The Mission Page 19

  Her shopping completed, she tried to think of some topic that would engage him in a lengthy discussion. He answered her questions, however, with terse phrases. What could she do? Nothing on television would be worth watching. She didn’t have the concentration to read. Yesterday she had sat in the living room for hours, first in one chair and then in another, restless and uncomfortable, waiting for the oblivion of sleep.

  Why was she lingering when there was naught of consequence to see? “You’re walking rather slowly,” he commented.

  She shrugged.

  He carried her groceries back to the flat and watched while she put them away. He did not understand why she cried when he doled out her sleeping pill. Then he returned her keys so she could lock up after him.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Were you always a police officer?” Jenny asked Sergeant Howard over sausages and biscuits on the fifth morning.

  “No, I was a soldier. I joined the Royal Army when I was eighteen.” He remembered the smile on Mr. Thompson’s face when he told him he wanted to enlist. “You’re clever, strong, and quick, with eyes like a hawk’s,” Mr. Thompson had told him. “They’ll be tough on you, son, but you’ll do well.”

  He accepted a second cup of tea. “As soon as I could, I applied for Special Forces. Qualifying for the SAS, the Special Air Service, was the most difficult thing I’d ever done, but it was worth it.”

  “What motivated you? To push yourself so hard.”

  “I wanted to make the Thompsons proud. More than anything, I didn’t want to fail. It was the only way I could show them they’d succeeded with me.”

  “They must be relieved that you’re not in harm’s way anymore. Do you see them often?” He was silent for so long she began to feel apprehensive. “Sergeant Howard – ” Something in his expression made her stop.

  He could no longer avoid telling her. “They’re dead, Jenny.”

  She was stunned. “Both of them? What happened?”

  “They died in a fire. Neither smoked, but their house was old. It burned to the ground. I returned from a training mission and was summoned by my supervising officer. ‘They’re gone, mate,’ he said. All I have left of them – ” he tapped his chest – “is in here.”

  She started to cry. “How did you go on?”

  He saw the tears and knew they were for him, not for herself. “I didn’t at first. I was gutted. Angry. Then I realised that they put a lot of effort into loving me. Helping me turn my life around.” Jenny was stronger now. He hoped she was ready. His voice hardened. “Sinclair did that for you, Jenny. And you’ve made a mockery of it.”

  She was shocked by his sudden attack. “I don’t understand,” she stammered.

  “Was his love real, Jenny?” He pressed on. “Did it matter to you? Did it change you? Then prove it. Prove it! And not just Sinclair. Others supported you, and you’ve made their belief in you a lie.”

  She was sobbing aloud now.

  He watched her, recalling Mr. Thompson’s strong arm around his thin shoulders, giving him comfort when he cried. He wanted to comfort Jenny – he wasn’t as cold as some made him out to be – but his mission was not to teach her she could depend on others, as Mr. Thompson’s had been. His mission was to teach her that she could manage alone. So he waited.

  She began to remember, not what she had lost, but what she had gained. “Love lasts,” Colin had told her once. “It survives the grave.” He had been referring to his mother’s love for his father, which had led her not just to marry him, but to follow him around the world on his foreign service postings and to make a life for herself after he died. Love, a divine gift, Colin would have argued, had given her the strength.

  She remembered how amazed she’d been when he told her he loved her. How gentle and patient his courtship had been. He had given her hope and happiness. His love had changed her. She had healed, matured, blossomed. He would be grieving for her now, sad that she had let it all go. Disappointed because she had let the bomber steal a part of her.

  She looked around the flat. She had tangible reminders of him: his framed photographs on the walls, clothes he had chosen for her in the closet, and engagement and wedding rings still on her finger. Sergeant Howard had nothing. “Tell me what to do,” she begged.

  “Make it your mission to get through one day. Then another. Then another. Do it until you don’t have to prove it to yourself.”

  She swallowed hard. “Sergeant Howard, do you believe in God?”

