Unquiet Mind

By Simon Gray

cayden callejon (pov) - two years since the murder of his girlfriend in trinidad. his disillusionment deepens when child suicide bombers, attack three schools in england, putting his brother’s youngest son in hospital with a coma.
sly williams, a miami based homeland security agent involved in the failed attempt to free his girlfriend, contacts cayden with news on maalik, the man responsible for his girlfriend’s murder.
three al-qaeda operatives arrive in the peruvian rainforest, to negotiate with the deranged drug smuggler who has developed a method of hypnotising local boys into suicide bombers. He sees himself as the new inca king, exacting vengeance on behalf of his ancestors by turning the west against their children.
cayden’s animus to the world results in a snap decision; he gets on a flight to miami.
quantico; the u.s. marines’ base in the united states, is targeted. The u.s. authorities become frantic. all leads, no matter how tenuous must be investigated. Assets are stretched - sly williams is forced to commit cayden to peru.
cayden meets jess babbacombe. a filmmaker and conservationist, younger than cayden by ten years. a mutual attraction develops, but cayden realises he can never move forward until he deals with the past. He has no choice but to follow sly’s plan to go after maalik.
however, sly’s plan is ill conceived. maalik is waiting for him. cayden survives by the timely intervention of the cia but the u.s. government have not given up on using cayden as bait and encourage his further involvement by pushing jess back into his life.
maalik’s people trafficking and smuggling skills enabled him to ship the children from the amazon. but he has double-crossed the insane Inca, and as cayden, sly and jess get closer, he is torn between a desire to escape or finally kill cayden.
cayden, controlling his fear, pushes onward. deep in the amazon jungle, his consuming desire to sluice away the detritus from his past, gives him the courage to finally kill maalik, in the process saving jess (who produces an internationally successful film) but unfortunately too late, to save sly.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Gray
• Release date: Nov 21, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466159730

Simon Gray

Simon Gray (1936–2008) was a British playwright, novelist and screenwriter. He wrote more than thirty stage plays, amongst them Butley and Otherwise Engaged (which both received Evening Standard Awards for Best Play), Quartermaine's Terms, The Common Pursuit, The Late Middle Classes (winner of the Barclay's Best Play Award), Japes, The Old Masters and Little Nell.

Book preview

Unquiet Mind

Simon M Gray

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Simon M Gray

http://www.simonmgray.com

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Chapter 1

Frigid night air. A dog’s eager whine. Still distant.

Cayden’s teeth chattered. He searched the blackness for the outline of a hill, a pinprick of house light – anything for a bearing. His torch battery was flat; compass and map, useless.

He held his breath, blood pounding. The dog was to his right now. Tracking by air or ground? It was important. He had learnt they used two types: big-nosed, slobbering Basset hounds that followed your scent on the ground, or nimble, sharper-nosed German Shepherds that caught your scent in the air and followed you down a narrowing cone; moving backwards and forwards across its width, until they eventually found you at the point. They always found you.

He started to run. His feet sliding on ice and twisting in the frozen ruts. The cold numbed his face; his ears ached. Bushes with hard branches jabbed at his body like iron forks. He pushed on, desperate to warm up. The pale spectre of his breath ballooned in front of him.

Cayden’s strides lengthened; the hill became steeper. Out of control, he stumbled over a log, and the ground fell away. For a heart-stopping second he was weightless, terrified he had run off a cliff. The ground hit him with a heavy punch in the stomach. He rolled in agony, gulping for air. Stones dug into his back and he rolled some more until there was smooth ice beneath him. His breathing gradually returned. His body began to shake. Perhaps he should just give up. What more could they do to him?

He stood, then cautiously shuffled away, bent forward like a novice ice skater. There was an ominous crack.

The dogs, closer, barked excitedly. He continued. This was more than a puddle.

Another crack.

He torpedoed into the vice-wrap of icy water. Fresh terror surged through him. Cayden kicked out, trying to stop his descent. He felt the slime at the bottom and kicked away. Rising swiftly, his head cracked the underside of the ice. He lashed out with his fists – weakening by the second, disorientated by blackness. He opened his mouth for air and a spike of icy water hit his throat. His brain fired a final shot of adrenaline.

Cayden punched upwards and the ice burst – like hitting the crust of a crème brûlée. He coughed and spewed the contents of his stomach. Steam again ballooned in front of his face as he sobbed for air. He surged forward, oblivious to the sharp slithers of ice. He could vaguely see the bank; darker trees above the luminescent lake surface.

