Midnight Runner Part 15

He glanced curiously at Dillon, and Ferguson said, "Sean Dillon. He works for me."

The Colonel's eyes seemed to widen. "Good Lord, the the Sean Dillon? I was trying to catch you in South Armagh more years ago than I care to remember." Sean Dillon? I was trying to catch you in South Armagh more years ago than I care to remember."

"And thank G.o.d you didn't, Colonel." Dillon turned to Ferguson. "I'll see you at the car."

It was just after three when the coach unloaded by the river, and the students joined the steady stream of people walking up Horse Guards Avenue to Whitehall. Rupert and Percy drifted along at the back, unknowingly pa.s.sing the corner where, during the Gulf War, an IRA professional named Sean Dillon had mortar-bombed Number Ten Downing Street from a white Ford Transit.

They heard a lot of noise, the babble of many voices, and when they turned the corner into Whitehall, it was already crowded with people. A line of police vehicles stretched across the road, to prevent access to the gates of Number Ten, the police all in riot gear and some of them on horseback.

The crowd surged forward, more and more people arriving and applying pressure from the back. The Oxford contingent was already splitting up, scattering throughout the crowd. Helen Quinn and Alan Grant were forced to one side and swallowed up, Rupert and Percy pushed elsewhere.

Up front, young men, faces obscured by balaclava helmets or ski masks, presented a new and sinister element: And then it happened. A petrol bomb soared from somewhere inside the crowd, hit the ground just in front of the police line, and burst into flames. There was another and yet another, as the police retreated a few yards.

The crowd roared as two more petrol bombs were thrown, and yet there was also an element of panic, a lot of people realizing they'd gotten into something worse than they had expected. Some turned and tried to work their way back, and at that moment, the mounted police charged.

They were met by a hail of missiles, but the police kept coming and burst into the front ranks, batons rising and falling. Total panic now reigned everywhere, people crying out, women screaming.

Henry Percy turned desperately, terrified. "I can't take this. I must get out."

For what it was worth, Rupert himself had no intention of staying. The police, after all, didn't ask questions at such affairs. The fact that you were there was enough. He was just as likely to get clubbed on the head and thrown into the back of a van, and that wouldn't do.

He said to Percy, "Don't panic. Just follow me," and he started back, kicking and punching his way through.

They made it to Horse Guards Avenue and joined a throng of people who were doing the same thing, most of them running. Finally, they turned out onto the main road beside the Thames and made it back to the coach. They weren't the first; at least half a dozen students were ahead of them.

Percy scrambled inside and Rupert followed. Two of the students were girls, and they were crying. The boys didn't exactly look happy, either. Percy sat, head in hands.

Rupert said to the students, "I warned you, and you wouldn't listen." He turned to Percy. "G.o.d knows what's happened to the others. But that's your problem, isn't it?"

He got out, walked along the Embankment in the direction of Vauxhall Bridge, managed to hail a black cab, and told the driver to take him to South Audley Street. Kate would be pleased that it was all working so well.

It was half past four in Whitehall, people running everywhere, and Alan and Helen had been forced to shelter in a doorway with several others. He hadn't given her the drugs yet-there hadn't been time. Besides, he had other things on his mind. Helen was afraid but excited at the same time. She clutched Grant's arm, and he took half a bottle of vodka out of his pocket and unscrewed the cap. He had a very long swallow. The police were charging again, and she clutched his arm even harder. Grant felt himself getting hard. He was going to score today, he could tell-but he might as well make sure of it.

"Take it easy. Here, have a drink."

"You know I only like white wine."

"Come on, it'll calm you down."

Reluctantly, she took the bottle and swallowed. It seemed to burn all the way down. "G.o.d, that's strong."

"Not really, it's just the taste. Have another pull."

"No, Alan, I really don't like it."

"Don't be silly, it'll make you feel better."

She did as she was told.

There was another roar from the crowd as the police forced their way forward relentlessly, clubbing their way through, and now very large numbers of people were turning and fleeing.

Grant said, "Time to go," took her hand, and pushed his way through the crowd.

They moved down Horse Guards Avenue and made it to the Embankment. The coach was still there on the other side of the road, waiting for stragglers.

"Maybe we should go back to Oxford," she said, feeling light-headed from the drink.

He put an arm around her rea.s.suringly.

"Come on, baby, it'll be all right. Okay, it was a piece of s.h.i.+t back there, but let's not let it spoil the weekend."

