A man in a long coat stepped inside the gate. He fired three more times into Sweeney’s body, then — the long coat jumping like a skirt — ran into the street. A car door slammed, an engine roared, and it sped away until its sound became part of the city’s regular swell.
But Hood had seen the man’s face. A thug: he knew the face and then didn’t. He saw his confusion, the brutal similarity, the shaded features, all brutes looked the same. No — he remembered where he had seen it before, silhouetted like this, in the paddock of whimpering dogs at the track — one of Rutter’s men. Hood was blinded. The painting: he started back for it and saw a policeman enter, flashing a torch near where Sweeney lay. Before Hood turned again the policeman saw him and waved his feeble torch. He called out twice for Hood to stop, but Hood kept running, through the far gate, into the street; away from the shrill police whistle, away from the painting, and into the concealing city.
27
The last thing he’d seen — the image he carried away from Deptford in the ride through London to the station — was the old sweeper solemnly clearing up the mess in Albacore Crescent. But it was a brief glimpse between shifting buildings, a bent figure in a winter coat, with a shovel and a yellow barrel; but it occurred to him later, long after the taxi had veered past the Crescent, that it might not have been the same man. There was no boy.
At Victoria Murf bought a Mirror, and in the compartment he showed Hood the front page story: TERROR BOMB IN SOUTH LONDON KILLS THREE. Hood glanced through the item he did not want to read …. thought to be a bomb factory … three bodies badly charred … no warning beforehand … names will not be released until the next-of-kin have been notified.
Murf said, ‘You seen it?’
‘What?’
Murf took the paper and put his dirty finger on the bottom line, smudging the fresh ink: … the fact that the stolen painting was recovered aroused speculation that this may be the opening volley in a campaign of terror by the Provisional Wing of the IRA. No ransom was paid for the painting. It was found in a cemetery …
Hood’s face darkened. He said, ‘No.’
Lorna said, ‘Don’t show me.’
Murf sang, ‘Boom widdy-widdy, boom-boom.’
‘Look, Mummy. Horses!’
‘Them are cows,’ she said.
Murf said, ‘It’s like a holiday. Put your feet up. Get the benefit.’
The early sun broke through the layers of cloud and struck the low hills, shafts of light sending the lengthened shadows of trees across the rough brown grass. And where the sun didn’t hit, in the grey scooped depressions on the hillsides, there were rounded white patches, like sea-foam drying on a beach, froth that had outrun the surf.
‘Snow,’ said Lorna. Her voice vibrated with the rumble of the train.
‘They get lots of snow down here this time of year,’ said Murf. ‘Not blizzards — nothing like that. But snow, widdy-widdy boom.’
Snow, trees, cows. They were in another country, thirty miles from London. The space, the very air here, oppressed him. Hood studied the fields, sorrowing wordlessly; he had seen these fields when he had arrived in England, the yellow fields of mustard in May. Now they were brown, grief had displaced hope. I have had no life, only a sudden death. And Murf’s voice, that quacking, sounded so awful.
Just before a level crossing the train’s horn squawked twice. Then, at the road itself, they could see the cars backed up and winding bumper to bumper along the country lane.
‘Stop, you bitches!’ Murf smiled, showing the pegs of his teeth.
‘It’s going to be a nice day,’ said Lorna.
Outside, beyond the low hills the downs lay green at the horizon, and close by, in the hedges that ran along the track the sparkle of frost just touched by the sun, becoming dew.
‘How long can we stay, Mummy?’
‘Ask him,’ she said.
Hood said, ‘As long as you like.’
‘I don’t want to go back to that yucky house.’
Hood saw that Lorna was staring at him. He said, ‘He might get his wish.’
She said, ‘I don’t want to think about that. I know something’s up. That’s your look-out. I’m going to Brighton. It’s like winning at the dogs, Brighton. The only thing is, we didn’t win nothing.’ She sighed, then said, ‘They’ll find us.’
‘No,’ said Hood. ‘No one finds you unless you cooperate.’
‘Yeah,’ said Murf. ‘I ain’t cooperating.’
‘Listen to them,’ said Lorna.
‘The little basket wants to go to the loo,’ said Murf. ‘It’s okay. I’ll take him. Put your feet up.’ He left with Jason and slid the compartment door shut.
Lorna said, ‘We left in such a hurry, I forgot my rollers.’
‘We’ll buy some more.’
‘I don’t know if I remembered to pack my heavy sweater. It’s cold down there.’
‘I’ll get you a new one.’
‘And Jason needs shoes.’
‘There are shoe stores in Brighton.’
‘Oh, Christ!’ she said, and he thought she was going to cry.
He put his arm around her and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you.’
‘How long?’
‘Until you chase me away,’ he said. ‘Until you’re safe.’ And as he said it he wondered if she would ever be.
‘You looked old just then,’ she said. ‘I don’t even know you. Who are you?’
The door shot open and Murf helped Jason to his seat. He said, ‘Basket almost fell in!’
Lorna looked appreciatively at Murf. She said, ‘He likes you.’ She was silent a moment, then turned to Hood. ‘Kids need fathers.’
The stations raced by. The train didn’t stop. The countryside, which had appeared so suddenly at the outskirts of London, dropped from view. The square grey backs of houses, the narrow cluttered gardens, the succession of settlements became linked and continued, breaking up the view of pasture, cutting off the sun. Favvers.
‘Excuse me.’ Lorna left the compartment.
‘Put your feet up,’ said Murf. ‘Get the benefit. I wish Brodie was here. She likes a good train ride.’ He took out his marking crayon and smiled at the wall.
Hood said, ‘Don’t.’
‘I wasn’t really going to.’ He put the crayon away.
‘You didn’t have to come.’
‘I’m sticking wif you.’
‘It might not be what you think.’
‘Yeah. Even if it ain’t, I’m sticking.’ He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket and took out his leather stash, his cigarette papers. He began rolling a cigarette.
Hood said, ‘You’ll be all right.’
‘Yeah.’
Hood put his feet up, on the seat opposite.
‘That’s the idea,’ said Murf. ‘Get the benefit.’ He licked the cigarette, giving it the colour of his tongue. ‘But I mean, where are we really going?’
‘Guatemala.’
‘Yeah.’
Jason, sniffing the strong smoke, made a face at Murf. He said nothing. He turned again to the window. Hood sorrowed for his small pathetic neck.
Murf said, ‘Yeah, but what’ll we do when we get there?’
Hood nodded slowly and took Murf’s cigarette. He puffed it, handed it back and put his hands behind his head. The sun striped the compartment with heat; the horn blew again, long and sad, but the train sped them away from its stuttering echo.
‘Smoke,’ he said. Then, ‘Smoke and tell lies.’