The Nemesis Program

‘I was trying to find the right moment,’ Ben said. ‘It never seemed to come. This wasn’t it either.’

‘Don’t you trust me? Have you no idea how hurtful this is? To be told something like that, in front of a stranger? You must have had a million opportunities—’

‘I didn’t know how you’d take it,’ Ben said. ‘I’m still trying to come to terms with it myself. I should have told you. I was wrong to hold it back for so long. What can I say? I’m deeply sorry.’

‘Oh, Ben,’ she said, looking at him through teary eyes. She seemed about to burst out weeping again, but then she wiped the tears away and her face tightened. He could see a million thoughts racing through her mind. When she spoke again, the cold, simmering rage had returned to her voice. ‘Let me get this right. First there’s this old girlfriend of yours who suddenly turns up virtually on the eve of our wedding and seems to have the power to mesmerise you away, just like that …’

Ben wanted to protest, but he kept grimly quiet.

‘Now I find out that you had a grown-up son you never told me about,’ she went on. ‘Tell me, Ben. What other secrets do I get to find out about the man I was about to marry?’

‘That’s all there is, I promise.’

‘Huh,’ she snorted. ‘There we go. Another promise waiting to be broken. Are you even going to tell me where you’re going, or is that a secret too?’

‘I haven’t had time to think about that.’

‘Enough time to decide to break off the wedding, though! Didn’t take much to make your mind up about that, did it? I’m sure that part was easy for you.’

‘I’m not breaking off anything, goddamn it,’ he said, feeling frustration and anger welling up inside him. He didn’t want to shout. All he wanted was to hold her. He took a step closer to her, reaching out his arms. ‘Brooke—’

‘Don’t you come near me. Don’t touch me.’

He pulled back. His arms dropped helplessly by his sides. ‘You have to understand,’ he urged her. ‘You have to let me deal with this in my own way. Trust me, Roberta is in danger. Someone’s trying to kill her. They almost managed.’

‘And so you’re going to go off and get yourself killed along with her?’ Brooke burst out. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds harsh. But I don’t even know this woman.’

‘You want me to go and tell her she’s on her own?’ Ben hissed, stabbing a pointing finger towards the closed door. ‘You want me to just leave her to the wolves after she came to me for help? I can’t do that, Brooke. I couldn’t live with myself.’ He paused, trying desperately to calm himself. ‘Listen. I’ll come back to you. You know I will. Soon, before you know it. Then we’ll just pick up where we left off, and things will go back to the way they—’

‘Until the next time you go off again,’ she interrupted. ‘And then the next time after that, and the next, until one day you won’t come back, because you’ll be lying dead somewhere.’ Tears were streaming down her face. ‘You’ve cheated me, Ben. You’ve lied to me.’

‘No. I never lied to you.’

‘You’re lying to yourself too,’ she sobbed angrily. ‘This whole thing, you going back to your Theology, all the future plans you talked about, this whole new life that you say you want so much and want me to share with you. It’s nothing but bullshit. This is who you are, this running off and getting into trouble. Risk, danger. You draw it to you like a magnet; you thrive on it. Can’t you see? You love it, deep down. More than you could ever love me. Or your newfound son, for that matter.’

‘You’re wrong about me,’ he said.

‘Then show me I’m wrong. Prove it to me by dropping this whole awful idea, and staying here with me like you promised.’

He shook his head firmly. ‘I can’t. I’m sorry, but that’s final.’

Brooke took a moment to digest his words. She swallowed, then nodded. ‘Fine,’ she whispered. ‘Go. Go and help your friend. Do whatever you think you have to do. But when it’s done, don’t bother coming back. Because I won’t be here waiting for you.’

He stared at her. ‘What?’

The tears were gone now, and she was looking at him earnestly and levelly. ‘I can’t live like this,’ she said. ‘You walk away now, it’s over between us. Your choice, Ben.’

Chapter Eleven (#ulink_fe0a88ef-012e-5fa2-bf00-192af83b51a0)

Roberta had to clutch the passenger door handle as Ben skidded the Audi ferociously out of the vicarage gates and rammed the accelerator to the floor, speeding away through the village. His face was drawn, and his narrowed blue eyes had taken on that steely look she recalled from years ago. He’d changed back into his own clothes, black jeans and T-shirt and the scuffed, well-travelled brown leather jacket that Roberta remembered too. Watching him, it seemed to her that the old Ben Hope she knew so well hadn’t been buried too deeply underneath the new one. The old one felt more real to her, but she sensed he was a man Ben would sooner leave behind. It’s just who you are, she thought. You can’t repress it, and you know it.

He yanked his crumpled Gauloises pack from his pocket, flipped out a cigarette, and without taking his eyes off the road, bathed its tip in the flame of his Zippo lighter. The acrid smoke reached Roberta’s nose and she gave a little cough. Ben shot her an impatient sideways glance, hit the window button and the glass wound down to fill the car with a roar of warm wind, blasting the smoke away.

‘You didn’t have to do this,’ she began.

He held up a hand. ‘Please, Roberta. Don’t say anything.’

‘How can I not say anything? I just watched your life fall apart. I’m not completely insensitive, you know.’

