“Patrick!” Opening the back door of the farmhouse to Bardwell’s knock, Ian Hogg’s voice betrayed both pleasure and surprise. “Come in, man. I was just having breakfast. Will you join me?”
Bardwell hesitated briefly before stepping over the threshold. He’d done a few tours alongside the UN peacekeeping forces, knew that refusing hospitality could be taken as an insult or a sign of pity—that you didn’t think they could spare it. Better to take a little than nothing.
“Cuppa tea maybe?” he said, wary.
“Good.” Hogg beamed. “Oh, don’t worry about your boots. Take a seat.”
Hogg hobbled over to the scrubbed pine table where a huge stained teapot sat under an insulated cosy. The tea he poured from it was thick and hot and the colour of old beer, turning chestnut with milk. Bardwell took the proffered mug and sank into the chair nearest the Aga so he could lean down and scratch the terrier’s ears. She propped her head on the side of her basket and submitted blissfully to his attentions with her eyes squeezed shut.
“Bad business, this,” Hogg offered, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen people so frightened to leave their homes.” He paused. “Like Sarajevo all over again.”
“Aye,” Bardwell agreed softly. “That it is.”
Hogg lowered himself into the chair opposite, hooked his cane over the edge of the table and cradled his tea. For a moment or so, neither man spoke. Bardwell felt himself absorbed by the silence, letting it swirl around him. The farmhouse kitchen had the air of being carved from time, the generations who’d passed through making only a minimal impression, so it retained its own enduring identity.
The table itself was mostly covered with the debris of old newspapers, bills and other haphazard correspondence. At the far end, a portable TV set jostled for space amid the paperwork. It was tuned to some breakfast news channel, with the sound muted.
Bardwell kept half an eye on the screen.
“So—I never asked—how did the welding go on the Land Rover?” Hogg ventured casually. “Only, I called in at the garage, and the chap there swore the chassis was sound last time he checked it.”
Bardwell shrugged at that. “Well, it’s done now. Not hard to remember the knack, once you get your hand to it.”
“Good, good. Nice to have you looking out for the old girl, anyway.”
“No trouble.” Bardwell sat up, tried to keep his voice relaxed. “I saw you’ve got some tins of coach-paint in the barn. Wondered if you’d mind if I gave her a few coats?”
He watched Hogg go still, cautiously consider. “Well…yes, I suppose so.” Then, more firmly, “Yes. Why not? Nothing outlandish, I hope.”
“There’s some darkish blue, looks all right.” Bardwell felt his shoulders drop a fraction. “I’ll get started today, then,” he said, nose in his tea mug to cover his relief. “Before this weather breaks.”
Hogg looked momentarily taken aback by the speed events had overtaken him. He frowned a little but evidently couldn’t find a real reason to object.
A flash of red amid greenery on the TV screen caught Bardwell’s eye. His head jerked at the sight of it. The red showjumping wall, taken through a long lens so it reminded him starkly of the view through the scope. Only, when he’d last seen it, it didn’t have a hole through the centre.
They should have surrounded it with screens to keep the prying press at bay, he knew. Only reason to have taken them down was that they needed to see further. Will they find the hide? he wondered. Will they know it, even if they do?
Hogg saw, misread his reaction for interest and reached for the remote to turn up the volume. Together they listened to the sober voice of the TV reporter detailing events of the day before. His piece was hazy in places, outright wrong in others, but delivered so supposition carried equal weight with what facts were known. Bardwell held his peace, face neutral, but the casually twisted lies set an anger burning in his hands.
As the reporter handed back to the studio, Hogg thumbed down the volume again. “A sniper,” he said, shaking his head sorrowfully. “I thought I’d left all that behind a long time ago. And you must have, too, Patrick.” That intense gaze again. Hogg got stiffly to his feet, carried his empty mug slowly across to the Belfast sink and rinsed it under the tap.
While his back was turned, the silent screen flashed up an old colour photograph, the face of a man about ten years younger than Bardwell was now. In uniform, clean shaven, with his hair trimmed well back, the man had stared straight at the camera for the picture with a mix of bravado and apprehension, yet to witness the reality of what he’d signed up for.
Hogg turned away from the sink just in time to catch the last few seconds of the face. “Is that who they think is responsible?”
Bardwell shrugged again, held his gaze like a man with nothing to fear. “Must be.”
“Some army lad gone off the rails, by the look of him.” Hogg moved back to the table, dragging his leg. “They train them for the life, then let them go and wonder why they can’t cope with what that comes after. It always ends in tragedy of one magnitude or another.” He shook his head. “We only get to hear about the big ones.”
“Dunblane—he wasn’t army,” Bardwell pointed out. “Nor was Hungerford.”
“True enough,” Hogg admitted. “Not to mention that taxi driver here a few years back, over on the coast.” He regained his seat, looked at Bardwell intently. “Did you ever kill anyone, Patrick?”
Bardwell looked away, took another swig of tea, wiped his beard. “Part of the job description, wasn’t it?”
“Soldiers, yes—the enemy,” Hogg said quietly. “I meant civilians. People who were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.” He nodded to the TV set. “Like that poor woman, and the policeman.”
“Not for no reason. Not if there was a way to avoid it.” Bardwell put the mug down. “Orders come and they don’t tell you why something’s to be done. Would do you more harm than good to know it, most of the time. You just got to trust somebody somewhere made the right call.”
Hogg seemed about to argue, then gave a sad shake of his head. “I suppose so. In time of war we can’t have every lowly private second-guessing the generals, can we? It would be chaos.”
“Might not get any fighting done, though,” Bardwell said with bleak humour. “That would be no bad thing, eh?” Both men smiled. Bardwell paused. “He dead then, is he? That policeman?”
“Hm? Oh, I’m not sure. Last night on the news they just said ‘critical condition’, which sounds pretty bad however you take it. Either way, he’s lost his arm, poor devil. Just for doing his job.”
“You were doing your job,” Bardwell said, nodding to Hogg’s cane. “Didn’t get much pity for that, did you?”
“I asked for none, Patrick.” Hogg’s voice was gentle in its chastisement. His eyes slid to the screen again, although the picture now was a weather map. “But the man can hardly be classed as a combatant. That makes him an innocent in my book. Nobody has the right to kill innocents.”
Amen to that.
Bardwell stood, suddenly restless and looked down at the former priest. “Plenty of vengeance in the Bible,” he said.
He had a sudden flash of a young face, fresh and smiling, filled with vitality and the willingness to learn. Such a small coffin.
There are no innocents left.