Heaven's Door Page 7

  “Tomorrow’s fine with me, if you’re okay to postpone our bid for freedom. I think I’d rather wait until we can get away for longer.”

  “Great. I’ll tell them. See you later.”

  Tom put his phone away then checked the time. It was just after 12.40 pm. Twenty more minutes…

  *

  “He’s quite comfortable, but there is no prospect of his making any sort of recovery.”

  “I knew he was terminally ill, of course,” said Tom. “But I didn’t realise it was that close. I saw him only a couple of weeks ago.” He was speaking from a quiet spot at the very north end of the Terrace, leaning with his back against the parapet under one of the ornate lamps.

  “I guess we’ll never know what it is,” said Grace. “No-one seems to have any information about the condition – or if they do they’re not saying anything. I’ve been getting weekly updates on him for some time, but it came as a real surprise to me that he’s this close to the end.”

  Tom felt a lump in his throat at the thought of losing his best friend a second time. His mind went back to the shock of hearing of Jad’s death in action over five years ago, and then, three years later, the joy of discovering he was alive. Followed by the sadness and frustration he had experienced since then, with his friend’s confinement after the killing of the Bradys, and then his failing health.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, still here. Sorry, Grace, mind wandering. What about the press? Are we doing a release?”

  “No,” said Grace. “I think it could be dangerous to advertise the fact he’s out of prison. We’ve got a guard with him outside his room at Bart’s all the time, and a couple more positioned close by, but he’s still news – or would be if this got out. I’m worried there’d be some ill-conceived attempt to spring him or something. And, of course, he may still be a target for some sort of retribution.”

  “Yes, understood,” said Tom. “But I assume he can still have visitors?”

  “Of course, but if you’re thinking of going – I assume you will – then you need to do it on the quiet.”

  “I could go in disguise,” said Tom, with a forced chuckle.

  “I’ve got a canary suit you can borrow,” said Grace.

  “You remember that?”

  “Of course. I thought it was going to be my grand entrance on to the political stage.”

  They both laughed.

  “Well as it turned out, you didn’t need it.”

  They were both silent for a few moments.

  “Listen,” said Tom. “Are you going to be around at about five-thirty? Perhaps we could have a drink together; in the Members’ Bar or on the Terrace. I’d like to have a chat, if that’s okay.”

  “Not a very private place to have a discreet conversation.”

  “Well, it’ll be just about dark on the Terrace. I’m sure we’ll find a suitable corner,” said Tom. “And if we can’t, we’ll head off somewhere else. Can’t be late home, but this is important.”

  “But not as important as not being late home?” asked Grace.

  Tom sighed.

  “Sorry,” said Grace. “See you later.”

  He ended the call and sent a text to Mags. ‘As kids have stood me up am staying for meeting this eve so can promise early finish tomorrow. Love you lots x’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Calum watched with Gally from the deck as the port-side line of cabins left the vessel for the second time with the starboard prisoners on board. The final act, he thought; he could feel his mood changing for the better.

  “How long do you reckon?” he said, checking his watch. It was 1.20 pm.

  “An hour, top-side, I’d say; two-fifteen latest. Unless Harding wants to pop over and tuck everybody into bed.”

  “He’s only doing his job, Gally. I can’t imagine he wants to be here. I’m sure he’d much rather be back in Westminster slaving over a hot secretary.”

  Gally laughed. “So would I, come to think of it.”

  They watched the line of cabins roll onto the lifting deck where it curved round into its loose spiral. The rail linkage decoupled automatically and the prisoners started their two-minute ride up to the level of the main platform receiving floor.

  “Talk of the devil,” said Gally.

  Lawrence Harding walked across to them.

  “Nearly over,” he said. “What exactly happens when they all get on board.”

  Calum pointed up to the receiving floor.

