“…and so our past and future are necessarily shaped by forces that operate on a scale and time frame outside of our limited human experience. But in spite of this, we are beginning to understand our world and the physical universe beyond it through the window of science…”
And her hand was raised. So pretty.
“Yes — the lady in the front row?”
“Does that mean that anthropologists reject religion on the grounds that superstition is unscientific?”
“Good question. But rejection is too strong a word. Religion has its place, but not as part of a scientific discipline. Let me give you an example. All of us do things every day that fall into the category of superstition. For instance, one could choose — desire — to influence a future event by an appeal to a deity or to some vague concept of an external force — in other words, fall back on religion. Now, the cynic might define superstition as a correlation that is spurious or demonstrably false, but on a cold morning even the scientifically minded have been known to invoke magic and superstition as they attempt to start their cars.”
A ripple of amusement ran through the theatre. Sara’s voice again; confident, probing:
“But you said we are shaped by forces that operate on a scale and time frame outside of our limited human experience. If our experience is as limited as you suggest, it would be wrong to sideline religion as unscientific unless it can be scientifically proven to be false.”
“I take it you are referring to the concept of the existence of a real deity?”
She had shrugged, a graceful, dismissive movement.
“If deity exists, then by its very nature it would be the ultimate scientist.”
After the lecture, they had met for coffee. After a week they had met for lunch…
“Hey.”
Dracup jerked awake. Reality hit him like a blow to the head.
“Are you okay?” Sara’s face gave away her concern.
“I’m coping.” He wasn’t. He felt awful. His head was pounding with lack of sleep and excess caffeine. He forced himself to his feet and looked out the window. Evening was drawing in. He should phone Yvonne. As he took out his mobile another thought occurred to him. “Does the TV work?”
“I think so.” Sara looked puzzled.
“The news.”
“But it won’t do you any good to see—”
“I need to know.”
Sara switched on the TV. Adverts, then the six o’clock headlines. Dracup watched, waiting for the inevitable. He wondered how he’d react as they summarized the killing. A picture of Natasha appeared on the widescreen. It hit him like a physical blow. Sara’s hand was on his arm. A man appeared, a policeman; the caption said: ‘DCI Brendan Moran.’ He was making the usual statement, the one the police used when there was nothing to report. Dracup heard only a few words: ‘Doing all we can’, ‘every hope of a successful outcome.’
The newscaster handed over to the sports correspondent. Dracup took a deep breath. He hadn’t been ready for that, but obviously a child kidnap would be newsworthy — although a murder in Scotland evidently wasn’t. Surely the body must have been discovered — unless — unless someone had removed it. He turned to Sara but something about her expression made him hesitate. Surely she believed his story?
“Wait — did you hear something?” Sara held a finger to her lips. “Hey!” She let out an exclamation as the cat sidled into the room and wound itself between her ankles. “Shoo, madam.” She pushed the cat away with her leg. “She made me jump. Could you pop her outside, Simon? She’ll just be a pain if we let her stay.”
“Sure.” As he scooped the animal up and made for the back door he wondered if Potzner himself had tidied the hotel room or if he’d delegated the responsibility to some minion. Glancing out of the kitchen window he saw that the sky had cleared and a full moon illuminated the garden. Holding the cat precariously in his left hand he twisted the key and nudged the handle down. As if sensing its fate the cat turned in his arms and made a bid for freedom. He made a successful grab for it, turned and stepped out onto the patio. A man stood in front of him, a dark balaclava obscuring his face. The eyeholes reflected pinpricks of light from the kitchen interior and a duller gleam from something held firmly in his gloved hand. The hand lifted and pointed at Dracup’s head.
James Potzner was a thorough man. Not that he prided himself on it; it was in his nature. He had always been the last kid out of school because, he reasoned, if his desk was clear and tidy at the last bell it meant that he had more time in the morning to do what he wanted. The other kids got the fallout from the teachers and he got on with the business of — well, whatever business he had to get through that semester. Maybe it was plotting his next fund-raising scheme. Maybe (later in his teens) it was penning a few lines of admiration to his latest object of attraction. He was good with words. He knew that he’d been short-changed a little in the Mr Universe stakes, but he was switched on enough to recognize that the way to a woman’s heart — or wherever it was you wanted to gain access to — was not all achieved by how you looked. Women were emotional creatures. You had to switch into that modus operandi and address them at their own level. It was a system which had borne fruit on many occasions and it was the same system that had won him his greatest treasure: Abigail Eastwood. Way out of his league, she was already a senior to his self-conscious sophomore status, her father a big shot attorney in Philly. But they had connected in a way Potzner could never have anticipated. She seemed to find something in him that had been lacking in her own life, despite the privileges that undoubtedly came with her background. “Just an accident of birth, honey, that’s all. I’m no different to you.” But he knew she was. And he had never stopped counting his blessings since the day she had agreed to step out with him.
Potzner shifted his leg with an impatient gesture. He contemplated getting out for a stretch but rejected the impulse in favour of a cigarette. The Zippo flared and he pushed back in the seat, wincing at the familiar ache in his calf. The shell that had removed a significant portion of the muscle had killed the man standing next to him, Corporal Barnes. Nice guy. They had spent the night playing cards and smoking. Trying to forget their fear. He had been scared. Real scared. But Barnes had smiled at him: “Ain’t nothing to it, Jim. You see ’em comin’, you let rip. No way any spook’s gonna get past me an’ live to chew rice the next mornin’.” They laughed and the dawn seemed a long way off. When it came and the shadows receded they saw the ridge again, waiting. The attack began as the sun rose and the world lurched into slowmo, like an old silent movie.
Potzner drew heavily on the Winston. The images were always the same. For years they had replayed in the space created by the constant waiting his job demanded. “No.” He spoke aloud and the sound of his voice alarmed him. “Please leave me alone.” But he knew the scene had to play to its conclusion. He closed his eyes and let it roll. Barnes, next to him, his mouth wide, pointing, encouraging the men to keep pushing on, stepping over the bodies. And then the muffled thump alongside, the surprise to find himself on his back. No pain. A glance to the left and the shock of Barnes’ sightless eyes staring back, a faint smile on his lips. Then hands on his shoulder, gently lifting him, the vibration of the chopper and the sharp sting of a needle in his arm. It could have been yesterday, but it was way back — 9th February, 1969, Chu Pa region; America was out of her depth in the jungles of Vietnam and he was on his way home to Abigail.