"All right," but there was a reluctance in her voice.

"Come on, we'll get a cab." Which they did a few moments later.

At South Audley Street, Rupert Dauncey switched off the live coverage on television and turned to Kate.

"There they are, all running like scared rabbits."

"I wonder what happened to the Quinn girl?"

"I'll call the place where Grant's staying and see." He did, but the phone simply rang and rang.

He replaced the receiver and frowned, looking out at the gathering darkness of the March evening, uneasy and not really sure why.

He said to Kate, "I think I'll go down to Ca.n.a.l Street and see if they're there. I'll use your Porsche, if that's okay."

"Why, darling, you're taking this personally."

"I love you, too," he told her, and left.

In the cab, Grant remembered the Ecstasy chocolates and gave her one. He knew it was too late for Dauncey's purposes, but, h.e.l.l, now she'd really be ready. He intended to screw her brains out. And screw Dauncey, anyway. Big, self-important b.a.s.t.a.r.d, with his threats. Grant wasn't afraid of him-he had it all on tape! And on the way to the bus after leaving Dauncey, he'd run into a friend who wasn't going to the demonstration. It had been the perfect opportunity. He'd given him the pen for safekeeping and told him to stick it in Grant's mailbox. No sense risking it getting lost in the excitement.

No, Mr. Dauncey, Grant thought, grinning to himself, we'll just see who's going to be very, very sorry.

At the house in Ca.n.a.l Street, he began the wrestling with Helen Quinn on the couch. She was thoroughly drunk now and struggling, trying to avoid his kisses.

"No, Alan, I feel awful. My head's splitting."

"You'll be all right. I'll be back in a minute."

He went upstairs to the bathroom, trembling with excitement. He splashed his face with water, dried it, and combed his hair, and was just coming back down when he heard a sudden cry. He ran down the rest of the stairs and went into the living room.

She was writhing convulsively on the couch, her entire body shaking. "What is it?" he cried.

When he put a hand to her face, it was burning; he saw that her eyes were bulging and then froth appeared on her mouth. It was every horror story he'd ever heard about people who got an adverse reaction to Ecstasy.

He couldn't walk out. Everyone knew they'd been together.

There was only one thing for it, St. Mark's Hospital half a mile up the High Street. If he got her there, they'd fix her. He ran to the front door, opened it and then the garage door, got into his brother's Escort and reversed out. He went back inside and helped her to her feet and looped her purse around her neck. Strangely enough, she was able to shuffle along, and he got her out of the house and into the rear seat of the Escort.

Rupert, in the Porsche, had just turned into Ca.n.a.l Street, saw Grant leading her out, and knew instantly from the way she was walking that there was something seriously wrong. He drove past the Escort, turned the Porsche, and was on their tail as Grant drove away. They were at the hospital in minutes.

Rupert followed them into the main car park and watched as Grant got her out. She was really suffering now, walking like a zombie, as Grant took her up the steps to the entrance to the Casualty department. Rupert got out and followed.

Inside, it was crowded, as was typical of most English National Health Service hospitals; all seats were taken, with some people standing. Rupert stayed back by the entrance. Grant glanced around, wondering what to do, and Helen cried out and started to struggle. He couldn't hold her and she fell to the floor. Some people jumped up in alarm.

A pa.s.sing nurse ran over and knelt beside her. There was a huge amount of foam on her mouth now.

The nurse looked up at Grant. "What is it?"

He lied through his teeth, panicking now. "Don't ask me. I was pa.s.sing outside. She was obviously ill and trying to get up the steps. I thought she was on some drug. I just gave her a hand."

The nurse called to those at the counter. "Emergency!"

As two other nurses ran over, Helen's heels started to drum on the floor, and her body shook and then went still. One of the nurses felt for a neck pulse, then looked up.

"She's gone."

Grant said stupidly, "She can't have gone."

A male nurse put a hand on his shoulder. "She's dead, son."

"Oh, my G.o.d!" Grant turned and ran away, and Rupert went after him.

Grant was nearly out of his mind, he didn't know what to do. When he got back to Ten Ca.n.a.l Street, it was nearly dark. He parked the Escort, found the half bottle of vodka, and sat at the kitchen table drinking it, swallow after swallow very quickly. When the front door bell rang, he was already drunk. He ignored it, but it rang again. Angry, he went to open it.

He stood there, swaying, and Rupert pushed him back. "I was here earlier, I followed you to the hospital." He turned Grant and ran him into the kitchen. "I saw what happened. She's dead."