  “Once they get onto that, all doors along the length of the carriage are automatically unlocked to allow them to leave their cabins. Then the carriage reverses onto the lifting deck and the tracks lift up like a drawbridge to isolate the receiving floor. There’s only one way off the floor – a metal stairwell taking them up to the main recreational deck Once they’re all up there, the stairwell is closed of, so there’s no going back.”

  “And what then? How do they find their way around?”

  “Well, they’ve been told plenty of times,” said Gally. “Including every thirty minutes on this trip up to the time they chose to smash their monitors.”

  “Everyone’s been provided with a laminated plan of the platform indicating where their own accommodation is sited,” said Calum. “They’ve been given a swipe card for access and when they first use it, they’re asked to enter a four-digit number into a key pad on the door which can be used for access in future if the card is lost or stolen.”

  “And, if I remember correctly,” said Lawrence, “they each have their own apartment comprising a living room, including a kitchen area with cooking and washing facilities, and a small bedroom with ensuite shower, WC and wash basin.”

  “You do remember correctly,” said Calum. “Ironically, in many cases, it’s a lot better than the accommodation they left behind. The cupboards in the kitchen area are fully stocked with food and toiletries, which can be replenished from a central storage facility situated in the pontoon, which itself will be re-stocked from the satellite platform. The sharing and distribution of these items is the responsibility of the Exiles themselves, so it’s anybody’s guess how that will work out.”

  Lawrence nodded, seemingly deep in thought.

  “Just one more question, Calum. If, when they get onto the receiving floor, they simply refuse to get out of their cabins, what then?”

  Calum paused for just a moment.

  “We encourage them,” he said.

  “How exactly?”

  “You don’t need to know that,” said Gally, with a broad grin. “It might spoil your report.”

  Lawrence turned to him, eyes flashing.

  “I can always ask the Home Secretary!”

  “Go ahead. We don’t tell him everything.”

  *

  Just under an hour later, at 2.15 pm, when the port cabins had been locked in position on PTV1, Douglas ordered his crew to raise the ramp and prepare for departure. Ever since they had left Lochshore over twenty-eight hours ago, he, like everyone else currently on board, had been looking forward to this moment. Now, as with so many things eagerly awaited, he felt a sense of anticlimax, and of sadness. The remoteness of Alpha seemed to him so much greater now that human beings were occupying it. The thought of his part in their fate swamped any sense of relief he hoped and expected to feel.

  *

  Calum and Gally sat together in silence in the forward observation lounge awaiting contact from Alpha Control with verification of the safe arrival of the Exiles.

  “Any time now,” said Calum, checking his watch for the fourth time. “How long does it take to count up to a hundred and fifty and make a phone call to the Home Office?”

  “Perhaps the Home Secretary’s tied up at the moment,” said Gally. “Probably by his own hot secretary.”

  The two men laughed, half-heartedly, and looked out beyond the bows towards their port of return; neither wanting to be up on deck watching the platform receding astern.

  *

  “Deliver
y for Mr Deverall.”

  Jad smiled across at the man in the doorway. His visitor was a sprightly sixty-something in a formal suit, shirt and tie and carrying a brown leather briefcase. Jad swung his legs out of bed and sat up. The official ‘Voice of Older People’ – appointed by Jackie Hewlett in her role as Diversity Minister – and best-selling author of The Meek’s Inheritance – shook his hand warmly and seated himself in the armchair next to the patient’s bed.

  “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for,” said George Holland, taking a book from his briefcase and handing it over. “Hot-off-the-press copy of the second edition. Just feel it; it’s still warm.”

  Jad laughed. “So is it like one of those puzzles where you have to spot six differences?”

  “Only two,” said George. “The Foreword is different, of course – your new text replacing the speech from the dock – and two additional chapters reviewing the impact to date of the New Justice Regime.”

  “Well, thank you very much. I feel very privileged.”

  “And so you should,” said George, getting to his feet and checking his watch. “Look, John, I’m sorry this is a flying visit, but I have a meeting. I just wanted to get this to you as soon as possible. After all, it wouldn’t have happened without you. I can never thank you enough.”