  “The Thompsons did. Mrs. T said that they thought God wanted them to help Him save one more. That’s why they took me in when they were really past the age. And Mrs. T wouldn’t have been at all surprised by how I met Cath.”

  “Is that your girlfriend? How did you meet her?”

  “She was the fire brigade investigator. She determined that the fire had been accidental. Assured me that they died of smoke inhalation. Never felt the flames.” He looked away briefly. “The fire started downstairs, late at night. They’d already gone up. They always held each other while they slept. As a boy I didn’t understand it. Now I do.” He paused. “Bad things happen, but God makes good come out of them. That’s what Mrs. T believed.”

  “If I hadn’t been raped, I would never have met Colin,” she said slowly. “But his death? I think God has His work cut out for Him on that one.”

  When he didn’t respond, she felt a flash of anger. “Aren’t you going to answer?”

  “The further I went in military service, the more I had to think for myself. Look after myself.”

  “But soldiers have – other soldiers! They’re part of something, and they’re not alone! I’m not a soldier!”

  “You need to be. You’re fighting a private war, that’s all.”

  After he left, she felt bruised still from his words. He expected too much of her, but he was right about one thing: She had let people down. Colin had hurt her by dying, but she was hurting others by not caring about living – particularly Simon, who had always set high standards for her. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. Sergeant “I-have-a-purpose-for-everything-I-do” Howard had recharged her mobile, a sure sign that he wanted her to use it. She flipped it open.

  CHAPTER 7

  Long after dark Simon Casey received Jenny’s message on his voice mail, her voice so weak and shaky he barely recognised it. “Simon, I need – to talk to you. To tell you how sorry I am. Please.” He wondered what for and rang her back to tell her he was on his way.

  When he saw the tears on her cheeks, he took her in his arms. Her clothes were loose on her thin frame, and he wondered what had happened in the last weeks.

  “Simon, I’m so ashamed,” she cried. “I haven’t been strong. Losing Colin – it hurt so much that I forgot to fight, and I didn’t have the energy. I just wanted to slip away.”

  Dread tightened his stomach. In witness protection, things had got on top of her, but they’d been able to turn her round. He should have called by more often. He held her more firmly and felt her answering hug.

  She released him first. “Tea?” she asked.

  “No. Talk to me.”

  They sat down in the living room. “Sergeant Howard was here,” she began.

  “Howard? What did he want?”

  “He gave me shock therapy, sort of. He took away my sleeping pills. He made me eat, the worst scrambled eggs in history. He made me walk. He made me angry, and he made me cry.”

  Simon’s face darkened. “I’ll make him cry.”

  “No, it was a good thing. He’s had a really hard life, and he made me understand what I have to do: get through today. And then tomorrow. And then the next day. I’ve been on the dark side of the moon, and I need to face things now.” She paused. “If you don’t want tea, how about some wine?” She brought the bottle for him to open.

  “Aren’t you having any?” She held only one glass.

  “No, if Sergeant Howard comes by tomorrow and finds me hung over, God knows what he’ll do.” She handed him the corkscr
ew and watched him use it to remove the cork.

  “Jenny, why did he take away your sleeping pills?”

  “He didn’t trust me.”

  Simon took a long drink of the cabernet sauvignon. He should have been the one to intervene, not Howard.

  “Simon, there’s a plant – related to the primrose, I think – that can grow on rocks in terrible conditions, like frigid, oxygen-depleted air. It doesn’t just survive, it produces flowers. I’ve always wondered how it does that. Does it have a relentless will to live or is it just too stubborn to die?”

  He didn’t like what he was hearing, and he hadn’t seen a sign of the defiance which he respected.

  “My mother always discouraged stubborn behavior, but maybe it’s a good thing to be too stubborn to give up when life isn’t what you want it to be. I need to find some of that stubbornness, because I’m alone so much of the time. Sergeant Howard wants me to do this by myself, but I don’t think I can. I’ve been thinking about going back to Texas.”

  He refilled his glass, knowing as he did so that the wine would not ease the sudden ache he felt in his heart. “When? For how long?”

