Page 37

THIRTY-SIX

Brightwell had always loved walking. Growing up, he’d gone on long, mad hikes with his dad, tramping through the woods at the back of the house, and across the fields even, if the weather was OK.

They’d be out all day sometimes, lifting up logs to look for beetles and poking around in holes that his dad told him were made by badgers or foxes.

They found a grass snake once, curled up in a rusty bucket; just a little one, which Alex’s dad let him bring home even though his mum was horrified and refused to have it in the house.

He’d kept it in a cardboard box in the shed, fed it frogs and baby birds, but for some reason the poor thing had died and shrivelled up in the end.

Thinking about it, that might have been the last time he’d cried, at least until what had happened to Peter.

To Peter and then to his mum and dad.

Peter hadn’t been quite such a fan of the outdoors, that’s what he used to tell everyone, anyway.

He’d pull a face and moan that it was too muddy or too cold or too much bloody effort, but Alex always reckoned that his big brother just wanted those few hours alone at home with their mum.

Their time. Alex and Peter were as close as any two brothers could be, but still there’d always been this funny tension, because Alex was younger and played up to that, so yeah, looking back, he was probably a bit spoiled.

It must have been hard feeling like you were being ignored or that you weren’t quite as special as you used to be, so it was understandable that Peter took every chance to stay at home and let their mum do her mothering bit, until he started spending more and more time away for reasons of his own.

Hanging about with older kids and doing whatever he had to if he wasn’t going to look like a baby. Heading for trouble . . .

Walking in London wasn’t quite the same, but these days, if Alex had the time, he’d head to one of the city’s wilder open spaces that made him feel like he was in the countryside.

Travelling to his favourite locations by bike, he could then happily spend hours getting lost in Trent Park up in Cockfosters, or roving around on Hampstead Heath.

It wasn’t like he wanted to forget what he was doing, or how important it was, but it was nice to clear his head every once in a while, because what was rattling around in there wasn’t always . . . pleasant.

His brother, bedding down with the nonces on the special wing.

His parents, dead inside and shrivelling up like that snake.

Tully and the rest of them . . .

A nice clear head also meant that he was able to plan things, of course.

To take stock and map out the next step.

He hadn’t known things would turn out this way when he’d started, but there always seemed to be a next step: a new name on the list; someone else who needed to pay.

He’d resigned himself to the fact that this was how it was going to be until the truth came out and Peter was released.

If that didn’t happen – and sometimes, laid low by a black mood, he worried it might not – then maybe there’d never be an end to it.

That was fine, too, because he knew now that it wouldn’t be easy to stop.

Because he was doing the right thing.

He’d cycled down to Charlton, stopping for twenty minutes once he’d got there for a sandwich, and tea from the flask in his backpack.

He’d pushed on to Oxleas Wood where he’d locked his bike before finally walking into the trees from Shooters Hill.

This was one of the few areas of deciduous forest in the city, with some bits of it dating back to the last Ice Age.

Trees that were thousands of years old, for Christ’s sake.

He knew because he’d looked it up, because he enjoyed knowing things.

Now, drifting slowly through the raggedy network of oak and silver birch towards the big, slimy pond at the south end of the woods, he was thinking how much his dad would have loved it here, and that even if he couldn’t get to Emily Mead he wasn’t really too bothered.

It wasn’t like he was too surprised that she’d done what she did, and it wound him up to think she could have underestimated him quite so much, but it wasn’t the end of the world.

He hoped his last message had put the wind up her a bit, all the same.

He’d found out about the safe house the same way he’d found out about other things and that, along with all the rest of the information he’d been gifted, had been a rather more welcome surprise.

He was sure that, eventually, he could have done what he’d been planning to do without any help, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn it down when it was offered, even if he still had no idea exactly where it was coming from.

That gift horse again.

Now, thanks largely to his mysterious benefactor, he knew all sorts of things.

He knew the police had identified him and that his picture was doing the rounds, which was why he’d taken steps to disguise his appearance when he ventured outside.

He knew they’d been to see Peter, though he wasn’t sure what they could have gained from that.

He was also well aware that they’d taken steps to protect anyone they suspected he might be going after.

All manner of iffy coppers and auxiliary staff, prison officers and court officials had been warned and offered protection.

Dozens of the scumbags up and down the country, wrestling with their consciences while they scurried to safety.

Brightwell stopped when he reached the pond and stared out across the green water. There was a smell coming off the algae like rotten eggs, but he didn’t really mind it. He bent down to turn over a log, but there was only dirt and worms and a disposable vape, red and shiny among the leaves.

It didn’t much matter what they knew or who they warned.

That next step would lead him to someone who wasn’t going anywhere.