  “You’re very welcome,” said Jad, “but don’t give me that crap about a meeting. More likely a book-signing at Waterstones.”

  “Rumbled,” said George. They laughed and shook hands again. “See you soon.”

  Jad got up off the bed after his visitor had left and sat in the same armchair, picking up the book from his bedside table and reading the hand-written message inside the cover.

  ‘For John Deverall, my hero and friend. With best wishes from George Holland’

  He turned the page to read the dedication – the same as in the first edition. The words brought tears to his eyes.

  ‘For, and in eternal memory of, my beloved Irene.’

  *

  Tom entered the Members’ Dining Room just before 5.30 pm. Grace, as usual, was surrounded by people – all male. It was hardly surprising; she looked her usual stunning self in a white shirt under a formal charcoal suit with a skirt which finished about six inches above her knee. The suit was close-fitting enough to show off the curves of her figure, and today her hair hung loose, in contrast to its usual style – pulled back from her face in a bun or pony-tail. Her dark eyes shone behind the heavy-rimmed glasses. She smiled across at Tom and, after a suitable delay in order to wind up her conversation politely, she excused herself. They ordered drinks at the Members’ Bar and moved out onto the Terrace.

  It was not yet dark, but quite cool. Even so, there were a lot of people on the Terrace, in twos and larger groups, sipping their drinks and chatting. They strolled to the Speaker’s Residence end of the Terrace, sitting at a table well away from the others. Neither spoke until the steward arrived and placed the drinks on their table.

  “So, how was your day?” asked Grace. “Sorry to be the bearer of such bad news about Deverall,” she added.

  “Yes, it’s a real shock,” he said. “I’ve not been able to think about much else all afternoon.”

  “Really!” she said. “Something else that’s more important than us.”

  Tom rolled his eyes and sighed. “Come on, Grace. Tell me what’s wrong, for goodness’ sake.”

  “You really don’t know?” she said, a little too loudly. A couple of people turned to look at them, and then turned immediately away. Grace sipped at her drink, looking across to the River.

  “What I do know,” said Tom, “is that we agreed to have a drink and a quiet chat, and I got the distinct impression that we were both looking forward to it. It seems it was just me.”

  They both remained silent for a while observing the activity on and across the Thames as more and more people poured out of their places of work. Grace sighed, and turned to look at him. Her eyes were cold and intense.

  “Look,” she said, “cards on the table, I had the distinct impression that we were heading for some sort of relationship – albeit extremely slowly. Clearly, I got it all wrong and it was never your intention. I just completely misread the signs – you know, your making improper suggestions to me on a daily basis for the last two years, looking up my skirt and down my shirt during all that time, and doing it deliberately so I’d know you were doing it. Easy for a girl to get the wrong idea, don’t you think?” The words became more and more intense as she all but spat them out. She looked away again.

  “But we do have a relationship,” he said, lamely. “We’ve always been very close, and we always will be.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Grace almost shouted, turning quite a few more heads this time. “You know exactly what I mean,” she added, lowering her voice. “Don’t hide behind semantics; you’re not on your high horse in the fucking House now!”

  Tom placed his hand over hers, oblivious to the eyes still watching them from further along the Terrace.

  “Grace,” he said, “what on earth do you think has happened? What have I done?”

  She was quiet for a long time. When she spoke, the anger had gone and she was perfectly calm; her voice was very matter-of-fact, in contrast to the words it conveyed. “The fact is, Tom. I’d been thinking recently that I might be falling in love with you. But I’ve just decided not to. And now I’m leaving.”

  She made as if to get up but Tom held on to her hand. There was a long silence before he spoke.

  “We both need to get out of here and go somewhere we can talk about this,” he said, gripping her hand more tightly.

  There were a few people murmuring now, still looking at them. Tom shouted across to one of them.

  “Barry, could you get Martin, please.”