Teeth chattering, he clung to a fallen tree, convulsing from cold. It was now life or death. He couldn’t stop, he knew he was very close to the end. He had to get warm. He staggered through the trees, each branch like wire brushing his skin.

Cayden no longer cared about the noise. But when, moments later, he saw the brief flash of torchlight, he veered away, surprised his instinct to survive was still strong. His legs moved under their own volition; he raced away. He heard a voice shout, but it was like listening to someone while submerged in a bath. His legs pounded below him, and gradually the shouting receded.

Staggering from the forest edge blowing like a steam train, Cayden immediately felt the bite of the wind through his damp clothes. His head was shrouded in silvery fog. He hugged the black army-issue jacket. His teeth chattered. The clouds separated like stretched dough, allowing a slice of moon to show the flat terrain ahead. Far to his right was a cluster of lights, maybe five kilometres away. That would be the little village at the end of the loch. What was it called? They would have set traps for him on every route into it. He was looking north-west. If he headed west, he would eventually find the road. That was where the Land Rover was parked – equally obvious. They were sure to have discovered it by now.

A stick cracked behind him.

Cayden lowered himself to his haunches, holding his breath. Another crack – and further down the tree line, a beam of yellow light. He could see the black shadow of the man holding the torch, his head wreathed in steam. Crouching low, Cayden set off in the opposite direction. He had gone a few steps when a shape disentangled itself from the low scrub and launched towards him.

Cayden cried out and leapt forward. He heard the body crash into the ground behind him. He sprinted for his life.

‘Stop y’bastard. It’s over. Give up.’

The moonlight enabled him to see a little more but still he fell into hidden dips and stumbled over ruts and rises in the land. He had found a pale sandy path that meandered through low gorse. Alarm tingled along his spine, anticipating the hit from a tackle.

Finally, Cayden's legs gave out. He collapsed with a groan. ‘Finished,’ he panted, ‘give up.’ He crawled into a dead patch of bracken, finding that under the frozen heads the vegetation was softer, with a residue of warmth – like crawling into the bottom of a compost heap. He curled himself into a ball, his clothes wet and clinging. ‘Oh God … I’m cold.’

Moment’s later, footsteps pounded by. He could not hear the dogs. His frozen swim must have confused them. Hopefully, they were now after one of the others.

‘Stay positive,’ he mumbled. ‘Remember … s-s-survival is in the mind. Think of something, anything, except feeling sorry for yourself. Remember your objective. Remember why.

Altnaharra – that was the name of the village whose lights he had seen. The little white-painted hotel built in 1820, with its creaking floors and deep-rolled topped bath that he had soaked in for an hour. How long ago? The dinner – the best sirloin steak he had ever had. His stomach grumbled and he curled himself tighter, his senses alert for approaching footsteps. A mouse, shocked by his intrusion, suddenly found the nerve to run. Its scurrying footsteps made Cayden’s heart beat tenfold. His mouth was dry. With numb fingers he reached for the flask on his belt and bought the cold metal to his lips. Some of the precious liquid dribbled down his chin.

A distant shout – then, from further away, an answering whistle. They were calling for him, baiting him; scaring him.

Cayden screwed the cap back on the flask and wedged it into the belt holster. He curled himself tighter after spreading more of the dead bracken over his body.

Loch Naver. Yes, that had been the name of the lake near Altnaharra. Very good fishing the hotel owner had told him, after looking curiously into the back of his Range Rover. Cayden had explained he was not there to fish, which had only heightened the hotel owner’s curiosity. People seldom stayed for anything else. If that man could see him now, what would he think?

Cayden could hear his name being called.

What was the big mountain north of Altnaharra? He tried to concentrate.

‘Come on y’bastard. We know y’re here.’

Ben Hope! That was it. Cayden curled his six foot-plus, slimmed-down frame even tighter as he heard the hard ground crunch under the man’s boots, slowly backtracking along the path.

He needed a mountain of hope.

‘Give up. We’ll take y’somewhere warm. Get y’something to eat.’

The man’s voice was shockingly loud. He must be standing almost above him. Would the steam from his breath come up through the vegetation and give him away?

‘The dogs will be here soon. We have the others. Game’s over.’