Ben made no reply and drove faster. They quickly left Little Denton behind them, racing along the country roads. After a few minutes Roberta was about to ask where they were going, when a sign flashed by saying ‘EYNSHAM’ and Ben slowed the car to enter a small town. The streets were narrow and lined with Cotswold stone houses, traditional pubs and little shops. Ben pulled into a small square next to a church, parked the Audi between a van and a stone wall and killed the engine.

‘We’re going to church?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re getting a bus.’ He pointed at the stop across the street, where a line of people were waiting and gazing expectantly up the road at the approaching double-decker. Ben got out of the car, snatched his cement bag bundle from the back seat, waited for Roberta to retrieve her travel holdall and then bleeped the locks before tossing the car key into the nearest drain. As they crossed the street to join the bus queue, he glanced back to make sure the Audi was well tucked away out of sight.

Boarding the bus, Ben led Roberta to the back, from where he could glance now and then out of the dusty rear window in case anyone was following them. Nobody was, and with a loaded machine gun bundled up at his side and his head in his hands he soon settled into a heavy, pensive silence that lasted for the whole twenty-minute trip through the winding country roads into Oxford.

Gazing around her at the bustling city for the second time that day, Roberta didn’t try to make conversation. From the noisy, smoky Gloucester Green station they took a second bus, hot and crowded, out to Jericho in the west of the city. A short walk from the stop in Walton Street, then Ben halted outside a modestly-sized Victorian terraced house with a little garden. He swung open the creaky front gate, took a set of keys from his pocket and showed Roberta into the house. ‘You’ll have to excuse the mess, but we hadn’t finished unpacking.’

‘Nice,’ she said, gazing around her at the clutter that filled the entrance hall. A dining table stood propped up against the wall, swaddled in bubble wrap with the legs removed. Most of the boxes were still sealed with parcel tape, others were open to reveal stacks of books on theology, philosophy and history. Roberta picked one out. ‘Hmm. Augustine: The City of God against the Pagans. A little light bedtime reading for you?

Ben pointed down the long, narrow hall. ‘Kitchen’s that way if you want to get yourself a drink. I’ll be back in a minute.’

Leaving her to her own devices, he ran up the stairs to the bedroom with his bundle under his arm. His pace faltered as he approached the door. Walking into the room, it was as if a dead weight had settled on his shoulders. Everything around him made him think of Brooke – the fine art prints that had hung on her walls in Richmond, her clothes and shoes neatly arrayed inside her wardrobe, the cushions on the bed, the green foliage of her beloved pot plants spilling down the wall from the windowsill, the soft smell of her perfume already imbued into the fabric of the place. He wanted to picture her smile, but all he could see in his mind was the teary look of hurt and anger that had been on her face when he’d turned and walked away.

When would he see her again? Emotions flashed up inside him: sorrow, guilt, anger, resentment against what had happened, against Roberta Ryder for bringing it on him.

No. It wasn’t fair to blame her. He just had to see this through. Everything would be all right, he told himself uncertainly.

He chucked the bundled-up Beretta machine carbine onto the bed. Nearby stood a small antique bookcase that Brooke had been gradually filling from a half-unpacked box. His eye drawn to the row of titles on the shelf, Ben spotted a familiar leather-bound spine among her assorted paperbacks and psychology textbooks. He wistfully paused to take it off the shelf. It was the volume of Milton’s works given to him by Jude’s mother shortly before she and Simeon had been murdered. Inside it had been the fateful letter telling Ben the secret of Jude’s real paternity.

As Ben turned the book over in his hands, it fell open and he found himself staring at the first page of Paradise Lost.

Paradise Lost. He thought about that for a moment, then snapped the book shut and quickly replaced it on the shelf. He walked across to his own wardrobe, wrenched open the door and found his old green canvas army bag where he’d carelessly stuffed it into the back underneath a load of stuff, thinking he’d never need it again. You got that wrong, he thought as he dug it out and tossed it on the bed. The first thing to go inside was the gun, which was compact enough to fit without bits poking incriminatingly out of the green canvas. He began rummaging through drawers and boxes for items of spare clothing.

When he’d done packing, he strapped up the bag, slung it over his shoulder and said a quick, silent goodbye to the room. When he’d be back was anybody’s guess.

Downstairs, he found Roberta wandering around the semi-furnished rooms and looking agitated. ‘You want something to eat?’ he asked her. ‘There isn’t much in the house. We’ve been living on takeaways and eating out until we got settled.’ The last word stabbed him as he said it.

She shook her head with a frown. ‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Me neither,’ he said.

‘I’ve been thinking. We’re heading back to Paris, right? Makes sense.’

‘That’s where this thing started,’ he said. ‘I aim to get there as quickly as possible.’

‘But how’s that going to work?’ she went on anxiously. ‘If these sons of bitches can pinpoint my exact location in some backwoods Oxfordshire village, just like that out of all the places I could’ve turned up, it means they’ve got access to Christ knows what kind of information. They’ve got to be hooked into every database out there. Which means that the moment I step over the Channel into France, they’ll know right where to find me. There’s no way I can travel unnoticed, is there?’ She eyed the green bag hanging heavily from his shoulder. ‘And if you’ve got what I think you’ve got in there, it’s not something you can exactly sneak by the customs officials.’