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

had been together the first time. Had never lost control when he was with the brothers. Had managed to control the great journey he had made, from the frontier he had crossed, another solitary fighter who had somehow survived, and had a reservoir of lapping hatred. Had made the new journey with the Iranian Christian family, the nightmare of the storm in the Channel. And then he had diverted from his plan and had come to this street and had pressed that doorbell. He thought she made a trophy of him. Perhaps, in the morning, long after he was gone, she would take a pair of nail scissors and would make a small scratch on the varnished wood of the bedpost, where she could see it. Would remember him, and how she had screwed the anger out of him.

Coming faster, breath quickening, her eyes still open. Like it had never been before, left him helpless – and weakened. He could not see the face of his watch, did not care. And yelled out, she was grinning at him and the ceiling light burned bright above them. Cammy clung to her, could not help himself, and tears welled in his eyes.

“Did you have a girl there?”

“No.”

“Not one of those little black crows out from school in London? Did you go without?”

“Didn’t have a girl.”

“You weren’t as good at it. Not special like you used to be . . .”

Just wanted to sleep, hold her and sleep.

She asked him, “I suppose you were killing people. Too busy to shack up. You kill plenty?”

He wiped his eyes.

“Are you done with killing? Or have you come back to kill some more?”

She did not break away, snuggled closer, and he held her tighter.

She said, “You used to make me laugh, Cammy. I’m not laughing now. Wish I was.”

“The fact is that it is a bloody liberty. I’m not saying we’re perfect neighbours, but we care. We don’t turn our backs on any of them, and especially not on Sadie. Those two come into our house, try to give us a bit of soft soap and then switch double fast to intimidation. I should have put them out on the street.”

Dave and Trace were wide awake and his words hissed in her ear. Quiet now beyond their window and the floral curtains were not quite closed; they could hear the rain but the whistling had stopped. Some old guy who had lost his dog and had been poking around looking for it. Dave had a tough day and an early start tomorrow and Trace was always stretched at work and both needed their rest but weren’t getting it. Did not help that Karen had gone into Bradley’s room and they could hear them talking.

Trace might have cried but was over that now, and she whispered at Dave, “What shames me is that we’re providing the base, from which they can spy on Sadie. We gave in too fast. Not blaming you, they bounced you. I suppose they’re trained to do that, take advantage of people. We’re talking about Sadie, not about a war thousands of miles away, not about something her boy might or might not have done. I regard her as a friend, and she’s our neighbour – and that counts. You saw the way they looked at us, them downstairs, looked at us like we’re just ‘peasants’, should do as we’re told and take them on trust. It’s wrong. We’re betraying her.”

“But if it’s terrorism. I mean, where does that put us?”

“We don’t know what he’s done, or not done. We’re not judge and jury . . . Sorry, Dave, but I feel ashamed, them being in here, under our roof . . . Know what I mean?”

Dave would have admitted that his own thoughts were garbled. Trace would have agreed that what she dripped in his ear might have over-egged their situation. But both were rock solid that a friend, someone whose trust they appreciated, was being violated, was being watched in secrecy . . . Like a woman standing in her bathroom, drying herself after a shower, and a pervert stood outside and was hidden in shadow, and watched. He tapped on the common wall. The kids came in . . . Sadie had babysat, had minded them. Had not seen as much of her in the last few years as they should have but here was a way of appeasing guilt. Trace told the kids what they were going to do. No dissent.

At the bus-stop with a few other late workers and a few revellers, she waited beside the overflowing rubbish bin, smelled the shelter, accepted that this was part of her life.

By the time she reached home, had grabbed a piece of toast and gulped weak tea, had got undressed and gone to bed, she might have five hours’ sleep, no more.

Sadie’s phone rang. She saw that it was Dave Hunter’s number.

Wondered what he wanted at that time of night. Used to look after their kids, snotty and superior and looking down on Cameron, but had hardly seen them after the police raid. She remembered coming out of her house after the counter-terror search and loading the bins with all the broken stuff from the rest of her house but not from his bedroom and she’d seen the Hunter family come out of their house and they’d not looked at her. All she’d bloody done for them . . . They had seen her come out of her front door, lugging a sack and none of them had come to help. Pretended they hadn’t seen her, like she had the plague.

She answered. Had to listen hard because the bloody man spoke in a whisper.

“Sadie, thought you ought to know. We have the security police, whatever they are. They’re here, in the front room. They’re watching your house. We’re thinking that means your boy is coming home, they’re expecting him, your Cameron. We thought you should know. We reckoned calling you was the proper thing to do. We’re always here for you, Sadie.”

The bus came. She’d always