Fuck him! Fuck them all! He wasn’t going to be caught. His pursuer had not moved. An owl hooted from the forest and the boots finally crunched away. Cayden let out a slow, deep breath. He brought his wrist up to his face and pressed the button to illuminate the dial: 1:30 am. They must give up soon. He would give them another 30 minutes.

He would like to have stayed hidden all night. But the cold would kill him. He had to get moving. The trouble was, they knew that. As the 30 minutes approached, he thought he heard a very distant bark. He listened intently. Yes, on the very edge of his hearing, he heard it again.

Cayden felt adrenaline; the last reserves trickled through him. He crawled back to the path. The sky had cleared. The moon was low on the horizon, its feeble light enough to see the scar of pathway. He set off, quietly at first, but after several steps without challenge; he ran. He searched ahead, several times swerving from shadows, but none of them materialised as his pursuers.

Perhaps they had given up. He wasn’t that important, after all. If they had the others, then they had won anyway.

He ran on across the undulating landscape. When the moon disappeared behind a dark ridge of distant hills, he would have to slow down. The path made a sudden right, then a left turn and Cayden gasped as his body came up short against strands of barbed wire. He could feel the barbs pierce his skin. He backed away, tugging the wire from him. He held one strand above the other and stepped through. Immediately, he fell down a steep bank. He rolled to his knees. He was on a single-track, gravel road.

Which way?

Altnaharra was behind him to the east. He had driven towards Ben Hope to the north. ‘It has to be left,’ he mumbled. Unless he had bisected the road between Altnaharra and the vehicle?

Cayden kept to the edge of the road and jogged on, trying to keep a log of the distance he covered by counting his strides: one step – roughly one metre. A thousand steps later he had not found the Land Rover and his energy was spent along with his water. His nerves shot to pieces, he jumped as his stumbling gait sent stones clattering away into the darkness.

2:30 am … 2:35 … 2:37 … 3:05 … 3:30. Then, a structure, blacker than the starless sky, loomed to his left. For a moment Cayden stood, swaying like a drunk as he tried to focus, his brain refusing to calculate whether or not the shape was his Range Rover. He staggered the final few feet and his hands touched rough stone walling. It rose above him. He felt along the wall until he could discern a low-level opening, the top of its doorway level with his belt. He stood still and listened. A breeze stirred, pushing the damp fabric of his clothes against him. He shivered and stooped through the opening – debris blocked his way. Cayden knelt, relieved to feel dry dirt. He sat with his back against the stone and closed his eyes.

*****

Dun Dornaigil, the Iron Age broch on the River Hope. It was built to protect the ancient farming community from marauders and slave pirates – a bulwark seven metres high, accessible by a narrow entrance, its strength acknowledged by the exacting elements. Supposedly populated by ancient ghosts of the defenders buried within. Did they now take pity on the huddled body, bringing him quickly awake, his senses on full alert?

Dawn brought a tint of pink in the East, enough light to outline the 900-metre splendour of Ben Hope, its roots starting from across the road. Cayden heard another startled cry as two pheasant shot into the air and flapped over him.

He scanned the grey gorse and heather. No sign of movement. But then, on a waft of breeze, he heard the vehicle.

Cayden stooped out from his resting place, arched his back and grimaced from the pain of tired muscles. His teeth chattered. The vehicle caught him by surprise. Its headlights came out of a dip. Like a startled deer, he stood transfixed. Perhaps the occupants were friendly. The engine gunned and Cayden’s sixth-sense told him they weren’t. He bolted down the side of the broch, plunging into the gorse and down the riverbank. The vehicle revved and crashed over the lip of the bank, weaving madly down through the clumps of gorse. Cayden frantically scrambled across the shallow river and then clawed his way up the far bank. There was no way he could out-run them unless he got into the sort of terrain that would force them to abandon the vehicle.

At the top of the bank, to his dismay, he saw a wide, flat valley of gorse and heather. Perfect Land Rover country! He ran on, the diesel engine bellowing as it crested the bank. It was no good. A brace of grouse clattered into the air, their rapid wing beat soon carrying them far ahead. That was the only way he was going to get away.

Sweat began to roll down his face; his chest was painful as he laboured for breath. He could hear the diesel gaining on him. He couldn’t go on – he had lost. They had him. His foot sunk into the soft peat and he sprawled forward onto his stomach. The Land Rover was almost on top of him. Cayden crawled away; each point of contact slurped and sucked at him. The Land Rover’s engine became manic. He glanced backwards. A few yards behind, the vehicle had sunk to its sills, the wheels spinning uselessly, sending clogs of peat high into the air.

