The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (best summer reads of all time txt) 📕

screw down his concentration to try to recall her face. Cammy, out with the black flags, had never touched any of the girls that came to Syria from England, who had put on the burqas and had the sole ambition of being a jihadi bride. Had never touched Ulrike who was like a Wendy to them, whose message was Stay calm. It is never a crisis. She came from Rostock, up on the Baltic . . . They had not talked about her city, nor his – nor about the North East Transvaal where Pieter was from, nor Toronto which was the city nearest to Dwayne’s family home, no talk of Minsk, nor of Tartu and not of Kiev. A life gone by and holding no value, to any of them.

He drifted on to the main street and the rain settled in his hair and on his collar, and darkness had fallen. Men and women hurried past him. He might have been the only person on the street who had no pressing destination . . . until tomorrow.

And nothing much was altered. A few businesses with different logos, a few windows where trade had changed. Cammy had been far away, had fought in ferocious small arms battles, had been under the terrifying noise and impact of airstrikes, had seen the dead and the dying and the mutilated – and none of it had reached here. He doubted anyone would have cared as they bustled past him.

He thought about Vicky. Sweet, innocent, simple Vicky – would pass her mother’s house as he walked north out of the city, left the cathedral behind him, headed away and up the river, climbed out of Sturry and into the estate where his home was. His home? Of course, his. Where there would be money, and food, and a welcome.

Baz said, “We go through with this?”

He had parked in a lay-by. Had switched off the engine, had gone to the rough grass at the side and had scooped up gravel and dirt and wet earth, had smeared it over both registration plates. She had passed him a roll of cling film from the glove compartment, always kept there – reasonable enough for a couple who are doing picnics out of a camper and needed to keep food fresh. He spread the cling film over both plates, then climbed back in.

“We never welshed before,” Mags answered.

“Said we’d do it, didn’t we?”

“We don’t back down. Not us.”

“And not our business who they are, what it’s for?”

“Sweet fuck-all to do with us, Baz.”

Decision taken. The cling film would act as a reflector off the vehicle plates. The number recognition systems would struggle to read them and the filth spread would make identification even harder. They were out of Germany, were past Namur in Belgium and would soon be in France and close to Lille. He started up the engine. She gave him half of a bar of chocolate, as if that were a reward for keeping going . . .

He asked her to map him a route for Boulogne, which had a ferry route to Folkestone.

He said, if he put his foot down, but kept inside the speed limits, they would get to the French port and beat the alert system of the German authorities. He said that the system did not permit a direct swap of information . . . And at Boulogne, they’d take the cling film off the plates. He finished his chocolate, and put his hand on her thigh, like he used to when they were young, and had a giggle in response.

“We said we’d do it, and took their money.”

Mags said, “Which is a good enough reason for me.”

Vicky should not have had any complaints. There were precious few of the girls, her contemporaries at school, who – at her age – could boast a modern, well-equipped three-bedroom home, valued at around £300,000, had a healthy baby, a husband who worked all hours – and a mother-in-law with constant advice. Precious few of the girls would have known what it felt like to be suffocating – no shortage of air but a surfeit of boredom. And precious few of the girls would have walked away from the chance of time out with Cammy Jilkes. She went downstairs, and into the kitchen. It was a bad night and one of the gutters was overflowing, and she started to make herself a cup of coffee. There was a microwave meal for two in the fridge, that she would have shared with her husband, except that he was going to be away that night, and she’d not be bothered with the effort of heating it for a half portion for herself. She sat at the table to start the shopping list for the weekend; later, if she stayed awake, she’d flick through the Kentish Gazette, see what jobs were on offer . . . didn’t have to, made clear to her.

The doorbell rang, a prissy little chime.

She was out of her chair. Let it ring once more, and there would be bawling upstairs. She went to the door. The security light had come on in the porch. A couple were ducking for cover and she saw a car parked half in the driveway and half over the pavement. She did not have a light behind her and they might not have realised she was there.

She heard, “This, Tristram, is a piss awful night. Shall I lead?”

“Doubt it’s going to be the crown jewels, Izzy, but you gush the sympathy better than I do . . . Ask her if she’s seen Gustave.”

They were both laughing as she opened the door. Each flashed a card at her that showed their photographs and had a motif of a crown. He said his name was “John”, and she said her name was “Betty”. So, that was two lies straight up. But “Betty” said that it was a “security matter”, and Vicky doubted that was an untruth. They came in. She had not invited them. She pointed up the stairs, put a finger over her mouth.