Authors: Gerald Seymour

A Line in the Sand (4 page)

March an

Instead, early in the

morning, he left his home at Loulay with his liver-white spaniel and zen kilometres into the winter-flooded marshland of the

drove a do

Charente Maritime. In the boot of his car was his most prized

Armi Bettinsoli, over and under, shotgun. Every

possession: an

Saturday and Sunday morning, in the early spring and the late autumn, his car and carried the shotgun, wrapped in sacking, a kilo

he parked

metre away. His sport, as practised by his father and grandfather, was

now opposed by the city bastards who claimed to protect the birds.

was necessary to be covert, to move after each shot, because the

bastards looked for men enjoying legal sport, to interfere. In the remaining months, he shot pheasants, partridges, rabbits and foxes, but

the birds migrated north, and

the sport he craved was in March, when

October, when they returned south to escape the winter.

That Sunday morning in late March, he saw the bird first as a speck and

s binoculars up from his chest to make the distant

swung hi

identification. He had already fired and moved twice that morning.

The

d by the weight of shot, and a

dog had retrieved a swallow, crushe

spotted redshank, which had been alive. He had twisted its neck.

The swallows flew in tight, fast groups and were easy to down. The spotted red shanks came in clusters and were not too difficult to

shoot. But the bird coming now, from the south, low over the

reed-beds,

rue target for a marksman. He knew the markings of the

was a t

harrier,

could recognize them with his binoculars at half a kilo metre

distance.

It was a worthy target: those birds always flew singly, low, at near f 140 metres in ten

to fifty kilometres per hour, a ground speed o

seconds. A marsh harrier would pay for his weekend's cartridges: his ys paid well for a

friend, Pierre, the amateur taxidermist, alwa

raptor,

and top price for a marsh harrier.

eath coming

He crouched, his br

short spurts. The bird had such good sight, but he was low down and by the marsh fronds.

hidden

He rose and aimed. The bird was straight ahead and would pass

directly

er him.

He could see the ginger-capped crown of the bird and the

ruff at its neck. It would be a juvenile, but it had fed well in

the

African winter. He fired. For a moment the bird dipped, bucked,

then

fell.

rd, splashing into the marsh water.

The dog bounded forwa

red the second barrel and shouted, urging the dog forward into the fi

wall of reeds.

ing when the bird came past him,

He was still reload

thin five metres.

Its flight was level to his head, and then it

was

past. It had a laboured, fractured flight, the wings beat unevenly.

His hands shook and a cartridge dropped from his fingers into the

water. He howled in frustration. When the gun was loaded and the dog

was back beside him, he swung. The bird was beyond range but he heard its scream. He watched it for a long time, with his eye, then with the

binoculars. It went north, for La Rochelle. If it had the strength, it would pass by the estuary at Nantes and the river at Rennes, then reach the Channel coast. He thought his pellets had hit the muscle, ligament or tendons in the wing, but not the bone: bone fracture would have brought it down. From the look of it, the bird would not survive a crossing of the Channel to an English landfall.

* * *

re crowded in the hallway~ pressed close together against

They we

hanging

ats. The

family's boots were scattered on the tiled floor.

There were tennis rackets in the corner, a bright plastic beach bucket and spade, a chaos of stones from the shore. It was the same

clutter that Geoff Markham knew from his own parents'

comforting

home.

Perry reached past them and pulled the door open. There was an old bolt on it and a new lock. Geoff Markham shuddered in Belfast the psychopaths had sledge hammered through doors to do their killing.

ied a last time.

Fenton tr

re frightened of telling her?"

"Is it that you'

"Who? What?"

elling your wife what you did.

"Frightened of t

Is that the problem?"

I'd done. Said it was better I didn't

"They never told me what

ow."

doesn't know about before?"

"She

n't need to know."

"She did

th the secret, did you? Festering, is it?"

"Lived wi

"Get out

"My advice, Mr. Perry, is to come clean with her, then fall into line."

"Tell them, back where you came from, no."

"So much better, Mr. Perry, if you'd had the guts to be honest with your wife. Isn't she just common-law?"

Fenton was on his way to the gate when his feet slipped on the wet brick of the path. He stumbled and cursed.

Geoff Markham was going after him when his sleeve was grabbed. The rain ran on Perry's face. He hissed, "This is mine. It's all I have.

I'm not running again. Tell them that. This is my home, where I

live

with the woman I love. I am among friends true, good friends. I

won't

spend the rest of my life hiding, a rat in a hole. This is where

stand, with my woman and my friends... Do you know what it's like

to be

alone and running? They don't stay with you, the raincoats, did you know that? With you for a week, ten days, then gone. A contact

telephone number for a month, then discontinued. You are so bloody alone. Tell them, whoever sent you, that I'm sorry if it's not

convenient but I won't run again."

Fenton was at the car, crouched behind it to protect himself from

the

rain. Markham reached it and opened the door for his superior.

He looked back. Perry's door was already shut.

Chapter Two.