Cayden got to his feet, but slipped and fell forward. His head made contact with a slab of granite.

And then – blackness.

Chapter 2

‘ … the traffic is not bad for a Monday and the end of half-term Mike … everything flowing fairly easily … a few problems on the slip road at junction two eastbound on the M33, and the traffic lights are out of action where London Road crosses Solent Ride …’

Jac jabbed the TI button on the car stereo. He knew the traffic lights were out of action. He could see the mayhem ahead over the long line of crawling cars. Sighing, he adjusted the rear view mirror, framing the young occupant on the rear seat. Dylan was staring out of the window, a finger absently probing his nose.

‘That’s horrible, Dylan.’

The boy withdrew his finger and promptly stuck it in his mouth. ‘Sorry daddy.’

Jac took his foot off the brake and the Cayenne idled forward another car space.

‘Why is everything stopped, daddy? Is it because it’s a rainy Monday?’

Jac smiled at his son. ‘No, the traffic lights aren’t working.’

‘But mummy says it’s always raining on Monday and everything’s crap. Does that mean it doesn’t work?’

Jac frowned. ‘Something like that.’ Opening the window for some fresh air, he could smell the sea. ‘Does mummy often say things like that?’

‘No.’ Dylan sighed. His feet began to swing, kicking the rear of the front passenger chair. ‘What’s crap, daddy?’

‘It’s not nice, Dylan, I don’t want you saying it … OK?’

‘Mummy says everything’s crap since you left. Are you coming home, daddy?’

Jac flicked the windscreen wipers to clear the drizzle. A grey February Monday morning was never going to be the right time to answer such a question – not when the futility of life was so stark. But his son was thankfully many years from that stain on every adult’s life – to him, everything was fresh, no question inappropriate. Untainted thoughts flashed through Dylan's mind like impatient bees. Jac sighed again, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. A driver in a small saloon glared up at him from a side street. One of the anti-4x4 brigade? Jac waved her in. The woman tossed her head and made a point of not thanking him.

‘I’m sorry I had to go away, Dylan. You know it had nothing to do with you. I love you very much. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Roger says … ooh, look at that doggy, daddy …’

A husky was pulling its owner along the pavement.

‘What does Roger say?’

‘Can’t remember … something about um, you’re not like him … you’re different, daddy …’

Jac looked sharply at the mirror. He didn’t mind being different, especially when being compared with Roger, but he was maddened that his ex-wife’s new husband should be saying such things to his son. Roger lived with them, but that did not give him the right to discuss Jac's character with Dylan.

‘Different? In what way?’ he asked, clenching the wheel.

Dylan stopped kicking the seat and leant forward excitedly. ‘Oh, turn it up, daddy. Roger gave me this for Christmas.’

Jac recognised the latest release from Franz Ferdinand. Dylan was only seven. Too young to be listening to stuff like this. He turned the dial down a notch.

‘Ohh,’ Dylan stopped jigging about in his seat.

‘What did Roger say, Dylan?’ Jac turned in his seat. ‘Can you remember?’

So Karen thought her life had been crap since he left – good! She should have understood him better.

‘Can’t remember.’ Dylan crossed his arms, watching the dog cock its leg up against a post box.

‘Well, did he say I was different in a nice way or …’ Jac didn’t want to give him any ideas.

‘Can’t remember.’ Dylan looked stubbornly out of the window.

Jac looked at his son's little chin, thrust forward with determination, the cap pushed back on his head. A miniature version of himself, trying to look angry. Jac smiled and turned the radio up.

‘Yeah!’ Immediately, the anger vanished and Dylan was jigging in his seat again.

The driver Jac had let into the traffic was now having a conversation through the passenger window with an old woman, wearing a clear plastic headscarf and holding onto a two-wheel shopping bag.

Jac hooted.

The old woman straightened and glared at him. She said something to the driver before limping off towards the small parade of shops that ran up to the traffic lights.

Jac eased forward, thinking of Karen – beautiful, a Virgin flight attendant – and full of fun. They had married, Michael came along – and immediately it was all switched off. When Dylan arrived two years later, the clock for Jac’s departure was already ticking down. He was doing the school run because she was ill and Roger was away in the Middle East, but just looking around him made Jac realise why he had to leave. He was not a suburban, school run, Saturday shopping at Tesco, shouting from the touchline, kind of guy.

