The Trespass(23)

“We shall see.”

“Have compassion on the child, Kadesh. She is innocent.”

“No one is innocent in the sight of God.” Kadesh motioned to Natasha. She was playing with a doll that he had found for her. Perhaps, Ruth hoped, this was a sign of some latent paternal instinct. They could hear the girl chattering quietly to the doll in her make-believe.

“And when it is finished,” Ruth asked, “will you allow him to keep what he has taken?” She held her breath, terrified at her boldness. He knew what she meant; she could see it in his eyes.

“Water will find its own level. Like must cleave to like.” He fixed her with his dark, hooded eyes. “It has always been so.”

“Yes,” Ruth replied, “we must follow the pattern established for us. We must be in His will.” She held out her hands in supplication. Was his heart so distracted?

“Do not lecture me, woman.” Kadesh turned away, presenting his back. “Leave me. My heart is sorrowful.”

“Tarshish was a good man. I – I am sorry.” Ruth knew the conversation was over. She made her way back to where Natasha lay, chattering to the dolly. When she saw Ruth approach she looked up, fearful, then relaxed and held the doll up for inspection. “Look, she has a little light inside.”

“That’s pretty, isn’t it? Better not touch her there.” Ruth moved the child’s fingers away from the tiny pulsing red light just visible beneath the doll’s dress and stroked Natasha’s dark curls, wondering at a child’s capacity to accept the inevitable, to adapt to changing circumstances. If only she could find it in herself to follow the child’s example.





Chapter 8





The nursing home was, contrary to Dracup’s expectations, set in well-kept grounds in a pleasant suburb of the city. The drive was flanked by a row of stately elms, fading to yellow and red as the chlorophyll lost its potency and little by little relinquished its task of nourishing the leaves; soon the earth would reclaim them and the cycle would begin afresh.

Dracup parked the car and gave Sara a strained smile. He hoped it was the same Churchill and that he was not about to make a fool of himself. Throughout the night he had slept little, tossing and turning, images of Natasha flitting in and out of his exhausted mind. He finally gave up at six and, bleary eyed, decided to tackle the remainder of the desk contents in the front room. At least when he was occupied he felt less vulnerable, less hopeless.

“Will Farrell be all right at the flat?” Sara asked as they crunched their way up the gravel drive.

Dracup knew what she meant. Farrell could take the opportunity to do a little research of his own in their absence. It was clear to Dracup that Potzner’s focus was Red Earth; Natasha’s predicament held little interest for him. And if the CIA were a step ahead and decided to act...He dared not predict what the result would be. Dracup realized that, to Potzner, Natasha was expendable. Compared to his precious research project she was way down the list of priorities. And that meant Dracup needed to guard any information carefully – to work with Potzner until a point had been reached where he had enough to go on without him. Dracup wondered when – if – that point would ever arrive. He took a deep breath and replied. “Yes. I think so. I get the impression he’s not fully signed up to the Potzner agenda.”

“Me too. Maybe that’s a good thing.”

“We’ll see. Let’s hope I’m right about Churchill.”

They rang the ancient pull-down bell and were greeted by a cheery-faced woman in uniform. “Good morning! You’ll be for Mr Churchill?” They followed her into the reception area where Dracup was immediately struck by the smell, a heady mixture of cabbage, sweat and micturition that floated down the centrally-heated corridors and caused Sara to wrinkle her nose. “It’s very warm in here.” She gave a small cough and grimaced at Dracup.

“Circulation breaks down as you get older. You feel the cold more,” Dracup whispered.

“Just along here,” the care assistant told them. “I should warn you that Mr Churchill is a wee bit – wandery. He’s a hundred and five, you know, so he’s doing amazingly well.”

“He certainly is,” Dracup agreed. “But I wonder, can you tell me before I meet Mr Churchill – does he have another part to his name? I mean the first part of a double-barrelled name?”

She put a finger to her mouth. “Now, let’s see, Oh yes – Reeves. Reeves-Churchill. But we call him by his first name – George.”

Dracup’s heart missed a beat and he exchanged a glance with Sara. “Thank you.”