"I had nothing to do with it."

"You had everything to do with it." Rupert got him by the tie, took the Colt .25 from his inside pocket, and put it against the boy's left temple. "Did you give her one of the pills?"

Grant was shaking a great deal, as much from the large amount of vodka he'd drunk as from fear. "Just as you said. I can't understand it. I've taken Ecstasy. I've never had a reaction like that."

"Some people do. It's a kind of allergy," Rupert said, but he was looking closely at Grant. "But that wasn't what caused it, was it? You're completely drunk, Grant." He spied the empty bottle on the table. "You gave her vodka, didn't you? You got her drunk and then you gave her drugs, and after I told told you not to mix them. You really screwed up this time, didn't you?" you not to mix them. You really screwed up this time, didn't you?"

Grant started to cry. "I didn't mean to. I didn't want to, she took the bottle. I couldn't stop her. And anyway, you you gave me the Ecstasy. It's just as much your fault as mine." gave me the Ecstasy. It's just as much your fault as mine."

As a piece of self-justification it was monumental, but all Rupert did was straighten Grant's collar. "You know what, Alan? You're right. But you don't look good. I think you need some air," and he pushed him out of the kitchen to the front door.

"What's down here?" Rupert asked.

"Ca.n.a.l Wharf."

"Why are the other houses boarded up?"

"They're going to redevelop. Everyone's gone except my brother. The Council's going to rehouse him when he comes back from Germany."

It was almost fully dark now, and they turned onto the wharf, pa.s.sing under a single street lamp. There were lights on the other side of the river, a pleasure boat pa.s.sed, the sound of music drifting across.

Grant leaned on the rail, maudlin now. "I used to play down there when I was a kid. There's a beach when the tide's out, all my mates swimming, only not me. I could never get the hang of it."

"That's good," Rupert said, stepped back, and stood behind him. Then he pushed hard with both hands and Grant went over with a cry.

He surfaced, floundering, his arms thras.h.i.+ng. "Help me," he called and went under again.

He seemed to have gone, but then he surfaced again, with very little movement now. Rupert peered down. "Are you all right, my friend?" There was a choking sound and Grant slipped away for the last time. "Yes, I thought you were." He shook his head and said softly, "She was a nice girl. You shouldn't have done that."

He turned and walked back to the Porsche.

Back at South Audley Street, Kate Ras.h.i.+d was still sitting at the fire and it was as if nothing had occurred in between.

"Well, did you find them?"

He didn't have a drink, simply went and opened the French window at the small terrace and lit a cigarette.

"I believe once, in an excess of enthusiasm, I said I'd do anything for you, even kill for you."

"I remember, darling."

"Well, I just did."

She looked stunned, then began to smile. "What happened?"

And he told her.

The charge nurse at St. Mark's who'd received Helen Quinn's body examined her purse and found many items in it to establish her ident.i.ty, the most obvious being her American pa.s.sport. There was also a card for the Oxford Student's Union, another for St. Hugh's College.

Blood tests at the hospital had established the presence not only of alcohol but of Ecstasy. As was the usual practice, the hospital administrator informed the police and then phoned the princ.i.p.al of St. Hugh's College with the sad news. He canva.s.sed other students in the residence hall and discovered that some of them had been on the bus with her and Alan Grant. The princ.i.p.al then phoned the American Emba.s.sy in Grosvenor Square, and it was the American Amba.s.sador who, because of Daniel Quinn's status, had the unhappy task of phoning the President on his direct line.

At the White House, Jake Cazalet was in the Oval Office. He listened in horror, then put the phone down and rang Blake Johnson in the Bas.e.m.e.nt and told him to come upstairs at once.

Blake arrived in s.h.i.+rtsleeves, with a sheaf of papers. "I had stuff for you anyway."

"Never mind that," and Cazalet gave him the grim news.

Blake was staggered. "I can't believe it, especially the drug suggestion. I've met Helen many times. She just wasn't the sort."

"I can't comment. Students on a day out, who can say?" Cazalet sighed. "Drugs are the curse of modern life. Where is Daniel now?"

"He reported in yesterday from a place called Prizren. It's in the multinational sector of Kosovo. You were busy, so I spoke to him."

"What's he doing in this Prizren place?"

"There's been an outbreak of fighting, Albanians ambushed by Serbs, or something like that."

Cazalet said, "I'll tell him myself. It's the least I can do."