The old woman was peering at the ad cards in the newsagent's window. She moved her head from side to side to see around the burglar-proof bars. She looked like she had a cranial nerve disorder.

Jac wasn’t proud of himself – far from it. He would look at his reflection sometimes with disgust that he could be so selfish; such a coward with his responsibilities. Karen hated him most of the time, and he could understand why. But her life was crap since he left – now, that was a revelation.

‘Daddy, Mikey says we’re going to have another mummy. I don’t want another mummy.’

A white van was parked on the verge. Alongside, a man in overalls sat on a stool under an umbrella, his lap covered in cables spilling from a metal box that Jac assumed controlled the traffic lights. Jac edged out into the intersection. No-one would give way.

‘Wanker!’ a builder yelled, his expression hateful as he leaned out of his van window, his breakfast spilt down the front of his sweatshirt.

‘Just trying to get across, like you,’ Jac muttered.

‘Daddy … why does Mikey say we’re going to have a new mummy?’

Jac glanced at the clock. They were going to be late. He stamped on the accelerator and the Porsche surged forward. He hated this part of Portsmouth. Grey rows of identical semis, occasionally broken by a forlorn-looking piece of grass, a swing and a slide in one corner, and leaning goalposts in another. Corner shops with barred windows, litter caught against the tyres of parked cars, few of which he guessed would pass an MOT. Why couldn’t they just plant a few trees? Cayden knew Karen only lived here because her husband was in the Navy, but Roger was an officer – surely they could have moved to one of the better areas. He hated the fact that Dylan was going to school in a place like this. He didn’t want his son going into the Navy. Secret installations, hidden behind razor wire and signs saying trespassers would be electrocuted, passed by on his left.

‘Daddy,’ Dylan whined.

‘What?’

‘Why are we having a new mummy?’

Jac turned left down South Road. He could see the school gates; a woman with a Children Crossing sign was stopping the traffic, allowing a young mum wheeling a pushchair and dragging a girl by her hand, to cross. A cigarette dangled from the corner of the woman's mouth; her hair hung in greasy strands over a stained tracksuit; England emblazoned across her chest.

Jac pulled into the kerb behind a bus. He could see the teachers rounding up the children from the playground. There were tears in Dylan’s eyes when Jac opened his door and knelt to unclip his seat belt.

‘You’re not going to have another mummy, Dylan. Janet is my friend. Like Roger is your mum's.’ Jac picked him up and hugged him.

‘But Roger says I should call him Dad.’

Jac held back his anger. ‘You’ll never have another mummy, or daddy.’ He looked at his son’s face and his heart flipped as he watched Dylan manfully hold back his tears. ‘I promise, we will always be your mummy and daddy and we’ll always love you. Michael was teasing you. He’s naughty, but older brothers do tease. You remember that, he doesn’t mean it, OK?’

Dylan nodded, running a finger under his nose.

‘Come on, we’re late. We don’t want Mrs. Kennedy to be cross, do we?’

Jac held Dylan's hand and felt tears in his own eyes.

‘Mrs. Kennedy was last year. It’s Mrs. Newport …’

They reached the gate at the same time as the woman in the tracksuit. She let go of her girl’s hand and turned the pushchair down the street, without a word, or backward glance.

Jac hurried across the playground still holding Dylan’s hand. They passed a climbing frame over soft matting and a hopscotch grid painted on the tarmac – but the rest of the area was colourless and miserable, surrounded by wrought iron fencing and, beyond, the endless sea of grey houses. The school building was one storey red brick, utilitarian and smelling of disinfectant. Dylan went to his peg and hung up his coat. Jac could hear a woman’s voice from an open doorway calling out for everyone to be seated.

Dylan’s eyes widened with fear. Jac knelt down and held out his arms. ‘Give us a hug.’

Dylan dutifully ran into his arms and then tugged free, running into the classroom.

‘Ah, there you are, Dylan Callejon, I was just about to put a cross against your name.

Jac got to his feet. He leant against the door frame. They were all seated at their little tables, facing Mrs. Newport, who seemed young enough to be his daughter. She caught sight of him and stiffened. ‘Can I help you?’

Jac straightened, suddenly embarrassed as 28 seven-year-olds turned to look at him. ‘No … no, I’m Dylan’s father … Jac.’

‘Class, say good morning to Mr. Callejon.’

‘Good morning,’ they chorused.

‘Good morning,’ Jac responded, feeling vaguely ridiculous. ‘All of you have a nice day … and be good.’ He waved and turned away, catching the look of embarrassment on Dylan’s face.

