The Network - Jason Elliot [109]
‘It feels much better when it’s done with anaesthetic,’ I tell the surgeon.
An hour later I’m limping to Regent’s Park and marvelling at its greenness. After the dust and desiccation of Khartoum, it’s so much easier to understand why the Islamic vision of paradise is a verdant place with running streams and fountains. I sit for a while on a bench beside the main avenue and watch people passing. They seem extraordinarily preoccupied and utterly unaware of the luxury of their surroundings.
Later I walk along the shady paths by the ponds and through the rose garden and back to the Outer Circle, where I’ve parked Gerhardt. I have not paid attention to the time and there’s a ticket on the windscreen. England is unreal to me again.
At home, nothing seems to have changed, although my private world has gone through indescribable tumult over the past few weeks. I mow the lawn and clear the pond of leaves, and count my fish to see if they’re all there. I write up a long report for Seethrough on everything that’s happened in Khartoum, and send it as an encrypted email via the Firm’s server.
I call Jameela at her home for three days in a row but there’s no answer. Then, on the fourth, she picks up. Her faint voice carries on it a flood of memories. She was released without harm after twelve hours. But I have a burning question.
‘Yes,’ she says, in answer to it, ‘it was real. All of it.’
‘What do we do now?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know.’ She weeps.
I don’t know either. I want to ask when we’ll see each other again, but the question sticks in my throat and the result is a long and agonising silence in which each impulse to speak is superseded by its opposite. Neither of us knows what to say. There is only a silent knowing which we both instinctively feel is undermined by words; it’s the very thing we detected in each other when we first met and which took us both by surprise with its intensity. Even at this distance from each other we are in its grasp again.
I call H too, and he invites me to his home to catch up. I drive there the following day. It’s sunny and H is in his garden on a ladder, picking caterpillars from the leaves on his rear porch.
‘They’re eating my wisteria,’ he says, ‘but I don’t like to kill the little buggers.’ I help him gather them up and put them in a box which he’s planning to empty in a neighbouring field.
He doesn’t like the look of my limp, so a long walk isn’t part of our plans.
‘Thought we could put in an hour’s target practice,’ he says. ‘Good for morale. We’ve got permission to use the drive-in range, so we don’t have to creep around any quarries.’
It’s not far. Eight miles from the bridge at Hereford we reach a village where there’s an ancient church with an illustrious history. I half expect to see a works access only sign of the kind that usually indicates a secret government facility, but there’s nothing of the kind. We turn off the main road opposite the church, and drive almost a mile along a country lane barely wide enough for two cars. At an unremarkable crossroads H turns along the way he knows. We pass a derelict-looking farm and suddenly there are high chain-link fences on both sides of the road, beyond which any view is obscured by thick twenty-foot-high deciduous hedges. Poking above them are some high-frequency antenna arrays resembling rotary washing lines, the kind used for long-range agent communication, but there’s not much else to betray a special forces training camp.
We turn in opposite a cluster of low buildings. H slows the car, puts his window down and waves to the man emerging from the security post, who smiles as he recognises him.
‘Alright, H——?’ calls a thick Scottish voice. ‘Nae seen you fra while.’
‘You know how it is,’ says H, and tells him we’ll be about an hour.
‘Nae grief, mate,’ comes the reply.
We pass a small car park with a fleet of scruffy identical vehicles which look as though they’re used for training. A helicopter with no registration