"It was a long time ago." I am back to my rea.s.surances. I really should have made a tape. A recorded lecture in an authoritative voice-Tom Baker or Leonard Nimoy. I've done this so many times now I'm starting to whinge. "We didn't know as much, then." "Hope had really bad luck." As soon as I opened the bags I knew it was hopeless, though I tried, G.o.d knows I tried. In that Calais motel room, the seams had closed so tight and pink around Hope's limbs, there was no hint of trouble. But when we got to England and I opened the bags to rea.s.semble her-the seams had gone the brown of a pineapple cut through and left to the air. Some seams had parted altogether and dark little puckers had formed round each breach.

There was no smell. It all looked fresh enough. But there's fresh and then there's fresh. As Hope and I discovered.

"It's so much safer now."

At last, he begs me to put him to sleep. So we sleep. Our last night in Ouistreham, our last night in France. I haven't the energy to leave his side, so I shuck off my shoes and my shirt and my shorts and I curl up beside him, under the sheet.

Lay your hand on a man's chest, on his belly. There is so much bone and muscle in the way of the true treasures-the miracles of liver, kidneys, spleen, and heart. But touch his back, below the rib cage-and they are tantalizingly close.

Like this, Redson is a chest indeed, a box of clever treasures. Sea creatures dream away their incarceration inside him. Wrapped up in each other, joined together mouth-to-a.n.u.s by slick bonds only Crohn's disease can reveal and eventually break, they are utterly dependent upon each other. And yet they are so different, each organ so utterly unlike its neighbor-how could they dream that they are One? Where does this dream of Oneness come from? When must we let it go?

In June of the millennium year, 2000-a Dutch lorry driver called Perry Wacker entered Britain in a rapid transit TIR lorry crammed with fifty-eight Chinese immigrants. He remembered to shut the lorry's sole ventilation flap, so as not to arouse the suspicions of customs officers. But he forgot to open it again.

All but two of his cargo asphyxiated to death.

But it's the fine levied on the lorry firms- 2,000 per head-that's done most to curb human trafficking by lorry. That and the technology, as even a well-insulated TIR rig is no defense against infrared and ultrasound.

The trend now is to shift fewer people in smaller vehicles. As the technology improves and the political climate hardens, it's a trend that can only continue.

I just have time for a quick breakfast at a bra.s.serie outside the ferry port. Its Seventies decor reminds me of Portsmouth, which is at once my home town and our destination today. Even the name of this restaurant-the Britannia-points toward closure.

Then up the ramp onto the ferry.

The checks on this side of the Channel are cursory, much less stringent since the French decided to pull out their specialist unit. Portsmouth, on the other hand, bristles with every piece of tech going.

So this is how it's done- Natural gas hasn't caught on as a fuel in this country as yet, and no one knows what an engine that runs on both gas and diesel actually looks like. The engine is largely fake, but all the parts are genuine and professionally a.s.sembled, and who in their right mind is going to take an engine apart? So the bags sit in metal casings, many of them in plain view, and never get spotted. And because the bags are cold-blooded, relying for their primitive metabolism on heat from the actual engine (it's in there somewhere under all the Meccano) nothing very remarkable ever shows up on infrared.

So we arrive-if not intact, then at least undiscovered.

Even Hayling Island is becoming gentrified now, though the softest of the creek beds have so far resisted development. I'm out the van, tinkering with the engine; taking the bags from their hiding places, stowing them in carriers. "Carrefour." "Lafayette."

There are old moorings among the reed beds, the wood all rotted away so only the holes are left-holes with a petrolish sheen over them where nothing grows. But who would notice them among all these reeds? What fills these holes is an essence of rotted wood and the microscopic carca.s.ses of whatever fed on it, all mingled with the deliquescent remains of whatever fed on them. And so on-who knows how long a food chain? Though water covers the holes for much of the day, what fills the holes has very little to do with water.

The holes are something like the consistency of porridge and dogs have been known to disappear into them. One or two children.

