Northern Spy(60)

“Oh, of course.” Sophie holds out her arms, and my throat aches as I hand him to her. Finn’s still right here. I can see him, I can hear him. We haven’t been separated yet. He’s listening to my voice, with his eyes on my face. If I were to lean forward just a few inches, he’d clamber back into my arms.

“Is there anyone behind me?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light.

Sophie’s eyes flare. She glances past me, then gives a small shake of her head.

“I need you to call DI Fenton at Musgrave station and ask him to take Finn somewhere safe.”

Sophie’s face doesn’t change, but she says, “Get inside.”

“Please do it.”

I lean forward to kiss Finn, then turn down the path. After a few paces, I hear her front door close behind me, and the deadbolt shut. She’ll be lifting her phone any second now and dialing the police.

When I step back into my house, the man in my living room has his gun out. He raises it, and I look past the barrel into his eyes.

“It’s fine. She thinks I’m going to see my aunt.” My voice is flat, almost disappointed. I sound like I’m telling the truth. He stares at me for a moment, then tucks the gun into the waistband of his jeans.

As soon as we’re over the garden wall, both men lift their hoods. From the row of houses, we will look like three people out for a walk. No one is ahead of us to see that their faces are covered by ski masks. The field is empty, quiet except for the snow under our boots. The men move the same way, with their shoulders down, their backs straight. They’ve been trained.

On the hill, the dizziness makes it hard to keep my balance. I’m desperate to turn around, to look toward Finn, though Sophie won’t have him anywhere near the window. Fenton will have told her what to do until the police arrive. To act normal, maybe. Or to lock herself in the bathroom with Poppy and Finn. I wince, thinking of how scared she must be.

The branches of the oak tree on top of the hill creak in the wind. We’re in clear sight of all the houses, and then we’re on the far side of the hill, in shade now, and the change in temperature is like dropping into water. I’m alone with the two men, near enough to smell the wool of their masks, and their sweat.

A red Renault Corso is parked in the lane behind the field. The shorter man opens the back door. “Lie down,” he says. I lie across the backseat and he covers me with a blanket.

The two of them sit in front, and the automatic locks close with a metallic thud. The blanket is orange tartan wool, and it smells like a basement, the way sleeping bags often do. I can’t see through the fabric, though I can feel bars of sun and shade as they fall across the backseat.

When we come to a stop, we must be at Ballywalter Road, and now we’re turning right, driving south down the peninsula. In the front, the men will have taken off their masks. No other drivers will notice anything wrong. People will be able to see us, a red car on a country road. My chest starts to convulse, like I’m laughing.

Under the blanket, I reach my hand overhead to the door and find the lock. I try, slowly, to slide it back, my heart beating against my ribs, wondering if it will be this simple, if I’ll be able to open the door and drop to the road and run. Nothing happens, the lock won’t move, it’s on a childproof setting. I pull my knees into my chest, close my eyes and try to follow the turns. We’re still traveling south. After a few more turns, I lose track of our direction. It feels like we’re driving into a tunnel, farther and farther down, with the quiet and the pressure, but when I open my eyes, a few inches from my face, the wool fibers of the blanket are burning with sun.

I remember Finn last week, turning his hand in a beam of sunlight filled with dust motes, watching them slowly revolve.

I can see him very clearly, and calm comes over me. I know that I’m going to keep myself alive until the security service or the police find me. I’m going to talk my way out of this. Last week, Finn moved his hand, so the dust motes orbited away, and looked at me, his own hair bright. I’m going to come home for him.

One of the men clears his throat. “You can sit up,” he says.

We’re racing down a road between wide farm tracts. They must not be worried about traffic cameras out here. Through the back windscreen, I can see the Mournes. They take up most of the sky behind us. We’re somewhere in Armagh, then, southwest of Greyabbey.

“What’re your names?” I ask. Neither of them answers. “My name’s Tessa.” Past the window, frozen wheat bristles through the snow. “Thank you for not hurting my son. Do you have children?”

The passenger shifts in his seat. They’re listening, at least. “Do your children love their mam? That’s how it is in the beginning, right? In a few years I’ll probably have to tackle him for a hug.”

The driver’s eyes lift to meet mine in the mirror. “Why is this happening?” I ask.

Neither of them speaks. They don’t tell me not to worry, that everything will be fine, which is good. That would scare me more, if they were comfortable lying to me. They’re not sociopaths. Because of them, Finn will be with Fenton now, in a police convoy, being driven someplace safe.

“Has someone told you to kill me?” I ask.

The driver clears his throat. “No.”

I look out the window, and the silence thickens in the car, growing uncomfortable. I force myself to wait, and finally the passenger says, “We’re bringing you to an interview.”