Half a minute? The Eagle had stopped. He teetered on one leg. In the light from the moon, Mister could see that the Eagle had his arms out wide, like he was a trapeze man walking the wire. He seemed not to dare to put down the other foot, from which the shoe was lost, and swayed. He would not go back for him. But Mister thought himself a good, kind man, a loyal man, and he made a little pledge to himself: when they reached the river – and from the sound of it there would be a wicked current to fight against – he would carry the Eagle over it. He would have the Eagle clinging on his back, or under his arm, and he would take him over the river. He could walk the rest, to the lights, where there would be a car – of course there would be a car.
He thought he'd waited the half-minute.
'Come on, Eagle, shift it.'
He felt no fear. The river did not frighten him, or the thought of the rifles that might be aimed at him.
Neither did he feel fear of the young man with the big spectacles who had dogged and followed him. The sensation was pure excitement. He was challenged, tested. The excitement ran in him as a strain that was
– not that Mister knew the word – virulent. From any challenge thrown at him, any test put to him, he was
– always had been – the winner. And when they were over the river, had reached the lights and taken a car, the Eagle would be the witness.
'Come on – or do you want the dog to have you?'
One minute past ten o'clock.
'Coming, Mister – and thanks for waiting.'
Mister was about to turn, to hurry on towards the dark strip and the river, but he watched. The Eagle hopped on his shoe, danced like he was a circus clown, rocked, then reached out the foot that had no shoe, sank on it. The flash was golden in its intensity.
The Eagle was caught in the flame, then lifted up as if a fine wire jerked him. After the flame was billowing smoke and the thunder caught in Mister's ears. He felt the wind's rush against him and for a moment he thought he would be driven over but he rocked at his knees and the wind passed him. The flash had wiped his vision. There was only black darkness around him.
A silence came.
Mister stood statue still. He had no eyes, and his ears rang tinny from the blast. It was like nothing he had ever seen or ever heard. Then the voice came.
'You are in a minefield, Mister.'
The voice boomed into his consciousness.
'You have walked into a minefield, Mister.'
The voice was nasal, like it was synthetic, and amplified.
'There will be mines in front of you, beside you, and behind you – all around you in fact, Mister.'
The voice came from the tree-line and he thought it was shouted through cupped hands.
'You went into the minefield when you stepped over the yellow tape, Mister.'
The voice was flat-toned and without pleasure or triumph and it cleared the ringing from Mister's ears.
He sank down. He put his buttocks' weight onto the wet grass where his shoes had been, and then he tucked his feet as close to his buttocks as he was able
… It started as a whimper… He had only once before heard the voice, but he recognized it. There had been seven words spoken by the voice, then small, not nasal and amplified. The words dinned at him: That was a mistake, Mister, a mistake… From the whimper came a low sob… He had his arms tight around his body. A light breeze rustled in the grass close to him, waved it. Because he was low down on the ground the lights seemed further distant than before, where a car would have been, beyond the river he would have swum… Where he thought the Eagle lay, the sobbing turned to a high-pitched scream that pierced Mister's skull… Cann hadn't screamed when Mister had beaten him. He sat hunched in the grass and he could not escape the Eagle's scream. The scream was a knife that sliced into him, the sound of a dying animal. He took his hands from his chest and slapped them over his ears and pressed the palms against his skull, but he could not lose the sound of it. The scream eddied in the grass around him, burrowed in the ground under him, it was around him – as the mines were.
Mister did not know what a mine looked like. He must have seen them on television but if he had he did not remember it. There had been no mines at the fair he had gone to with Atkins. He did not know whether they were square or round, black, green or white…
God, would the screaming not stop? Finally, it did.
It died to a sob and then to a whimper. He eased his hands from his ears.
'Mister, are you there? Tell me you're there.'
' I'm here, Eagle.'
'Can you come near?'
'We're in a minefield, Eagle.'
The voice choked: 'I can't feel my leg, Mister.'
'There's nothing 1 can do.'
' I want you close to me, Mister. There's the pain everywhere, except in my foot – C h r i s t… '
' I can't move. I can't come.'
'Close, so's you hold me – I'm so fucking scared, Mister, and the pain… '
'Don't you listen, Eagle? It's a minefield… ' He said it like he was speaking to an idiot. His voice was quiet.
It was always quiet when the anger surged in him.
When he was angry, men had to lean forward to hear him. 'If I come to you I could be blown up myself.'
'Yes, M i s t e r… bloody h e l l… of course, Mister. I'm your burden – isn't that right, Mister?'
Mister knew what was said of him at the Church and the Crime Squad and at the Criminal Intelligence Service: they said that he was careful. It was grudging but it was said of him, 'careful', with sour praise. He did not gamble. Everything was planned before he moved. Only fools gambled. He owned clubs that had rich takings from roulette wheels, but he never played. He never backed horses or dogs unless the names of the winners were guaranteed to him… The last time he had not been careful, had taken an action that had not been weighed, he had walked from Monika Holberg's vehicle to the blue van and had taken Cann to its rear doors and had kicked, punched the little weakling creature until his feet had hurt and his hands had bled, and the small voice down on the ground had called it his mistake. To move on the field in the darkness would be to gamble.
'What are you going to do, Mister?'
' I don't know.'
'Mister, I need you… please.'
' I can't help you.'
'No, Mister, you mustn't risk yourself…'
In the moonlight, above the waving grass, he could see, just, the shape of the Eagle's hip and his shoulder, twenty yards away or maybe thirty. The Eagle was on his side, had his back to Mister. The pain must have come as a spasm. There was a low moan and the upper arm thrashed. The Eagle's leg, in the pain spasm, was lifted at the hip. There was no foot. Mister blinked. The raised leg's trouser was shredded to nothing at the knee. Mister did not know what a mine looked like, but he knew what it did. He needed to think. He was beyond anything of his experience, and he had no instinct to guide him. He checked his watch. The time was fifteen minutes past ten o'clock.
There was at least eight hours of darkness to cover him. By midnight he hoped that he would know what he should do, and how far he should gamble.
Frank had come through the trees. They'd heard his approach and Salko had flashed the torch to guide him, and the dog had growled. He'd found them.
'What happened?'
Joey pointed down in front of him. At the level of his knees was the yellow tape. Frank whistled, sucked in his breath. 'We heard the explosion – which one is it? Then the screaming… God.'
Joey reached across and tapped Ante's arm. He gestured for the rifle to be given him. He let the butt rest against his shoulder, levelled the aim and had his eye to the moulded endpiece of the night sight. He had never been a marksman. The gamekeepers on the estate were expert, but Joey hadn't been. It was a dozen years, when he was a teenager, since Joey had last had a firearm against his shoulder. There was a clinical weight to the Kalashnikov, and it was made heavier by the sight. The cross-hairs wavered. If he'd fired he would have missed because he could not hold the aim steady, but he could see. The image was a grey-white wash, and he tried to hold the cross-hairs on the nearer spreadeagled shape. Target Two was total white – face, body, clothes, and was prone. He shifted the aim and the image in the sight blurred. It went over the trees at the bank of the river, jerked up, caught the lights of the far village, and it burned out.