  “Okay.”

  Tom’s colleague placed his drink on one of the tables and disappeared into the building. Tom was watching Grace closely, still holding her hand. She did not move; even to pull her hand away. Barry reappeared with a tall elegant man in grey striped trousers and a white jacket.

  “Oh, Martin,” said Tom. “Miss Goody is feeling a little unwell. Could you let us out through the library, please, so we can avoid the crowd round the tea room?”

  “Of course, sir,” he replied. “Can I get Miss Goody anything before you leave? Brandy or something?”

  “No thank you, Martin,” Grace put in, recovering some of her poise. “I’ll be alright, but I’d just rather not face a barrage of well-wishers, if you don’t mind.”

  “No problem, ma’am.”

  He pulled a bunch of keys from his white jacket pocket and they followed him off the Terrace into the library. Tom shouted over his shoulder to his colleague, loudly enough for his voice to carry.

  “Thanks, Barry. I’ll get Grace home; I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

  “Probably hypothermia,” said Barry, feigning an exaggerated shiver. Tom smiled and followed Grace through the library and down the corridor to the Members’ Entrance. He was speaking on his mobile as he walked.

  “Paul, can you stand by, please?”

  Once outside, they walked through New Palace Yard towards St Margaret’s Street, Grace a few yards ahead of Tom. She stopped before reaching the gates, out of earshot of the police guard on duty. Tom stopped beside her.

  “I’ve called Paul,” he said. “He’ll take us somewhere where we can talk.”

  “My office,” she said.

  “Is that wise?” asked Tom. “What about your place?”

  “That’s a lot less wise,” she said. “Security will clock us going in, and linked with that little episode on the Terrace, we’ll be an item in time for the morning papers.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll get Paul, or would you rather we just picked up a cab?”

  “We’ll walk,” said Grace. “Along the River.”

  “Okay,” said Tom. “You sure?”

  For an answer, Grace set off through the gate, acknowledgi
ng the nods of the police guard, and turned right for the few yards to Bridge Street. There was a cluster of about half a dozen photographers on the corner, who quickly started taking pictures of the two as they walked past. Tom gave his usual beam and wave and Grace managed a relaxed smile. They went along to Victoria Embankment and turned left, walking slowly and in complete silence, heading north, up the River. They turned off the Embankment into Richmond Terrace and were just 100 yards from the entrance to the Main Building when Tom broke the silence.

  “Grace, wait a minute, before we go in.”

  “What?” She turned towards him, her eyes betraying no emotion whatsoever.

  “What you said back there. It took me by surprise. I didn’t know what to say. Of course I’m attracted to you – how could I not be? You’re … you’ve got … everything. But I guess I’d always thought it could never … you know … be more than a fantasy for both of us. I suppose I’ve been careful not to let my feelings go further than that. But I couldn’t stand it if there was any bad feeling between us. Our friendship means so much to me – I mean, more than friendship…”

  His voice tailed off.

  “Friendship?” said Grace. “Friendship? Do you make twenty references a week to all your friends about shagging them? No, Tom, it can’t ever be the same again now, can it? My fault. I shouldn’t have said what I did back there.”

  She looked away again.

  “Do we really have anything to say to each other?” she said, turning back to him, now with a look of defiance.

  Tom looked into her eyes and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Yes, we do,” he whispered. “Let’s go in.”

  *

  Grace sat down at the workstation-cum-desk in her compact modern office which featured white walls and ceiling and a huge picture window overlooking the Thames directly opposite the London Eye. She had been a relative unknown when Andrew appointed her to the newly-created function of Ministerial Director of Justice, a role in which she was charged with expediting the transformation of government policy into operational effectiveness. The position exercised considerable influence, if not direct authority, over the machinery and resources of the police and judiciary services. In addition it had strong links to domestic-based operations of the armed forces, which was the rationale for her being allocated a base in the Headquarters of the Ministry of Defence – known as the Main Building.