Come, Time, Page 2

CHAPTER TWO

  My day had nearly finished. The time is 9.38 p.m. I am at home in my caravan, well fed and warm. I am standing at a window, peering through the curtain, watching a car as it pulls up outside. I am expecting no visitors, I never do. The car engine is switched off, the headlights follow. The shape of a Land Rover silhouetted against a moon-lit sky is revealed. I step away, stand still and wait.

  Two cars doors open then gently close. I hear no voices. Footsteps approach. A short, sharp, not too loud knock on the door. I wait, let them knock again. Seven seconds later they do. The knock is exactly the same - no increased force considered necessary. I open the door, and in the murk of the night, see two men and a Police wallet-badge raised for me to read.

  ‘Mr. Dean, we’re Police. We need to speak to you. Don’t worry; we’re aware of your disability.’

  I have a disability? I assume they mean that I am a mute. They both seem serious and, unless armed, physically not a threat. Both are touching forty and dressed as company men in smart, office clothing. Both are lean, fit and seemingly healthy. The badge I ignore, it tells me nothing. I mean, how can I tell if it’s real? I gesture for them to enter, which they calmly do.

  ‘My name is Phillip; this is my colleague, Andrew.’

  First name terms already. No constable or detective. Phillip continues,

  ‘We’re from Special Branch.’

  I stare at them passively, remaining outwardly calm. Inside a swirl of confusion, is this serious or ridiculous? When spoken, it sounds both. They stare back at me, solid and without reaction. Should I believe them? I could ask them to prove it but what good would that do? They couldn’t. All I can do is let them speak; let them say what they’ve come to say.

  We crowd around a small dining table. We are bunched tightly together, but neither of them seems uncomfortable. There is a fresh pot of coffee sitting on the stove; its smell is loud and delicious. I offer them nothing, but neither seems to care. Andrew pulls out a notepad and pen from his coat pocket then slides them towards me. Phillip places the black leather folder he has been holding down on the table then quickly gets down to business.

  ‘Mr. Dean,' he says, 'firstly let me make it clear, you are not in any trouble. We are not investigating you or anyone you personally know. Our visit is for one reason and one reason only and, that is to ask for your help.’

  He opens up the folder. I see a photo of a house that looks familiar. He slides the photo towards me and continues to explain.

  ‘This property, it’s familiar to you,’ he continues.

  It is, so I nod my head.

  ‘It’s isolated, but you pass it on a regular basis when you’re out poaching or foraging for food.’

  Again, the truth, so I nod.

  ‘Recently the property has been bought by this woman.’

  From the folder, he hands me a second photograph. It is of a woman standing outside the house. She is about sixty years of age, a pensioner hippy-chick dressed in colourful woolens, the sort you can buy at craft fairs. Somehow I think she looks wise, with skin regularly refreshed by the great outdoors. She is smiling even though she seems to be alone. Phillip continues,

  ‘Now, what we can tell you about this woman, and we can tell you this with absolute certainly, is that this woman plays an active role within the animal liberation movement.’

  Without pause the double act begins; Andrew breaks his silence.

  ‘She’s a key player.’

  ‘A figurehead,’ adds Phillip.

  ‘Not as physically active as she once was, but as an organizer, as an inspirer, she is still very much an important figure.’

  Silence. They both look at me for a reaction, but I give them nothing. Andrew continues, somewhat impatiently.

  ‘Her views are extreme. Do we need to explain them to you?’

  I shake my head. He continues.

  ‘Do you sympathise with her views? Do you have any sympathy at all for what she believes in?’

  Phillip rolls in seamlessly.

  ‘If you do, you must tell us, you must tell us now.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You’re saying no?’

  I nod.

  ‘Good. As we thought.’

  They pause, watching me, making sure. Convinced, Andrew continues, his impatience settled.

  ‘We want you to watch the house. We need you to tell us when either of these two men visit, which in time they will.’

  Andrew fans out eight photos on the table, all are ten by eight inches in size. They show candid surveillance shots of two average looking men, both aged around thirty. In none of the photos are the two men seen together.

  ‘These are dangerous men,’ says Andrew.

  In your opinion.

  ‘Not one-on-one,’ adds Phillip.

  ‘They’re terrorists. Cowards. They harm from a far. The sort of men it’s easy to hate.’

  Pull me in. Let us hate together. Phillip continues.

  ‘We can’t talk specifics, but we need to know when they visit her.’

  ‘This doesn’t mean we want you to set up a surveillance unit on a twenty four seven basis. We’re simply asking you to be aware, to be vigilant. To pass the property in the morning and at night. To follow your usual routine, nothing more.’

  ‘To react to any intelligence that we feed you.’

  ‘When they show up, which they will, for a period of two to three days, all you need to do is make contact with us.’

  ‘Make a note of any car number plates and any other details you think important. If anyone else visits, then do the same.’

  ‘Simple but important.’

  There is a pause. Being a mute, pauses don’t unsettle me like they do other people. I can quite happily stare someone silently in the eye without a care in the world. Andrew sees this and breaks the silence.

  ‘Why you? Why are we asking you? Well, there’s the obvious reason you’re local, you know the area, it wouldn’t be unusual for you to be seen in the area or to be seen carrying binoculars or wearing camouflage.’

  ‘Of course, we know other locals who fit the bill but none of them are quite like you, are they, Mr. Dean?’

  I offer no response. Unfazed he continues.

  ‘It’s also a question of resources. We have none.’