  “Several months, maybe longer.”

  “I’d not like you to leave home,” he said slowly.

  “Simon, I don’t know where home is these days. If I were a homing pigeon, I’d be flying in circles. And I can’t ask you to take care of me. You have a demanding job, and you’re in a relationship now.”

  Yes, with Marcia, who wanted more than a relationship. They’d had a brilliant time on their holiday, but she’d been at him since their return for a commitment he wasn’t ready to give. He didn’t want to jeopardise anything with her, however.

  In the silence that ensued, Jenny felt lost. Simon had been her compass in witness protection, and in some ways, he still was, but it would be wrong to admit her need for him. She had nothing to give in return.

  “I’ve missed our walks,” he said finally. “We’ll walk, shall we? At the weekend?”

  When she took his hand in assent, he shifted his gaze from her eyes. He stood, needing to leave before he did something that would be wrong for both of them. “I’ll ring you.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Sergeant Howard brought her mail when he arrived the next day. “Jenny, you should open this,” he said. “It’s from the Commissioner.”

  The envelope contained the details of the memorial service to be held for Colin on the first anniversary of his death. She began to tremble. “I still don’t understand why he had to die.”

  “Don’t ask why. It’ll drive you round the bend. And it’ll not help to know. Ask what: What do I do now? And how do I do it?” That was the advice Mrs. T had given him when he asked why his mother had died. It’s enough to know you’re with us, she had said.

  “What did you do on the anniversary of the Thompsons’ deaths?”

  “Cath and I visited the site. The Thompsons left it to me in their will, and we plan to rebuild there when we’ve saved enough. Then we took a short holiday.” Cath had distracted him from his grief, promising not to put on so much as a pair of knickers all the weekend.

  She held out the agenda. “Will you come? You and Cath?”

  “If our schedules permit,” he said. “In the meantime, get your trainers on. I have a car today, and there’s somewhere we need to go.”

  - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  Jenny sat in the old gray Nissan and watched Sergeant Howard negotiate the streets out of Hampstead. She asked where they were going, but he didn’t answer. When he reached the A1, he consulted the map. “To the M25, then past Potters Bar,” he said to himself.

  They rode in silence until he turned off the motorway. Then she saw the sign: RSPCA Southridge Animal Centre. “Where are we?” she asked.

  He turned to her, and what passed for a smile crossed his face. “Hertfordshire. Shall we go in?”

  She hesitated. Gruff Sergeant Howard had brought her to a pet place. She was surprised and pleased by his gesture, but a little nervous, too, not sure if she was ready to be responsible for another life. “Did the Thompsons – ?”

  “They got me a dog.”

  She nodded. Inside they introduced themselves to the matronly-looking woman with short gray hair who stood behind the counter. “Edith Beasley,” she responded. “Looking for a new pet, are we? We have some wonderful animals here ready for rehoming.” She handed Sergeant Howard a set of forms to complete. He held them out to Jenny.

  She felt a little shiver of excitement as she listed her name, address, and other particulars. At the bottom of the page was the question: Do you prefer a dog, cat, or other animal? Cats might be easier to care for, she thought, but they could be aloof. She checked the box beside ‘Dog’ and felt another little shiver. “May we see the animals now?”

  “We’ll just have a little visit first,” Mrs. Beasley purred. She showed them into a small office and scanned the information Jenny had given. “Why do you want a dog, Mrs. Sinclair?”

  “I’m a – ” the word caught in her throat – “widow.” It was the first time she had used the term aloud to describe herself. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Are you looking for an animal to protect you?”

  “That would be nice, but mainly I want to love him.” Anxiety had begun to defuse her excitement. What if Mrs. Beasley didn’t think she was suitable? “There’s plenty of space in my flat, and I’m not too far from Hampstead Heath. I’m not employed, so I have plenty of time for a pet.” Not employed – that sounded bad. “But I can afford a pet. Really. I can give you financial information, if you need it.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Beasley said, “but we do require payment in advance.”

