Reaper

  Reaper

  Graham Hurley

  © Graham Hurley 2012

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prelude

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Book Two

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Book Three

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Book Four

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  for Linnie with love

  and sunshine

  PRELUDE

  Tuesday, 5th May, 1981

  In the end, as the priests and the doctors had predicted, it was painless. Already, his face had caved in, an empty mask. The eyes were colourless and without focus, and whatever was left behind the pale, blank expression registered only in tiny movements of the fingertips or one corner of the mouth. During the final week, the terrible dry retching that had so angered him suddenly ceased. At first, the nurses were baffled. Was it possible that this remorseless descent into coma might somehow be reversible? The doctors, tight-lipped as ever, said no. Sixty days of starvation had begun to destroy the man’s most primitive responses. He no longer tried to throw up because his body had forgotten how to. The nurses nodded, faintly disappointed. In a land of miracles, they felt somehow robbed.

  Two days before he died, there was a final attempt to revive negotiations with London. Perhaps the prisoners’ demands might be reframed. Perhaps a minor concession or two might be worth the price of a man’s life. Telephone calls were made. The old invitations renewed. Nothing happened. Thirty-six hours later, during a sudden icy squall that rattled the windows in the prison hospital, the man died.

  That evening, in a room over a timberyard in a small seaside town eighty miles to the west, five men sat down around a table. One of them poured tea into an assortment of china mugs. The single plastic spoon passed from hand to hand. No one said a word. The announcement from the prison authorities had dominated every broadcast since dawn. The news had been utterly predictable, another life hazarded and spent, but the sense of shock, of personal injury, had come as a surprise. Making sense of it all was a complex proposition. Retribution was far simpler.

  The man with the teapot, the man they called the Chief, sat down and wiped his hands on a dishcloth. Then he looked up.

  “Something special,” he said finally. “Has to be.”

  Next morning, in Belfast, she finally remembered the diplomat’s name.

  “Leeson,” she said carefully. “His name is Leeson.”

  The man across the room, the counsellor, nodded. He never wrote anything down. She’d noticed that. He simply listened, and looked at the end of his roll-up, and murmured encouragement from time to time, and when they were fifty minutes in, towards the end of the hour she always booked, he’d go back over it, and rearrange it all a little, and offer it back to her in a shape she could cope with. That was his trick. That was what she came here for.

  “Leeson,” he repeated.

  “He’s a friend of Derek’s. He talks about him sometimes. They were at school together.”

  “Is he a serving diplomat?” The counsellor paused. “Is he at work at the moment?”

  “I …” she hesitated, not really knowing, “I think so.”

  “Is he based in London?”

  “Yes. He tries to phone sometimes.”

  “To your friend?”

  “Yes. For Derek.”

  “Doesn’t your friend want to talk to him?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The counsellor nodded again, and folded one long leg over the other. They always sat on the floor in this room he hired over the laundrette, backs against the wall. They smoked together sometimes, stuff he brought in from God knows where. He said it helped. He said it was a relaxant. He was prompting her again. He could, just occasionally, be very persistent.

  “These friends of your husband’s. Danny’s friends. The ones we talk about …”

  “Yes?”

  “Would they be interested in this man?”

  “Yes,” she nodded, “that’s the point. Oh, yes. I’m sure they would.”

  “Why?”

  She shrugged.

  “That’s the kind of thing they want to know, Danny’s friends …” She nodded out of the window. The rain. The traffic. Belfast. There was a long silence. The counsellor toppled ash into his empty mug. She’d been surprised how young he was. Just out of college, the doctor had told her, cutting his teeth.

  “So …” she looked at him, “what’s your advice? What should I do?”

  “About what?”

  “About yer man. Leeson. Should I tell them? Will that make it any easier? Will that make them go away? Leave me alone?” She hesitated a moment. “Or not?”

  The counsellor studied a crack in the wall opposite. She looked at it. It was quite a big crack.

  “You’re here for therapy,’ he said, “not political advice.”

  “It’s the same thing, isn’t it?” she said. “In this city?”

  “I don’t know.” He frowned. “Would it make you feel better? If you told them?”

  “God knows,’ she said, “but it might make them go away.”

  He smiled at her. He had a nice smile.

  “OK,” he said, “go ahead. Tell them.”

  Miller took the name with him, scribbled in a spare page of his diary, back to the bare single room on the fourth floor of the officers’ accommodation block, back to the billet he called home. He threw his briefcase onto the bed and stood by the window, gazing down at the big white “H” stencilled on the tarmac landing zone, watching the last of the afternoon choppers lifting off, the helmeted crewman at the open door, yet another four-man patrol inside, outward bound, tasked for South Armagh.

  The helicopter dipped its nose and banked sharply, chattering away into the gathering darkness. Miller glanced down at the diary, thinking again of the diplomat, Leeson, wondering whether – at last – they’d found the key they needed. Downing Street, he understood, was open to offers. Put the right way, with patience and a little luck, he might even get the freedoms he needed. Either way, whatever happened, the Hunger Strike was bound to make a difference. One man dead. More to follow. The geology of the place shifting. Aftershocks going on and on. Nothing quite the same again.

