Owen eyed this novel new item. ‘If you think I’m going to scrub it all off with that…’
Jack held out the loofah, and waggled it at Owen until he took it from him. ‘This will soak up six types of radiation.’
‘Six?’ Owen looked impressed. ‘I can only remember three types.’
‘Well, I got a deal on that thing,’ Jack explained.
Owen was considering the radiation sponge more closely. He was starting to look less enthusiastic. ‘This is it? Shall I just stare at it until the vomiting and intestinal bleeding starts, or should I wait until all my hair’s dropped out?’
Jack gave Owen one of his disconcerting grins. ‘That thing is so effective, I have to store it in this lead-lined box most of the time. Keep it with you, probably for the rest of the day.’ He took the Geiger counter off Ianto, and handed it to Owen. ‘You should stay in the Hub until the rem count for your absorbed dose gets down to here…’ Jack indicated a reading on the counter. It looked as though Owen was going to complain bitterly about this, but Jack quashed his unspoken protest with a look. ‘Tosh, you can keep him company while you complete the search for that thing in Wildman’s spine. Gwen, you’re coming with me to search Wildman’s apartment for the source of this radiation. I think we can guess what that is, but if it’s as radioactive as Wildman, we should make it safe. Ah, thank you, Ianto…’
Ianto had brought two more Geiger counters, each the size of pocket calculators. Jack put one in his jacket, and handed the other to Gwen.
Gwen held it at arm’s length across the table, towards Owen. The dial flicked up into the danger zone. ‘You should have said we were going to Wildman’s, Jack. I could have met you there in the first place, saved myself a journey in here.’
‘What?’ asked Jack, leaving the Boardroom and strolling out into the Hub main area. ‘And missed seeing Owen glow in the dark? Not to mention the pleasure of my company?’ He stopped beside the stainless-steel fountain that stood so incongruously in the middle of the area. Jack pressed a button and Gwen could see, far above them, a piston pushing aside a paving stone in the ceiling. It was immediately obvious that the weather had worsened since she’d arrived. A sprinkling of rain started to spatter down on them, and water began to flow over the sides of the hole.
Jack leapt out of the way of the downpour, and immediately closed the gap again. ‘OK, that’s not gonna work for me. Let’s go out through reception.’
TWELVE
You’re not the kind of woman who stands out in a crowd. Not the kind who wants to. Your hair has never been too bright, your shoes have always been sensible, your lipstick was never too vivid.
Even as you ponder this, you can hear your father’s voice commending you on your safe, uncontroversial choices. Science subjects for A leveclass="underline" ‘Quite right, Sandra, none of that arty nonsense for you, you’ll want a career.’ A university close to your parents: ‘So much more financially convenient to live at home, Sandra.’ Regular attendance at church, sitting between your parents, trying to look inconspicuous although you’re excruciatingly aware of your father’s fluting voice rising above the standard murmur of the congregation during the Lord’s Prayer: ‘Ein Tad, yr hwn wyt yn y nefoedd, sancteiddier dy Enw…’
Dad’s mantra was that you should get stuck in, and not stick out. And yet his own insistence on being the most conventional, the most ordinary, the most outspokenly moderate man in Lisvane meant that he himself stuck out in the community more than anyone. ‘Don’t embarrass us,’ he’d tell his family at the restaurant or the cinema. He’d rather die than be embarrassed in public.
Two weeks after he died, you abandoned the second year of your Physics course and signed up for the Royal South Regiment. It was only when, one night in bed with Tony Bee, you were discussing your father’s idiosyncrasies that Tony had reminded you of the irony in your regimental motto. ‘Gwell Angau na Chywilydd,’ he whispered as he moved his hands slowly over the moist curves of your body. ‘Better Death than Dishonour.’
Your affair with Tony has been the most uncharacteristic thing you’ve ever done. You’re still content to just to be another face in the crowd. Guy Wildman wasn’t like that, of course, he always aspired to be more. But, by trying harder, he just seemed to become more insignificant, easier for people to ignore, more invisible. With you, it’s the opposite. You’re content if you appear to be saying to the world: ‘I’m just average; there’s nothing special about me.’ Maybe that’s why you persuaded Tony to bring Wildman on the sub-aqua trips, maybe it provided cover for your relationship with Tony.
You know from living with your father all those years that the best way to avoid getting noticed is to take time to get the little details correct. The Army catches people who do things wrong, not those who do things right. Same thing in life. You never park in the disabled bays at Sainsbury’s in Thornhill, and you always take your trolley back to the shop to collect your pound coin.
Since your return, you’ve been home and chosen sensible clothing for a wet, dark night. That also gave you the opportunity to shower, to remove all the traces of blood and bone that you inadvertently smeared down your face and clothes when you killed and devoured that vagrant. You did that discreetly, of course, in a back alley. And with compassion, too — you snapped his neck first, so that he would feel no pain.
And now the deep hunger in you has been assuaged, here you are in Splott, confident that your walk up to Wildman’s apartment block will draw no attention from anyone. You wear a green A-line dress, mid-length, no stockings, and a pale green cardigan in thin cotton. You chose flat-heeled, patent leather shoes, round toe, sturdy enough to keep out this rain. You’re wearing a fitted boned coat, your favourite, in a soft navy-coloured material that keeps you half-hidden in the dark; you could see the weather was deteriorating before you set out, and didn’t want to risk drawing attention by struggling with an umbrella in the wind and rain.
Not that there are many people around to see you, as the rain sets in. The few that you see in these side streets are scurrying for cover, watching out for puddles not people. You move up the steps to Wildman’s apartment unseen, and even the sound of your footsteps is masked by the persistent hiss of rain and the hoot of a train further to the east in the direction of Tremorfa.
Once inside, it’s different. The hallway is large and the clanking radiator is set too high, so that the windows are steaming up. The octagonal green and yellow tiles on the floor are even louder than the radiator.
You don’t need a photographic memory to remember things. All it takes is practice. Your dad used to remind you: ‘You’ve got two ears and one mouth, Sandra. Use them in that ratio.’ And that’s been true since you joined the Army, whether it’s in weapons briefings at Caregan, open water training for sub-aqua, or just the lads’ drunken conversations down the Feathers about fast cars, slow flankers, and easy women. Wildman has told you in the past all about the area where he lives, the way he’s equipped his flat, the peculiarities of his neighbours. Of course, there’s nothing you don’t know about Wildman now.
Wildman’s apartment is two floors up. The stairs beneath the worn carpet creak under your weight, but there’s no sign of anyone else, and the only indication of any other life is the sound behind one of the doors of Sunday Worship on Radio 4 played too loud. Wildman’s immediate neighbours on the same landing are John and Marcus who work at Club X, and Betty Jenkins who resolutely does not. You know all about Wildman’s recent meetings, conversations and disagreements with them. You’re ready for anything, if you meet them. It’s only since Wildman died that you’ve realised how lonely he really was, and understood his protective instinct for Betty Jenkins, his frustration with John’s casual indifference to commitment, and his never-articulated fantasies about Marcus.