As he was leaving the cloakroom, Mrs. Newport hurried out to him. ‘Mr. Callejon. It’s very important that all the children are here on time. It’s very unsettling otherwise.’

Jac nodded. 'Christ!' he muttered to himself as he left, 'I help run a multi-million pound company and here I am being told off by someone who still has bloody acne.'

A traffic warden was looking at his number plate when he returned.

‘I was just dropping my kid off at school.’

Blank eyes in a round, black face stared back at him, the peak of the warden's cap pulled low like a soldier's in a militant African army. He was obviously waiting for a volley of verbal abuse.

Jac shrugged and slipped in behind the driving seat.

He turned the ignition and put the Cayenne into drive. The traffic warden was still looking at him. Jac smiled and pressed the accelerator, immediately stamping on the brakes as a small boy appeared from nowhere and walked in front of him. The tyres screeched on the slick surface and Jac could feel his heart racing. The boy did not look at him but carried on through the gates. He walked in a slow, purposeful way, apparently unaware of his surroundings, as if he was sleep-walking, thought Jac. He had dark skin, with large brown eyes, his black hair cut in a pudding bowl style. Several pigeons, jabbing at the asphalt, strutted from his path. Jac looked around for the boy's mother or father.

The bus was pulling away in front but there was no-one else around apart from the traffic warden, who was now standing in front of a car, parked on the chevrons at the crossing. He glanced back at Jac and then at the school playground, holding the ticket machine in his hand, like a gun.

Jac accelerated slowly, still looking at the boy, who seemed unsure about which way to go. Weak sunlight glinted off the wet slate tiles. A fat seagull was parading along the roof ridge, eyeing the pigeons. Jac had a fleeting image of his own bleak school yard; he must have been thirteen, first year at an ugly comprehensive in a south London suburb, fresh from spending his life under the hot Australian sun – crying with frustration that no-one wanted to be his friend. They had laughed at his accent – taken the piss mercilessly. Standing alone – from leader to outcast in the space of a few months. Perhaps that was why he was so useless at relationships.

Jac looked in his side-view-mirror. He thought of the lost looking boy who had just walked in. Poor little bugger – another kid, screwed-up because his damn parents were too selfish to adapt their lives to suit his needs.

The Cayenne shuddered from the explosion.

Jac’s head slammed against the door pillar and his foot instinctively stamped down on the pedal. Over two tons of Cayenne hit the car parked opposite, pushing it across the pavement and into the front wall of a house. Jac head-butted the steering wheel. Then, as if in afterthought, the air bag exploded.

His hearing buzzed. His sight blurred. Jac pushed himself back into his seat, vaguely aware of the blood running down his face. He wiped his eyes.

He could hear screaming.

A car horn – his horn. Car alarms were blaring up and down the street.

A face appeared at the window. It was the traffic warden.

‘What happened?’ Jac shouted.

But the black face disappeared.

Ash and bits of paper, floated down onto the crumpled bonnet. There was a sudden bang as the decapitated body of a seagull bounced off the metal and slid from view, leaving a bloody trail across the paper. Red curtains hung out of a shattered window of the house he had hit.

Jac opened the door and fell onto the pavement. He looked back along the side of the Cayenne to the school entrance. The little playground was a mass of bricks and smouldering debris – the front wall missing, the middle section of the roof, fallen inwards. Slates were still sliding to the ground, and smoke billowed through the rafters into the grey sky.

People ran from the houses, shouting, screaming.

A child stumbled from the shattered entrance, his clothes blackened. He collapsed into the arms of a teacher, tripping over the debris as she ran from a Portakabin, undamaged, near the far wall.

Jac staggered forward, his feet crunching glass. What had happened? Had a plane crashed into the building? An image of Dylan crashed into his consciousness. He sprinted forward, tripping over the pavement, falling onto his hands and knees. Something stabbed into his palm. He was trying to say Dylan’s name, but his throat felt as it was clogged with flour. He had lost a shoe. Someone helped him up and they went arm in arm through the open gate.

A heavily-built man shouldered past. He ran into the shattered entrance, disappearing into the smoke. Others were running towards the back of the building, some screaming, some talking into mobiles, others shouting, crying – Jac witnessed every wretched emotion as he hobbled towards the building. The burly man reappeared through the smoke, a small, lifeless body hanging in his arms. He passed it to a woman, then went back in. He managed it three more times before collapsing to his knees, coughing uncontrollably.

