And he’d been launched many times himself into the terrifying heartlands of other people’s mindless mayhem. In Northern Ireland in the 1970s, based at Belfast’s famous Europa Hotel, which became the city’s media centre right through the troubles, he’d on several occasions allowed himself to be blindfolded before being driven by the IRA to interview its more murderous leaders at unknown locations. He’d been caught in crossfire more times and in more places than he could remember, and had once been briefly kidnapped by revolutionaries in a remote part of Africa. That had been the worst of all. Kelly could still feel the parched dryness at the back of his throat along with the warm wetness between his legs when, confronted by machine gun-wielding thugs raging at him in languages he could not understand, he had involuntarily peed himself.
In fact, Kelly was as well equipped as any man alive to recognise what he could see in that young soldier’s eyes.
It was fear. Total and utter, abject fear.
Two
Kelly continued to stare at the closed door of the pub for several seconds after the young squaddie and his unwelcome escort had left. In spite of the unexciting nature of his drink and the tedium of a pub which was now completely empty, apart from Charlie, he found himself rolling another cigarette and ordering another pint of Coke. The minor commotion caused by the arrival of the two men, and the extreme unease Kelly had experienced, had somehow destroyed his intention to make a move.
In addition, his stomach had begun to remind him that he had eaten nothing since his lunchtime scrambled eggs. Resolutely putting the incident of young Alan the squaddie out of his mind, after telling himself that he really had to stop letting his imagination run riot, Kelly concentrated his attention on The Wild Dog’s out-of-season weekday menu. To his relief he found that bread, cheese and pickles still featured, so that at least he could be saved from Charlie’s dubious microwaving skills.
The cheese was a decent enough Cheddar, and although the bread was definitely not as fresh as it could have been, Kelly wolfed the makeshift meal down.
One way and another, it was almost an hour later before Kelly finally decided to make his way home.
If anything the weather was even worse than when he had arrived at The Wild Dog. This was a truly filthy night. A lashing of horizontal rain hit him straight in the face as he stepped out of the old pub. It was cold as well as wet. The easterly wind continued to gust ferociously, and there was now a hill mist, whipped into flying wisps by the wind, swirling around the car park. Kelly hunched his shoulders beneath his inadequate suede bomber jacket, and wondered why on earth, as it had already been raining when he had left his house in Torquay, he had not worn a suitable coat. He broke into a trot, bowing his head against the weather, pulled open his car door and half dived inside, grateful that he never locked the little MG roadster. Kelly had driven an open MG for years and he knew from experience that there was no point in locking that kind of car. Anyone who wanted to break in merely slashed the soft top.
He started the engine, switched on the headlights and pulled out onto the main road. The visibility was dreadful. And when you drive an ancient MG in such conditions, you have an extra disadvantage. Kelly felt as if he were enclosed in a small black box. The windscreen was just a narrow slit between the dashboard and the hood, and in these conditions the headlights seemed to be no more effective than flickering gas lamps.
Kelly, who had only just got his licence back after three years off the road, following one of the more extreme acts of irresponsibility which littered his chequered past, drove with extreme care, concentrating every ounce of his being on the road ahead.
Even so, when, on a blind corner only about a mile or so away from The Wild Dog, a figure in a luminous orange waistcoat, waving a torch, materialised out of the gloom, Kelly thought he was going to hit it.
He slammed on the brakes and hoped for the best. The old car did not have the benefit of a modern anti-locking braking system, and its long low design had definitely not been conceived with emergency stops in mind. The tyres screeched in angry protest and Kelly felt the MG’s rear end swing wildly from side to side, but somehow or other the little car shuddered to a halt just a few feet from the orange figure. Kelly slumped across the steering wheel in relief. He could see now that the orange figure was a police officer, and wondered what on earth was going on. Then, as the policeman approached, he wondered if he was about to be chastised for the erratic manner in which he had pulled to a halt.
He cranked down the driver’s window and waited for the officer to speak first.
‘You’ll need to wait here for a moment, sir, afraid there’s been an accident, and the road ahead is blocked.’
‘I see. Right.’
There was no mention of Kelly’s driving. It seemed the policeman had other things on his mind. The MG’s engine was still running and Kelly had yet to switch off the headlights and the windscreen wipers. He peered into the gloom, straining his eyes. Gradually, he became aware of a big black shape fifty yards or so away, and realised that a large articulated truck was indeed blocking the road. To one side of it he could also see a dimly flashing light, probably from this officer’s police car parked beyond the truck, the bulk of which, even more than the poor visibility, prevented him from seeing what else was going on.
Well, Kelly reflected, at least he had a good excuse now for failing to visit Moira, his seriously ill partner. He was thoroughly ashamed of the thought as soon as it entered his head, but had, as so often seemed to be the case, been quite unable to prevent it doing so.
‘Have you any idea how long it will be before the road will be cleared, Constable?’ he asked.
The constable shook his head. ‘Not at this stage, sir. Unfortunately, we have a casualty and we are waiting for the ambulance service to arrive.’
‘Right.’
The policeman, shoulders hunched against the weather, walked away from the car and took up a position on the most acute angle of the corner which Kelly had just negotiated. Kelly suspected that having witnessed the way in which he and his little MG had so precariously slewed to a halt, the constable was probably trying to give himself a better chance of survival as he stopped any further traffic. He hadn’t looked very happy. Kelly didn’t blame him. He could just see the glimmer of the man’s torch in the misty darkness.
He switched off his engine and settled down for a long wait. If there were casualties, the police would not be able to do anything about any of the vehicles involved until a medical team arrived on the scene. He could have turned and driven back to Two Bridges, then right across the high moorland to Moretonhampstead and on to Newton Abbot and Torquay, but that was a major detour which, in these conditions, Kelly didn’t fancy at all. On balance, he preferred to wait. Automatically, he reached into his pocket for his tobacco and began to make himself yet another roll-up. He was adept at rolling cigarettes. He didn’t need to put a light on, which was all for the best as the MG’s interior light was totally ineffectual.
After a bit, he was aware of another set of headlights coming round the corner and the policeman waving his warning torch in the air. The vehicle pulled to a halt directly behind his MG. The policeman approached it and, silhouetted by his torch, Kelly could see a figure in a raincoat stepping out, then leaning back into the car to retrieve what appeared to be a briefcase.