Underfoot, the tarmac gives way to gravel. The canal is so black it is difficult to see where the path ends and its idle waters begin. The birdlife is silent. I carry on into the unlit darkness. A dog barks inside a barge moored by a rope to a hook on the path. It stops abruptly as though muffled by the hands of someone sleeping within. Further ahead is the tunnel where I will pick up my payload. It will be a daysack, to be detonated by mobile phone, and they are watching. Somewhere nearby, the brothers stand guard, unseen. My heart races, and despite the chill I feel a warm trickle of sweat on my brow. ‘Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Rahim,’ I whisper.
It is colder beside the water, as though I am caught on a freezing, expansive moor. This is only a recce; the plan is to pick up the bag later, and I don’t want to risk being caught with my load. Turning off the path, I climb a short flight of stone steps, intending to return to the road.
The steps lead to a small wrought-iron bridge before the road proper. From there, I glance back down at the tunnel entrance, and stop. Am I seeing things or did a light flicker inside the tunnel? The light, if it is that, reappears briefly and then disappears. I turn back, return to the path, and approach as silently as my boots will allow. I keep to one side of the path, brushing against the foliage on the verge, my number two dress uniform soon soaked in dew.
Pausing at the entrance, I see a slight glow within the tunnel, and smell smoke. I hear the faint scraping of boots, and a man coughs bronchially. It is only when I get very close that I see, in the faint glimmer of firelight, a circular column of bricks on the path. The great internal wall of the tunnel is composed of many layers of brick, and in one section the first layer has recently been removed and rearranged on the path to make up the waist-high column. Now I see that someone is crouched inside it. My heart starts pounding. That is the location where my ordnance has been hidden. At least, those are my instructions. Where are the brothers? Are they not watching? Where is the daysack?
‘Arr war.’ A loud, coarse voice is followed by a figure rising slowly out of the circular column. A brick tumbles from the edge and crashes heavily onto the ground. As he stands a brief flurry of flames seem to leap after him, and I make out the outline of a tall man in a greatcoat, his arms at his sides. ‘Arr war,’ he growls again, ‘pull the door and come in.’
There is no door. The man sinks down again, and as I step cautiously closer, I see that he is warming his hands by a small wood fire set within the column.
He eyes my uniform with a broad smile. ‘Man of war, welcome. Welcome.’ With one hand he sweeps away enough bricks to create an opening for me to pass through. He looks at me, smiling with blackened teeth. His round face is ruddy from the fire, and almost entirely covered in a thick layer of hair that collects at the chin into a long beard. His eyes water, glistening in the firelight.
Hurriedly, he makes a stool out of bricks. ‘Come and warm yourself, Sergeant. Cost you nothing.’
Putting down my stick, I ease myself onto the makeshift stool. The bricks are hard but warm. I am conscious that if the ordnance is nearby it could heat up and detonate.
‘What are you hiding from?’ I say.
‘Hiding. Ha. Yes, I get it. Sheltering from the cold.’
‘Good place for it,’ I say.
‘I’m preparing for the future.’
I look around at the walls of the tunnel. The fire illuminates moths circling around us, and the bricks, steaming from the heat, form a pleasant sandy colour as they dry. In the sudden warmth the skin of my face burns, reminding me again of the loss of my beard.
‘I lived here when it was a house. Thirteen Golden Hill Road. Postman still delivers.’
‘Delivers?’
‘Giro. Still get my giro.’ He laughs hoarsely. ‘But they cut the housing benefit.’
‘Well,’ I say, ‘at least you don’t have to pay the bills.’
‘Bills?’ he says seriously. ‘No, lad. No bills. But I have running water.’ He points to a service pipe poking out of the tunnel wall, attached to which is a stopcock. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, what’s an old fool doing living at number thirteen? I’m right, aren’t I? That’s what you were thinking.’
I nod.
‘Well, I’ll tell you, lad. It’s because I’m mad. That’s right, I’m mad.’
‘You’re not mad,’ I say to befriend him.
‘Ah, perceptive. But them civilians out there, they think I’m crazy. Because I see things. Because I won’t go into a home. I tell them I’m not deranged. I have a home that keeps me safe and I’m loyal to it. Takes something to be loyal.’ Screwing up his face, he considers the motif on my cap badge. ‘You and I, we have that in common.’
I shrug my shoulders.
‘Wake up, lad, the end is nigh!’ he bellows as though I haven’t understood him. ‘You and I, we will be safe. We are faithful. We believe.’ He fumbles about inside his coat, pulls out a half-bottle of spirits. ‘Just a nip for the chill.’ He hands me the bottle. Inside is a clear liquid. I take a pull and brace myself for the kick. At first it burns slowly, gathering intensity as though boring through the flesh in my throat. I cough.
‘You get used to it.’ He retrieves the bottle, replaces the lid and puts it back into his pocket.
‘You can get used to anything,’ I say, massaging my throat. ‘We had a saying in the army. It was about having the right kit and food and being prepared for living in the field. Will you excuse my language?’
He nods.
‘Any cunt can be uncomfortable.’
He laughs. ‘Army, you say?’
‘Yeoman’s.’
‘Say you left something here?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Nah. Got nothing here. Nothing for nobody,’ he bellows unconvincingly, his shoes crunching gravel as he stoops towards the fire. ‘I thought, there goes a soldier boy. A friendless soldier boy traipsing Golden Hill Road by morning. A kindred spirit in need of a friend and warmth. You’ve disappointed me.’
‘Did you find anything in or about these walls?’ I ask nervously.
‘The world’s coming to an end.’
‘Pardon?’
‘You’d better believe it. The world is doomed. A great war will engulf the earth.’
‘I believe you,’ I say. ‘Sincerely I do.’
He puts his hands together. ‘Hang on. Don’t you want to know how the war will begin?’
Deciding to search the area myself, I steel myself with a Bismillah and reach for my stick.
He grabs my arm. ‘You’re jumpy,’ he says. His tone is suddenly lucid and inquisitorial and my entire body contracts in an involuntary shiver. ‘You speak in tongues. I should report you.’
I shake free of his grip. I am caught in a moment of adrenaline and indecision. I could pick up a brick and strike him with it. I picture an ugly event: his head caved in, body dumped in the canal. But as I said to Grace, it’s about style, and that is not mine.
Instead I try to distract him. ‘I met a girl. She reached into her mouth and worked loose a tooth. Then she rolled it between her fingers into a silver ball.’
He nods, his face slowly contorting into an expression of confusion. He leans back and thinks for what seems like minutes. Finally he says, ‘It’s like plucking a rose without getting spiked.’
I lean towards him, my foot scraping against the ground.
He flinches. ‘Don’t be rough with me, lad. ’
‘Will you help me find it?’ I ask, getting to my feet.
‘If you were a friend I might.’
‘I’ve got no money,’ I reply, patting my pockets.
He shakes his head. ‘It’s not money I’m after.’
‘What will it take?’ I say.
‘Come sit. Plenty throw coin at me but no one sits and talks.’