Jac could hear sirens. He looked back towards the gate as a fire engine came to a halt. He shook off the arm that was supporting him and carried on into the smoke.

Chapter 3

‘I’m going to eat your psyche,’ the voice, growled in his ear. ‘I’m going to tear apart everything y’are …’ The voice faded. He felt movement behind his body. ‘A sliver of soul … hmm, very tasty … I’m going to break ye down until y’re nothing but a lump of useless flesh … y’hear me, Callejon?’

Cayden turned his head, following the sound of the harsh Scottish tones. The mask was tight around his eyes. He felt his eyeballs being pushed into his head. His arms were tied to a pipe that felt cold and rusty against his wrists. He could smell urine – a public toilet. It was cold. His body shivered with uncontrollable spasms.

‘Y’re a proud man, aren’t ye? Proud of what y’ve achieved. Proud of y’company. Proud of y’house. Proud of y’ life. You’re the biggest cock in the farmyard, aren’t ye, Callejon? Crowing and crowing …’

Cayden swung around, trying to follow the voice. The leather tightened about his wrists. He pushed up on his toes, easing the strain on his shoulders.

A hand suddenly clenched his testicles. Cayden stiffened.

‘Not much of a cock are ye? The women aren’t going to be too impressed with these, are they? I’ve seen bigger balls on my thirteen-year-old.’

Several voices laughed.

‘Ye’re a little man with a little cock, and ye’ll tell me everything I want to know, won’t ye?’

Cayden yelled as the hand tightened. He could feel his testicles being pushed up inside him.

‘Easy there boy, I haven’t finished with ye yet.’

‘This has gone far enough.’

There was another burst of harsh laughter around him.

‘Still think ye’re in charge. Giving orders.’

‘This has to stop!’ Cayden’s voice rose as the hand tightened.

‘Och, I donna think so …’

Cayden's hearing was suddenly muffled by headphones. Immediately, a noise like an un-tuned television blared through his head. It steadily increased in volume until it was a vast echoing roar, like an approaching wave which never broke.

Cayden jumped awake, his feet kicking out, striking something hard. He grunted with pain. Disorientated, he felt around the black space; the sleeping bag was keeping him warm but his exposed shoulders were freezing. The wall next to him felt cold and damp. His heartbeat calmed, tiredness enveloped him, His eyes closed.

‘Have ye heard of a wee man called Aesop?’ the voice whispered in his ear.

‘Yes.’ A mistake. Don’t volunteer anything.

‘Tell me then.’

Cayden tensed, waiting for the gloved hand.

‘Who was Aesop, mister know-it-all with the small cock?’

Cayden felt the cold air move around his exposed testicles. ‘Fables…’ he shouted, ‘… Aesop’s Fables. Lessons on … life.’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere, ye wee prick. Tell me one?’

Cayden pulled on his wrists. ‘One swallow does not a summer make.’

‘Is that about you sucking your boyfriend’s todger?’ the voice sneered.

‘Bugger off.’

The gloved hand traced over his buttocks, the coarse stitching from the seam scraping down the divide. ‘How about I bugger ye, laddie?’

Cayden felt like an electrode had touched him. He swung away, clenching his buttocks. ‘Spendthrift,’ he shouted. ‘The spendthrift and the swallow … a man wastes his fortune and is left with nothing but his clothes … then he sees a swallow one spring morning and decides the weather will get warmer, so he sells his coat … except the weather turns colder and the swallow … the swallow dies, and when the man sees the dead swallow he says … thanks to you, I’m freezing …’

Cayden bolted upright, his head making contact with the metal frame above. He cursed, shivering. He had kicked the sleeping bag down to his feet. Now, he hurriedly pulled it up around his shoulders, pushing the nightmare away. The thick insulation warmed him; he fell back, exhaustion overtaking him. His tired brain needed the anchor of normality – the reminder of who he was; what he had achieved. Think – concentrate.

Cayden Harold Callejon, forty years old next September … no, forty-one next September … owner of Tomahawk Powerboats … successful company, built it up from nothing … live in a beautiful converted barn in the Sussex downs … drive a silver Aston Martin DB9 …

An image of a woman filled his being, filled it as she had once filled his life. He pictured her smiling face, but the details – the exact colour and shape of her eyes, the laughter lines around the corners of her mouth, the cut of her hair – were obscure, the image more akin to a feeling – a physical shock, like the tenderness he felt when she had run into his arms at the end of the day, as if he had been away for a week.

