He studied his dying colleague, crouched by his side. The man’s legs were in spasm, shaking violently. His face stared at the ceiling, life draining fast. The leader leant into his eye-line. He told him where and when the attack was planned.
‘It’ll be when we bring the war home,’ he said. ‘The day we ignite the fight against the fascists. And it started right here.’ He wiped one side of the blade on the man’s shorts. ‘Embrace the butcher,’ he whispered. He wiped the other side on the man’s T-shirt. ‘Embrace the butcher.’
36
Tuesday, 12 June, 7.35 a.m.
FAMIE’S PHONE WOKE them both. She pulled it from under the blanket. The screen said it was Sam. ‘Yeah Sam,’ she said, ‘what have you got for me?’
‘You sound like I just woke you.’
‘That’s because you just woke me. Me and Sophe, burning the midnight oil here. What’s up?’
‘I’m coming over. Thought you’d appreciate a ten-minute warning.’
Famie sat up fast. ‘Ten minutes? Are you crazy? No one’s ready in ten minutes.’
Sophie walked past her, waved, and disappeared into the shower.
‘Most people anyway. Why are you coming over, Sam? Is everything OK?’
‘The press have gone, Famie. Your flat is paparazzi-free. I just drove past.’ He was on speakerphone and shouting. ‘I can drive you over if you want anything, or to move back.’
The thought of her own bed and rooms with windows that actually opened was tempting. ‘OK, see you in at least twenty.’ She hung up.
Twenty minutes later they met in the Travelodge car park, slung their bags into his boot.
‘Did you check out?’ he said.
‘Not yet,’ said Famie, ‘but we have our stuff in case.’
‘In case what?’
‘Just in case.’
Famie rode in the front, Sophie behind Sam. The radio played news, turned down to a slight rumble. They all wore sunglasses, and Famie’s baseball cap was back. Sam cracked the driver’s window open.
‘Do we smell or something?’ said Sophie.
Sam laughed, Famie smiled.
‘Course we do. It’s the gin,’ she said.
‘It sure is,’ said Sam. ‘Seeping through every pore. It’s the smell of some serious journalism happening. What time’s your meeting with DC Hunter?’
‘Eleven thirty. Hackney Police Station. We’re going to them, thought it would be safer.’
The traffic had thinned out, the lights in their favour. They’d be at Famie’s flat in ten minutes.
‘What are you going to tell them?’ said Sam, his eyes flicking between Sophie in the mirror and Famie next to him.
‘That I met Amal,’ said Sophie. ‘That I went out with Seth.’
An exchange of glances between Sophie and Famie.
‘And the laptop? The photos?’ said Sam. He sounded surprised. ‘That’s evidence. You know it. You know you have to tell them, however embarrassing.’
Famie stared out of the window. ‘Spare us the lecture, Sam. We’ll decide what they see.’
She turned the radio up. There were reports of an American presidential hopeful, a prison reformer who’d gone to jail and the imminent end of the heatwave.
‘Thank Christ for that,’ muttered Sam.
‘And thank Christ it’s not about us for a change,’ said Famie. ‘Though give it a few hours …’
They swept past Famie’s flat. All clear. Sam parked.
‘Come up, Sam, I’ll make coffee. You know you want to.’ Sam looked unsure, Famie took his head between her hands. ‘Sam, you can be late just this once. You’ve quit already. You have no one to impress. Come and have coffee with us.’
His shoulders slumped. ‘OK, you’ve won me over. Do I get to wash up too like usual?’
The press had all gone but not without leaving their trademark coffee cups and paper bags in an overflowing bin. They stepped inside the hallway. Famie put her key in the door.
‘Three iced lattes coming up,’ she said.
She pushed the door over a few days of post. Two freesheet newspapers, four take-out menus, two utility bills and a plain white envelope with a handwritten address. Famie tossed them all on the sofa. Several days of heat and no ventilation demanded as many windows open as possible, as quickly as possible. Sam and Sophie slumped on the sofa, Famie walked through to the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine.
Sam appeared, handed her the handwritten envelope. ‘You probably should,’ he said. ‘Another Coventry postmark.’
Sophie walked in. ‘Another weatherman forecast maybe. Exciting.’
Sam grimaced.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
Famie took the envelope. The other letters had been typewritten, this was biro-written. Small, meticulous handwriting. She peered at the stamp. ‘Posted yesterday.’ She dug her nail into the envelope, sliced it open. Inside was a printed card from a hospital and a folded sheet of paper tucked behind it. Famie unfolded the piece of paper. No address, no signature. Three lines of writing, the same neat script as the envelope. She scanned it quickly then read the message out loud.
‘I work in the University Hospital, Coventry. A young man insisted I send this to you. He said he was in trouble with a woman. I think he’s telling the truth. I hope you can help him.’
Famie handed the note to Sam then picked up the card. She flipped it in her hands. ‘Huh,’ she said. Her address had been scrawled in the top right corner. Similar biro to the envelope, different handwriting. Hurried. Messy. She flipped it again. It was a cheaply printed postcard requesting hospital users to write comments in the spaces provided. Around the edges, more handwriting. In clear black capitals it read ‘SEE THAT MY GRAVE IS KEPT CLEAN’.
‘What the fuck?’ said Sophie.
‘That’s our guy,’ said Famie.
‘And definitely a guy,’ said Sam. ‘A guy in trouble with a woman.’
Famie made the coffees, thinking fast. ‘Is he telling us he’s about to die? Because that’s a desperately sad note to pass on.’
‘It can’t be that, can it?’ said Sam. ‘Surely not. We don’t know who he is or where he is.’
Sophie was on her phone. ‘It’s the main hospital in Coventry. New-build in 2006. Used to be the Walsgrave.’ She showed them a Google map.
‘So we know he’s in Coventry,’ said Famie, ‘we know he’s trying to message us, and we know he’s having to go to these ridiculous lengths to send cryptic messages. Might still be a fruitcake.’
‘Not another Dylan song, is it?’ asked Sophie.
Famie grabbed her laptop, opened it on her lap, typed in the words. She gaped. ‘Holy shit, he’s done it again. It’s not Dylan but it is another song.’ She spun the screen.
‘A Texas blues song by Blind Lemon Jefferson,’ read Sam. He hit play and the kitchen filled with a scratchy guitar and vocal from, the screen said, 1928. ‘Why is he sending this?’
‘We got one music reference,’ said Famie, ‘so he’s sending another. Read the lyrics.’
Sam scanned and summarized. ‘Essentially it says there’s one kind favour I’ll ask of you, see that my grave is kept clean. Then it says, “Did you hear that coughing sound? Did you hear them church bells tone? Means another poor boy is dead and gone … see that my grave is kept clean.”’