  Jenny wrote a check for the specified amount. “Could we see the dogs now?”

  “Yes, we can conclude our interview after.” She led them through a heavy door to a hallway with cages on both sides. “Don’t try to touch any of the animals,” she counselled. “If you see one you like, I’ll bring him or her out to you.”

  Jenny walked slowly down the hall. She saw the puppies first, some of them bouncing off the floor with enthusiasm as she passed. The adult dogs were only slightly more restrained, terriers pushing their noses through the bars, spaniels wagging their tails, chows and Pekinese barking with smaller, shriller voices than the larger breeds. Only one dog was quiet, a large black Labrador who didn’t even raise his head when she called out to him. She remembered reading about Winston Churchill’s “black dog,” his name for his depression. She had told Colin that her depression was a “black bear,” because it was bigger and stronger than a dog. “Tell me about the Lab,” she said.

  Mrs. Beasley clucked her tongue. “He’s obedient; housebroken; he sits and stays, that sort of thing; but he was abandoned, and he’s not eating well yet. Grieving for his family, we think. Not the best choice if you’re looking for a responsive companion.”

  We’re alike, Jenny thought. He could be her mission, and she could be his. “Could I pat him?” she asked.

  Mrs. Beasley opened the cage door and attached a leash to the Lab’s collar. “Heel,” she said, and he got to his feet and walked beside her, but his tail drooped, and he didn’t hold his head up.

  Jenny knelt down and held her hand for the dog to sniff. He had paws like a mastiff. When she touched his leg, he lifted it to the shake-hands position. When she took it, she smiled to herself: She was the one who was obedient. Wanting him to hear her voice, she told him how handsome he was. He was very still when she stroked his fur. “He’s the one,” she said. She would call him Bear.

  “We’ll need a further discussion then,” Mrs. Beasley said, stepping forward to return the Lab to his cage. “Generally we make a home visit before placing an animal.”

  Jenny’s face fell. “But – but – I’ve already named him! Can’t I take him home today?”

  “It’s not our usual practice,” Mrs. Beasley objected.

>   “Could I have a word?” Sergeant Howard moved a few feet away and beckoned to Mrs. Beasley. He took out his warrant card, explained quietly but firmly why Jenny needed to take the dog today, and promised to guarantee the quality of the home she would provide.

  Mrs. Beasley seemed a little flustered by the sergeant’s direct approach. “I see – yes – he’ll not be the easiest animal to place – perhaps we could schedule a home visit in a few days,” she stammered.

  “Do you hear that, Bear? You have seen your last cage!”

  Mrs. Beasley gave Jenny a sheet of printed instructions: Caring For Your Dog. She led him to the sergeant’s car and watched while Jenny joined him in the back seat.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Beasley,” Jenny said, her hand on the Lab’s head. “Come see us anytime.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Howard,” she added as they pulled away. “You knew I couldn’t do it alone, didn’t you?”

  “I had my SAS mates and Cath,” he answered. “And it’s Nick.”

  CHAPTER 9

  Jenny was alone in the flat with Bear. Nick had stopped at a pet store on the way back from Hertfordshire, and she had bought the highest quality dog food they sold, as well as bowls, treats, a leash, a brush, and a doggy bed. She put the bed on the floor in her bedroom and the bowls in the kitchen. Nick stood waiting in the living room, and she realized he had something to say.

  “Jenny, there’s more to do, but my leave’s over. You’ll have to take it from here. If you backslide, I’ll hear of it.” He returned the bottle which had held her sleeping pills.

  He wasn’t good at good-byes, but neither was she. A sudden regret seized her, for all the things she didn’t know about this man and hadn’t thought to ask. She had been so self-absorbed that she hadn’t questioned how he had found the time to spend with her. She wanted to smile, to show him what his sacrifice meant to her, but her throat was choked with tears because she didn’t feel happy that he was leaving. Breaking news, she thought: “Heart discovered in unfeeling officer.” She hugged him, Icky Nicky who was no longer icky.