‘Rachel,’ Cayden whispered. A tear squeezed between heavy lids, before sleep once again overtook him.

‘Now here’s my wee tale from our friend, Mr. Aesop,' the voice interrupted. 'Two cocks fight over who should rule the farmyard, and the beaten one skulks away to hide in the barn while the victor flies to the roof and crows loudly about his success. An eagle hears his crowing and swoops down, taking him off, at which the other cock returns to rule the yard.’

‘Pride comes before a fall,’ Cayden mumbled.

‘Very good,’ the man whispered encouragingly into his ear. ‘Now, I’m the eagle and you are the stupid wee cock that’s been crowing for way too long.’

Cayden moaned, rolling himself tighter inside the sleeping bag, only half-conscious.

She used to love the garden. Always happy to be out there, leaning over a flowerbed, pulling weeds, running the lawn mower through the curved sections of grass or planting another flowering bush the persuasive garden centre had pushed onto her. Memories flooded his brain: her long, slim legs in ripped old jeans, worn so thin on her backside that he had been able to discern the colour of her underwear; an equally old sweatshirt, stained with streaks of mud and grass, so voluminous it hid the jut of her breasts, the sweep of her waist; her hair bundled untidily on top of her head; her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth as she aggressively attacked the root of a weed with her trowel. He would watch, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face, just outside the patio doors, until she became aware of him and turned, her smudged face instantly breaking into a happy smile. He had loved her so much in those precious moments. All his concerns and fears would evaporate. There was no doubt: this was the woman he wanted to be with.

Now, there was warmth on his face again. Cayden opened his eyes – her image faded. He shut them, wanting to hold on, not let the greyness close in. But it seeped in with the same determination it did every morning. He opened his eyes again, staring at the bunk-bed above; illuminated by sunlight from the window opposite. Slowly, the dreams receded. He sat up, pulling the sleeping bag around him, wincing from the bruised muscles and headache. He could see his breath. He tried to look out of the window but the inside of the glass was iced. He shivered. His clothes were hanging from a rail.

The door banged back against the wall. Cayden jumped. A short man strode in. He was carrying a steaming mug.

‘Y’re up, Mr. Callejon. Glad to see it. Here’s a mug of tea.’

Cayden recognised the Scottish accent.

‘I’ve had enough,’ he stammered, realising he had pushed himself against the wall.

The man crouched down next to the bed. ‘Aye, well that’s for the good because something terrible has happened and we’ve all been called away south.’

Cayden accepted the mug slowly. ‘What?’

The man he now recognised as McMillan stood and stared for a while out the window. ‘Finish y’re tea, get dressed and then come have some breakfast. Y'must be starving.’ He turned back from the door. ‘How’s y’head? You took a helluvva whack!’ He shook his head. ‘You didn’a have to take it so seriously, y’know.’

They were waiting for him at the long trestle table in the next room. A fire was crackling at the far end but it provided little warmth. The linoleum floor was peeling. The wall with a broken dresser against it was green from mould.

‘Sit down, Mr. Callejon,’ said McMillan.

Cayden glanced cautiously at the others. The nine men who, like him, had been trying to evade capture were sitting around McMillan and his two corporals. They nodded their good mornings.

‘How d’ya feel?’ McMillan asked.

‘Confused … very confused…I was … I was hallucinating last night … about an interrogation …’ Cayden sat down next to his colleagues, looking at the plate of fried bacon, eggs, bread and beans rapidly getting cold in front of him. ‘You didn’t …?’ He looked up at McMillan, who shook his head.

‘Och no, Mr. Callejon, we wouldn’t do that to ye, would we lads?’ McMillan winked at the corporals. ‘It must have been the videos we showed … anyway, sorry we had to cut things short. If ye want a refund, that won’t be a problem.’

Cayden picked up his fork and jabbed at a sausage. His hand was shaking as he pushed a piece of sausage into his mouth and chewed mechanically. He could taste the fat. Swallowing, he felt the hard lump stick under his ribs. He reached for the mug of tea and sipped slowly.

‘You OK, Mr. Callejon?’ McMillan asked, scooping up the last of his beans.

‘You have any Anadin?’ Cayden replied.

‘Aye, here y’go.’ McMillan tossed him a box from his backpack.

Cayden took three, glancing down the table at