  He slipped the diary back into his jacket pocket and stared down at the landing zone for a full minute, the black puddles dimpled with rain, thinking again about the one they called The Reaper, the one they had to find, and wondering whether there might, after all, be a way.

  BOOK ONE

  December, 1981

  ONE

  Buddy Little had been in the Persian Gulf just six days when his wife, back in England, broke her neck.

  She’d been riding, out in the forest, first light, bitterly cold, the grass still stiff with frost. She’d mucked out the stables early, all six horses, saddling the big bay gelding, Duke, and cantering away through the icy mist, up towards the top of the forest,
tracks new to both of them. They’d ridden for an hour, longer than usual, the sweat chill on her face, the trees tearing past, one long brown blur, and now they were on the road again, deep in the country, heading back to the stables, and she wanted nothing more than a hot shower, and toast, and at least two mugs of Buddy’s strong Dutch coffee. She missed the man more than she liked to admit. He’d been gone barely a week, and she thought about him constantly.

  She glanced at her watch, and eased the big horse into a trot. In an hour, the first of the morning’s bookings would arrive, an estate car full of kids who’d started the course only the previous month. The hour’s lesson was probably the high point of their week. They deserved the very best that she could give them.

  She taught well, and she knew it. She’d earned the school the best reputation in the area, and while the work was sometimes repetitive, she never tired of it. Horse-riding, she often thought, was like real life. If you confronted it – if you were brave, if you trusted the horse, if you never lost your nerve – then it gave you a bucket of thrills, and it was the promise of that experience that she held out to her pupils. She grinned, remembering the morning’s ride again, the big horse panting and snorting beneath her, the excitement raw enough to taste. Buddy, she thought again, the smile widening.

  They rounded a bend, and she kept the horse tight against the hedge, her view obscured by the high bank. On the other side of the hedge, she knew, was a small bungalow. A gypsy family had lived there for generations. The garden was littered with old cars, and discarded washing machines, and prams with no wheels. There were rumours of fights there, and most of the villagers kept well clear. There were half a dozen or so kids in the family, and a couple of the kids had dogs.

  They trotted past the bungalow. The front gate was hanging open, one of the hinges torn away in some nameless accident. She caught a movement in the corner of her eye, something small and dark, something bounding through the tall grass in the front garden. The horse saw it too, and then there was a bark, and she felt Duke sidestepping quickly across the road, and her hand went down at once, patting him, comforting him, trying to steady him. “Hey,” she whispered, “hey, there.”

  The dog burst onto the road, yapping and snarling, a small dog, black and white. Duke began to rear, and as he did so, one of his hind legs skidded on a patch of ice in the road. He began to go down, sideways, and she felt herself toppling forward, the horse no longer there, the reins snatching at her hands. She heard the big horse neighing, the fear in him, the legs everywhere, and then she hit the road with a bang, her body twisted, the back of her head against the cold tarmac.

  The force of the impact drove the breath from her body, and when she opened her eyes there was nothing, just blackness and a far-away whistling in her ears. Mentally, she tried to take stock, to work out whether or not she still had the reins, to check what hurt and where and how badly, but in the darkness it was hard to come to conclusions. All that mattered was the horse. She could hear the horse but she couldn’t see it. She told herself she had to find the horse.

  Slowly, sensation returned, and with it a sharp pain where her right hand had scraped along the road. Still in total darkness, she flexed it. Where the nail on her little finger had punctured the flesh on the next finger, it hurt even more. She tried blinking, but nothing happened. Whatever she did with her eyes, the darkness wouldn’t go away. Confusion gave way to fear. For the first time, she tasted blood. She realized that her left hip hurt like hell. She began to panic. Then she passed out.

  Some time later, seconds perhaps or minutes or even longer, there were voices, the sound of a car door, footsteps, people running. She lifted her arms to her head, thinking of the horse again, Duke, how bad he must be, but she found her riding hat wedged immovably over her face. “Get it off …” she pleaded. “Get it off me! I can’t breathe …”

  Someone knelt beside her, asking if she was OK, and she said yes, please get the goddam hat off, the words muffled by the warm blood in her mouth. Then there were hands at her head, pulling back the riding hat, pulling hard, letting in the daylight and the fresh air, and as she began to focus, looking up, seeing the faces, searching for the horse, everything suddenly went away, the pain in her finger, the throb of her hip. Instinctively, hearing Duke, she tried to move.

  Nothing happened.

  Buddy Little got the news about his wife on the radio telephone from the diving office in Jubail.

  It was late afternoon. He’d already dived twice, air dives, sixty feet, and now he was out of time. He lay on a mattress on the foredeck, enjoying the last of the sunshine, reading an old Newsweek magazine. The Captain, an ex-trawlerman from Hull, appeared on the bridge wing.

