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Authors: Francesca Kay
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operation was in progress, it had reached a critical stage; the man had to be watched every minute of the night and day. Solly, having to cover the telephones and the home, had delegated the car to Stephen.
Most days the target made short journeys on his own, withthe radio on. There had been hours of Radio 3 to scan. But then, after an exasperating time when the target failed to rise to any bait that he was offered and the trackers kept on losing him, he casually mentioned to a friend that he was driving to Dover the next day. The operatives exulted: a fresh trap was sprung.
The easiest way to eavesdrop in real-time on a conversation in a moving car is to follow the car at a distance of no more than a mile. For the first and so far only time in his career, Stephen found himself in the back of a Ford Transit, with a relay microphone and a radio link to the mobile trackers. They were past Dartford before there was anything to hear. The target’s wife was driving, their baby daughter in the back seat, fussing loudly. Only when she eventually dropped off to sleep did the target speak. Nothing that he said had any bearing on the case; to Solly’s embarrassment it transpired that the reason for the journey was to collect the suspect’s sister from the port. While the child slept and the woman focused on the road, the man described his sister as if he needed to recreate her after absence, to make her real by remembering, to explain her to the sister-in-law she had not yet met. Two sets of road sounds, the car’s and the van’s, and the man talking: his sister, her sweetness as a child, how she had looked out for him at school, the fraught relationship with their father, her first serious boyfriend, the horror of her injury by fire. He spoke of scarring but he did not say where she was scarred. Miri. Her name was Miri; she had been married but the marriage did not last. She had liked unusual foods when she was small: black coffee, anchovies, those sour dried plums you buy in Chinese shops. She kept terrapins and a cat.
To this day Stephen remembers Miri. He heard her voice on the journey back but by then the baby was noisily awake again and the talk was all of family news and travel. Of course he never saw her but he does sometimes wish he knew where she had gone and what she’s doing now.
For that particular couple, the suspected gun-runner and his wife, uninterrupted time with each other must have been precious; they would have made the most of any journey when their child was quiet. But it wasn’t that which explained the intensity and coherence of that hour, to Stephen’s mind. No, it had more to do with the intimacy of two people in a private space, sitting side-by-side, the one’s attention mainly elsewhere, the other freed from eye-contact and licensed to confide. Licensed to stay silent also, by the passing road. A small space and the listener’s gaze averted, as in the confessionals of Stephen’s early youth. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. The child with his head bowed before the grille, the man’s face turned away; a list of faults in thoughts and words, of things the child has left undone, the forgiving murmur of the adult.
It has been a long time since Stephen thought of making his confession and, if there ever were a time when he could have disburdened himself in a car, it was also long ago. His regular passenger these days is his mother. And yet, on that short trip to Dover, he felt some share in the couple’s closeness. In step with the suspect’s wife, he made sounds of listening and assent; he asked questions. And he wondered if there was another factor at work then – that of destination. The most ordinary of journeys has a beginning and an end – East Acton to Didcot, Walthamstow to Dover. Does the promise of a full stop encourage the telling of a story, does narrative neeboundaries? The start defined and the finish in sight: ‘The End’ in ornate writing on a hand-drawn scroll as it
Most days the target made short journeys on his own, withthe radio on. There had been hours of Radio 3 to scan. But then, after an exasperating time when the target failed to rise to any bait that he was offered and the trackers kept on losing him, he casually mentioned to a friend that he was driving to Dover the next day. The operatives exulted: a fresh trap was sprung.
The easiest way to eavesdrop in real-time on a conversation in a moving car is to follow the car at a distance of no more than a mile. For the first and so far only time in his career, Stephen found himself in the back of a Ford Transit, with a relay microphone and a radio link to the mobile trackers. They were past Dartford before there was anything to hear. The target’s wife was driving, their baby daughter in the back seat, fussing loudly. Only when she eventually dropped off to sleep did the target speak. Nothing that he said had any bearing on the case; to Solly’s embarrassment it transpired that the reason for the journey was to collect the suspect’s sister from the port. While the child slept and the woman focused on the road, the man described his sister as if he needed to recreate her after absence, to make her real by remembering, to explain her to the sister-in-law she had not yet met. Two sets of road sounds, the car’s and the van’s, and the man talking: his sister, her sweetness as a child, how she had looked out for him at school, the fraught relationship with their father, her first serious boyfriend, the horror of her injury by fire. He spoke of scarring but he did not say where she was scarred. Miri. Her name was Miri; she had been married but the marriage did not last. She had liked unusual foods when she was small: black coffee, anchovies, those sour dried plums you buy in Chinese shops. She kept terrapins and a cat.
To this day Stephen remembers Miri. He heard her voice on the journey back but by then the baby was noisily awake again and the talk was all of family news and travel. Of course he never saw her but he does sometimes wish he knew where she had gone and what she’s doing now.
For that particular couple, the suspected gun-runner and his wife, uninterrupted time with each other must have been precious; they would have made the most of any journey when their child was quiet. But it wasn’t that which explained the intensity and coherence of that hour, to Stephen’s mind. No, it had more to do with the intimacy of two people in a private space, sitting side-by-side, the one’s attention mainly elsewhere, the other freed from eye-contact and licensed to confide. Licensed to stay silent also, by the passing road. A small space and the listener’s gaze averted, as in the confessionals of Stephen’s early youth. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. The child with his head bowed before the grille, the man’s face turned away; a list of faults in thoughts and words, of things the child has left undone, the forgiving murmur of the adult.
It has been a long time since Stephen thought of making his confession and, if there ever were a time when he could have disburdened himself in a car, it was also long ago. His regular passenger these days is his mother. And yet, on that short trip to Dover, he felt some share in the couple’s closeness. In step with the suspect’s wife, he made sounds of listening and assent; he asked questions. And he wondered if there was another factor at work then – that of destination. The most ordinary of journeys has a beginning and an end – East Acton to Didcot, Walthamstow to Dover. Does the promise of a full stop encourage the telling of a story, does narrative neeboundaries? The start defined and the finish in sight: ‘The End’ in ornate writing on a hand-drawn scroll as it
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