Behind the cottage homes of brick and flint stone, where climber roses trailed and the honeysuckle was not yet in leaf, the ornamental trees gardens were shredded of colour and the sea was slate grey,

in the

with

white flecks. Between the houses and through the trees, he saw it limitless.

stretching away,

A solitary cargo ship nudged along the

horizon, maybe out of Felixstowe. The sea was like a great wall

hich the village sheltered, a barrier that had no end to

against w

its

width and to its depth.

od, don't spare the horses."

was the reason he'd been fetched out for the day.

Fenton wouldn't

ive or have to face the vagaries of train timetables

have wanted to dr

d a waiting taxi.

Geoff Markham's function was to drive, not to

play

part in what should have been a reassuring and businesslike making a

rangements for the removal van's arrival.

He had the wipers going

but the back window was a disaster, as if a filled bucket had been tipped on it. He reversed cautiously, couldn't see a damn thing in his

hen swung the wheel hard.

mirror, t

The car surged forward. Fenton

was

ithing out of his dripping coat and nudged Markham's arm so that

veered towards a woman in a plastic cape pushing her

swerved. He

bicycle. Before he'd straightened up, the tyres sluiced the puddle r legs. There was a shout of abuse. Fenton grinned.

over he

ign of life we've seen..."

"First s

d have stopped to apologize but kept going: he wanted

Markham shoul

away

from the plac

He knew nothing of the sea and it held no particular

attraction for him. He thought it chill and threatening.

They went past a small shop with pottery and postcards in the window ich faces peered.

from wh

They would have heard the woman's protest.

There was a tearoom beside the shop, shuttered for the winter.

They

swept past the village hall, a low-set building with an old Morris outside. Then there was a pub with an empty car-park.

"Thank the Lord, the open road beckons. Could you live here, Geoff, in

this dead end?"

ey'd both seen it.

The estate agents' for-sale sign was propped

untrimmed hedge beside a crazily hanging gate with the faded name

Cottage. Beyond was a small overgrown garden, then a

it, Rose

darkened

ith the curtains drawn, no lights showing.

cottage w

The rainwater

cascaded from the blocked gutters, and tiles were missing from the t would be 'three bedrooms, bathroom, two reception,

roof. I

kitchen,

in need of modernization'. And it would also be, down here on the Suffolk coast, ninety thousand pounds before the builders went in.

But

all that was irrelevant to Markham.

was wondering how Perry was

facing up the devastation they'd left behind them.

of place, Geoff. where the major entertainment off-season

Sort

would

r sister or your daughter or your niece. Eh?"

be screwing you

Not since he had come back from Ireland and gone to work on the Mid mic) Desk, had he heard his superior utter anything as

East (Isla

crude.

He was shocked, wouldn't have believed Fenton capable of such

vulgarity. The bitter little confrontation with Perry had rattled him.

They went up a long, straight road, first flanked by terraced houses, then, as he accelerated, by larger houses oozing prosperity, set back ns with tarpaulin-covered yachts in the driveways. The

in garde

church

ir right. Geoff Markham was good on churches, liked to

was on the

walk

around hem,

and this one, through his side window, looked to be worth

a quarter of an hour, a fine tower, solid as a fortress, a wide nave, safe as a refuge. Beyond it was a stark facade of flint ruins, the clerestory windows open to the concrete grey of the cloud. He turned his head to see the ruins better. There was a chuckle beside him.

About as dead as the rest of the wretched place."

Fenton, he knew, lived in Beaconsfield, not on his own salary but

family money; couldn't have managed Beaconsfield, the restaurants, the

delicatessens and the bijou clothes shops where his wife went on a desk

head's wage. Money was seldom far from Geoff Markham's thoughts,

nagging like a dripping tap. Vicky and his future were about money.

was driving faster.

It was strange, but he hadn't seemed to register the village when

they

came into it, less than an hour before. It had not seemed a part

resent and the future. The village was history, to be left

the p

behind

ce the removal van had arrived. But no removal van was coming,

and

its lay-out, entry and exit route, topography, community

the village

ouses

was as important as any of those isolated white-walled farmh

Fermanagh and East Tyrone.

South Armagh,

ton was again massaging his moustache and showed no interest in

Fen

what

und him. Through the trees was the shimmer of silver grey

was aro

stretching inland water. The road in front was straight and empty, he

had no need to concentrate. Markham's mind was on the landscape,

as i

would have been if he had been driving in Ireland.

They reached the crossroads, and the main road for Ipswich,

Colchester

and London. He paused for traffic with the right of way, and the

smile

brightened on Fenton's face. He checked the distance they had come leaving the house.

since

t bloody time.

"Abou

You never said could you live there? Damn sure

n't."

could

for Markham to pick a pointless argument with his superior.

It wasn't

, but it's right for him."

"I couldn't

again?"

"Come

e chose well, Perry did."

e me riddles."

"Don't giv

am pulled out into the main road and slashed his way through

Markh

the

r speed.

gears fo

"He wants to make a stand, he won't run... It's good ground for him.

One road in and the same road out. The sea is behind and it can be tored.

moni

Natural barriers of flooded marshland to the north and

the

south with no vehicle access. If you were in a city street or a town's suburban road, you couldn't get protection like that. He chose well, s really staying."

if he'

ld be back in London, on Millbank, in three hours.

They wou

Then the

bells would start clamouring and the calls would go out for the

meeting.

nt, like a sleep-walker, around the ground floor of his house,