  “Bloke on the beach,’ he said, “for you?”

  Buddy got up and padded quickly across the deck. The plating was hot beneath his bare feet. He ducked inside the companionway, and mounted the ladder to the tiny, airless radio room. The line was still open, the telephone lying on the desk. He picked it up. A voice at the other end, an American, asked him his name, then told him to get hold of a pencil. Buddy did so, scribbling a fourteen-digit number.

  “Get through as soon as you can,” the voice said, “sounds bad.”

  The line went dead and Buddy stared at the pad. The middle group of digits in the phone number he recognized. 703. The Southampton code. The Captain appeared at the door. He’d obviously been listening in.

  “Go ahead,’ he said. “Dial out.”

  Buddy did so. First time, the on-shore operator was too busy to help. Ten minutes later, he rang back, patching Buddy through a maze of connections to a voice somewhere in Southampton. The line was appalling, and Buddy had to shout his name several times before someone else came to the phone, a cultured voice, someone talking about an accident, Judith, his wife, Intensive Care. As the phrases slipped through the static, it began to dawn on Buddy that the man at the other end was a doctor, and that something had happened, something involving Jude, something not just bad but bloody awful.

  “How is she?” he kept shouting. “What’s happened?”

  The line went dead again, and Buddy turned to find the Captain examining the end of his cigarette. The man was a born pessimist, and loved nothing better than other people’s bad news.

  “Trouble?” he queried.

  Buddy shook his head, a gesture of hopelessness. He felt physically ill. “Dunno,” he said.

  The Captain pulled a face. “Must be,” he said, “them bothering to phone.”

  Buddy looked at him blankly. “When’s the supply boat due?” he said.

  The Captain glanced at his watch. The supply boat came out from Jubail every three days with mail and fresh food, touring the dive ships in the area. The latest consignment was due in an hour’s time.

  “Six o’clock,” the Captain said glumly. “If they manage to find us.”

  Buddy returned to his cabin. He packed both his bags, clearing his clothes from the locker, his books from the shelves, the photos of Jude taped on the wall by his bunk, knowing in his heart that he’d never be back. By the time the supply boat arrived, nudging alongside, the Arab crew filling the lifting net with boxes of bread and fresh vegetables, Buddy was at the rail, the Jacob’s ladder rolled ready at his feet, his bags labelled for whichever flight would get him back fastest. He said goodbye to the rest of the diving team, mentioning nothing about the call. He didn’t even bother to acknowledge the Captain’s limp departing wave from the bridge.

  Back in Jubail, nine in the evening, he went to the diving office. The diving office was closed. There was an emergency number on the door. He phoned from the lobby of a hotel across the street, recognizing the American he’d spoken to earlier. He told the man he was going home, and asked him for details of flights. His voice was flat, expressionless. He announced his plans as a matter of fact. There was no prospect of asking for formal leave. The question of permission didn’t arise. He was going home. It was as simple as that.

  The Ameri
can was sympathetic, booking him onto a late feeder flight to Dubai, and an onward connection with British Airways to Heathrow. The flight would touch down at 09.10, and the ticket – pre-paid – would be waiting for him at the airport. The fare, the company would subtract from money already owed to him. The details completed, the American wished him good luck and hung up.

  Buddy took a cab to the airport at Dhahran. From there, he flew to Dubai. At Dubai, the big BA jumbo was already on the tarmac, slightly ahead of schedule, and lifted off for the long leg to London ten minutes early. By half past eleven the next morning, Buddy was sitting on a coach on the M3, his bags beside him, barely an hour’s drive away from Southampton.

  By now, he knew that Jude was in trouble. He’d phoned from the airport, the first phone he could find, one of a cluster by the baggage carousel. He fed in a pile of coins he’d acquired from the stewardess, stacking up time on the meter, while the nurse at the other end found the doctor he needed to talk to. Finally, he came, a quiet, tired-sounding voice, already sympathetic. Buddy asked what had happened, how she was, whether she was badly injured, and the doctor told him that she’d had an accident, a fall, and that she’d sustained a serious injury. More than that he couldn’t say, telling Buddy that it was best that he make his way to the hospital, and that they meet face to face, and talk the thing through. Buddy didn’t like the sound of that, and said so, but the doctor was adamant. She’s in no danger, he kept saying. She won’t die. Buddy wanted to take the conversation further, to insist on his rights, but he was tired now, and a little confused, and when the doctor brought the conversation to a close he simply accepted it. I’m on my way, he said, I’ll be there as soon as I can.

  On the coach journey down, he brooded, going back over the conversation time and again. He tried to find the key phrase, the clue that would open it all up for him, that would tell him what had really happened to Jude, what they’d done to her, what she’d look like, how she’d be, but his knowledge of medical science was limited to the demands that diving made on his own body, and the rest of it was a mystery. He’d never been in hospital in his life. He hated the places.