recessed screws. A doctor has bandaged the cut to his palm.
I move closer and take a seat opposite him, placing my hands on the table. My left thumb and forefinger are beating a silent tattoo. I take the hand away and press it between my thighs. Ruiz has slipped into the room behind me, shutting the door softly.
Gideon gazes at me steadily with a formless smile. I can see the ruins of my life reflected in his glasses.
‘Hello, Joe, heard from your wife lately?’
‘Where is she?’
‘Dead.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘You killed her the moment I was arrested.’
I can smell the very odour of his insides, the rancid, festering, misogyny and hatred.
‘Tell me where they are.’
‘You can only have one of them. I asked you to choose.’
‘No.’
‘I wasn’t given a choice when I lost my wife and daughter.’
‘You didn’t lose them. They ran away.’
‘The slut betrayed me.’
‘You’re making excuses. You’re obsessed with your own sense of entitlement. You believe because you’ve fought for your country, done terrible things for them, that you are owed something better.’
‘No. Not better. I want what everyone else wants. But what if my dream conflicts with yours? What if my happiness comes at your expense?’
‘We make do.’
‘Not good enough,’ he says, blinking slowly.
‘The war is over, Gideon. Let them come home.’
‘Wars don’t end,’ he laughs. ‘Wars thrive because enough men still love them. You meet people who think they can stop wars, one person at a time, but that’s bullshit. They complain that innocent women and children get killed or wounded, people who don’t choose to fight, but I’m betting a lot of them wave their sons and husbands off to war. Knit them socks. Send them food.
‘You see, Joe, not every enemy combatant carries a gun. Old men in rich countries make wars happen. And so do the people who sit on the sofas watching Sky News and voting for them. So spare me your bullshit homilies. There are no innocent victims. We’re all guilty of something.’
I’m not going to argue the morals of war with Gideon. I don’t want to hear his justifications and excuses, sins of commission and omission.
‘Please tell me where they are.’
‘And what are you going to give me?’
‘Forgiveness.’
‘I don’t want forgiveness for what I’ve done.’
‘I’m forgiving you for who you are.’
The statement seems to shake him for a moment.
‘They’re coming to get me, aren’t they?’
‘A chopper is on its way.’
‘Who did they send?’
‘Lieutenant Greene.’
Gideon looks at the mirror. ‘Greenie! Is he listening? His wife Verity has the sweetest arse. She spends every Tuesday afternoon in a budget hotel in Ladbroke Grove fucking a lieutenant colonel from acquisitions. One of the lads from ops put a bug in the room. What a tape! It’s been passed round the whole regiment.’ He smirks and closes his eyes, as if reliving the good times.
‘Could you adjust my glasses for me, Joe?’ he asks.
They’ve slipped down his nose. I lean forward and place my thumb and forefinger on the curved frame, pushing it up to the bridge of his nose. The fluorescent lights catch in the lenses and turn his eyes white. He tilts his head and his eyes are grey again. There doesn’t seem to be any magnification from the lenses.
He whispers. ‘They’re going to kill me, Joe. And if I die, you’ll never find Julianne and Charlie. The ticking clock- we all have one, but I guess mine is running a little faster than most and so is your wife’s.’
A bubble of saliva forms and bursts on my lips as I open them but no words come out.
‘I used to hate time,’ he says. ‘I counted Sundays. I imagined my daughter growing up without me. That was mechanical time, the stuff of clocks and calendars. I deal in something deeper than that now. I collect time from people. I take it away from them.’
Gideon makes it sound as though years can be traded between individuals. My loss can be his gain.
‘You love your daughter, Gideon. I love mine. I can’t possibly understand what you’ve been through, but you won’t let Charlie die. I know that.’
‘Is that who you want?’
‘Yes.’
‘So you’re making a choice.’
‘No. I want them both. Where are they?’
‘No choice is a choice, remember?’ He smiles. ‘Did you ask your wife about her affair? I bet she denied it and you believed her. Look at her text messages. I’ve seen them. She sent one to her boss saying that you suspected something and she couldn’t see him any more. Do you still want to save her?’
A blood-dark shadow shakes my heart and I want to lean across the space between us, one arm drawn back like a bow, and smash my fist into his face.
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Look at her text messages.’
‘I don’t care.’
His voice erupts in a hoarse laugh. ‘Yes, you do.’
He glances at Ruiz and back to me. ‘I’m going to tell you what I did to your wife. I gave her a choice too. I put her in a box and told her that your daughter was in a box next to her. She could breathe through a hose and stay alive but only by taking her daughter’s air.’
His hands are bolted to the table, yet I can feel his fingers reaching into my head, wedging between the two halves of the cerebellum, levering them apart.
‘What do you think she’ll do, Joe? Will she steal Charlie’s air to stay alive a little longer?’
Ruiz launches himself across the room and hurls his fist into Gideon’s face with a force that would knock him down if his wrists weren’t bolted in place. I hear breaking bones.
Gripping Gideon beneath his lower ribs, he drives his knee into his kidneys, sending bolts of pain shooting through his body. Perspiration. Empty lungs. Fear. Faeces. Ruiz is screaming at him now, pounding his face with his fists, demanding to know the address. For a violent, bloody minute he takes out all his frustrations. He’s no longer a serving member of the police force. Rules don’t apply. This is what Veronica Cray meant.
Waves of pain break and crash on Gideon’s body. His face is already beginning to bruise and swell from the beating, yet he’s not complaining or crying out.
‘Gideon,’ I whisper. His eyes meet mine. ‘I’ll let him do it. I promise you. If you don’t tell me where they are, I’m going to let him kill you.’
A bloody froth forms on his lips and his tongue rolls across his teeth, painting them red. An unearthly smile forms on his face as the muscles contract and relax.