  He smiles. He wants me to share his truthful joke. We’re all mates now. I return no smile. Phillip brings the matter back to business.

  ‘Or rather, what we do have quickly runs out. The service is under a lot of pressure. I’m sure you can understand that, and that animal liberation is not exactly our priority.’

  I can. It's hardly the glamour gig in this day and age.

  ‘To be perfectly honest, you’re the easiest option.’

  ‘So, can we count on you?’

  I write on the notepad, ‘I don’t work for nothing.’ Seeing my words Andrew is quick to reply.

  ‘A payment, of course, if reasonable.’

  I add to the note ‘A thousands pounds, cash.’ Again his reply is instant.

  ‘Done. So we have a deal, Mr. Dean?’

  I nod and agree to take my second job of the day. Jesus, call me a rat I must be joining the race. They both look ever so slightly relieved and pleased with themselves. Phillip glances at Andrew then speaks.

  ‘Well, that was all very, civilised.’

  They share a smile then focus on me.

  ‘Do you have mobile phone?’ Andrew asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘I assume you know how to use one?'

  I nod. From his inside jacket pocket, he pulls out a mobile phone and charger then places them on the table.

  ‘For you. Standard, simple to use. In the contacts is one number, our number. If you need to contact us, use it, text us. Oh, and business only. Over step the mark with personal calls and you’ll have the most feared men in the service after you, the accountants.’

  They both laugh. I force a slight smile.

  ‘That’s not a joke
. They will check the bill. Anyway, to reiterate, if either of these two men visits, which they will in the next month or so, then we need to know A.S.A.P. That is your prime objective. If they arrive in a vehicle, then take the details. If anyone else visits, then do the same. That’s all we require of you. Is that clear?’

  I nod. He continues.

  ‘These people assume they are under surveillance. It’s not in your interest, or ours, for you to take any unnecessary risks. Neither is it in your interest, or ours, for you to tell anyone what we have asked you to do, or in fact to tell anyone anything we have said here tonight. Is that understood?’

  I write, ‘It is. Now, what about the cash?’

  After fetching the money from the Land Rover, they leave.

  I sit at the dining table and study my bounty: a thousand pounds in twenty pound notes, a mobile phone and charger, a notepad and pen and eight photos of two men wanted by Special Branch. Not a bad haul, but then life never deals straightforward, unambiguous positives and tonight is no exception.

  One of the photos concerns me. It shows one of the men, his back to the camera, his head turned to look behind. He is wearing a t-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans. The jeans are Levi’s 501 Red Tab. The waistband Red Tab label is clearly visible, as is the red Levi material tag that is stitched to the left side of the right back pocket. My concern is simple; the Red Tab label is made from suede. Now, wouldn’t a man involved in the animal liberation movement, involved to terrorist level, be a vegan? Wouldn’t he be savvy enough to know a label on his jeans was an animal product and so point blank against all that he believes in? To my mind, he would. So why is he wearing the jeans? Maybe he’s undercover, posing as someone who couldn’t give a shit, but that would be stupid. A man who assumes he is being watched by the government undercover for his cause? Maybe he’s a double agent. Maybe this man was himself an agent of Special Branch and the photo shows him in Civvy Street. Maybe this man has nothing to do with the animal liberation movement and is instead wanted for something completely different.

  I have been in the employ of Special Branch for less than fifteen minutes, and already I am becoming paranoid.

  My day had nearly finished. All was calm and settled. My only pressing decision was one whisky or three. I could have said no. If all had seemed well and genuine, I would have, but it didn’t so I said, yes. I couldn’t resist. I will not walk away from a lie.

  Could someone be trying to mess with me, playing a practical joke? But then who would play it? No one I know, after all I know so few and those I do, would have more sense. Maybe I am over reacting. Maybe there is a true and valid reason why he’s wearing the jeans. After all, even people with serious, passionate causes can be stupid. The majority of people I’ve met who have held deep, unmovable beliefs have seemed pretty thick to me. If the human race has one true genius, it’s the ability to adapt, to think freely and to understand, at some level at least, that there is no one, singular, absolute truth. Many a stupid man has been empowered by an ideology. It saves them from having to think for themselves and provides easy, ready made quotes and answers. It wraps them up all snug and warm in the collective acceptance of others.

  Of course, this man may be a psychopath, and animal liberation an easy route to violence, murder and pain. I mean, how many psychopaths have used a political cause to satisfy their psycho desires? Two percent of the population is thought to be psychopathic. Now violence is always in the hands of the minority, but what minority, two percent? What percentage of Catholic men in Northern Ireland joined the IRA to kill and maim?

  Animal liberation, my honest opinion, depends on my mood, depends on the image. See a monkey chained, his eyes silently screaming why, then gladly I’ll sign the petition, but such an image will quickly fade as I get back to my own survival.

  The most interesting animal experiment I know of is this: two mice kept in large, separate cages. Both cages were full of twisting tunnels, and natural vegetation. One mouse was given all the food he could eat, and guess what, he got fat and lazy. When he wasn’t sleeping, he was sitting perfectly still, waiting for the time he could feast again. The other mouse was given hardly any food, certainly not enough to survive, and guess what, he stayed sharp and active, lean and healthy. He spent his day scurrying around the cage investigating, looking for food. He was happier, healthier and lived longer.

  So if you can stay hungry whilst all around are feasting….

  I could contact them, text them on the phone and demand an explanation, but why should I? I’m sure they could come up with a plausible explanation. What good would it do me? The only thing to do is to play along, to act out what I have agreed to do.