So I am careful, and I resist the temptation to carry too much at one go, and within about fifteen muddy minutes I have found what I am looking for.

Two more trips and I'm done. In they go, one after another, and the colors released, as the oily sheen closes over each bag, are the same as you find on those maps, which pick out countries in different pastel colors.

Is the hole deep enough?

The risk is in running, if you can call it running.

The risk is in moving, and in being moved.

Each moonless night, hulks registered in Cambodia ply the seaways from Lebanon to Syria to Cyprus. Fishing boats from Somalia run aground on the beaches of Mocha; they run aground, or they sink.

Snakeheads throw women into the sea after their children, a mile from the Spanish sh.o.r.e. Then they torch their own ship.

Dozens of would-be migrants drown off the coasts of Italy and Spain each year as they attempt the crossing from the Balkans or North Africa.

So much horror, so much desire-sooner or later it stalls, bottlenecked at the Red Cross camp at Sangatte.

One hundred and fifty people a night are caught trying to travel illegally through the Channel Tunnel. Some hide inside goods wagons, breathing through hosepipes in a hopeless attempt to evade the carbon dioxide detectors. Others ride on the outside of the trains, wrapped in foil to keep them warm. Still others cram themselves into tiny compartments beneath the floors of pa.s.senger coaches, barely inches above the live rails.

February this year. An Iraqi Kurd dies after leaping twenty feet from a bridge onto the roof of a goods train-only to slip and fall across an electrified rail.

19th June 2001. Six Russians steal a speedboat in Calais, discover that the engine's missing, and elect to set out anyway, paddling it across one of the world's busiest shipping lanes.

31st July 2001. Two Lithuanian refugees cross the Channel on children's air mattresses. More than ten hours pa.s.s before they're picked up. They even have luggage.

The gates are swinging shut around Europe. The nets are tightening-meshes of infrared and ultrasound. Dogs. Carbon dioxide wands.

The traffic through Portsmouth was lighter than I expected, which means I've made it home before sunset.

"Home." Not Devon; that can wait till tonight. I mean the house I rent in Ferring, a little seaside town in West Suss.e.x, a stone's throw from Brighton. I get in and already, within minutes, I'm picking up the ends of my life, I'm washing up dirty dishes, changing the sheets. Putting CDs back into boxes.

It's a big house.

I enter the garage and dig out the valves and gauges that will free Redson from his high-pressure prison.

The van-like I said, it runs on both petrol and natural gas. The gas tank is mounted in the back of the van. I've had customs officers want me to pull up the hardboard housing to reveal the tank- but beyond that they do not go. Maybe a few raps on the outside with a torch. But it's not a good idea to go peeking inside a pressurized container.

This is how it's done, you see: where the carbon dioxide detectors cannot go; where infra-red and ultrasound are blind-this is where the truly, irreducibly living part of Redson, head and torso, lives and breathes.

In the footwell of the pa.s.senger seat, I lay out freshly laundered blankets to make a nest for him.

It's important to have hold of all the parts during the crossing, in case you get caught. With all accounted for, you have some shred of defense, as you can argue that you meant no lasting harm to your charge.

But what would be the point in rea.s.sembling him? Hope and Redson reflect each other.

Redson/Hope-I cannot allow one half to mock the other.

The acid slew in the old post-hole must surely have eaten through the bags by now; must already be stripping Redson's arms and legs down to the bone, chewing through the bone, I don't doubt, given time.

In the back of the van, I check on my charge. He mustn't depressurize too fast, or the bends will take him. But the math you need in order to do this safely-it's easy enough; and I have done this before, many times.

I look at my watch, calculating the air he's got left.

Plenty, enough that I could leave him in there, unconscious, until we are all three met again, a wedding party, in that house among the pyres and the rain. Already in my mind's eye I am drawing the blinds on that bankrupt, poisoned countryside. I am rolling them together, torso to torso. Inevitable, irresistible, a contact more intimate than any embrace. I am blessing them, telling them, "Kiss!"

But no. It has been a long day. I am exhausted. It's over two hundred miles to Devon, and that union I have for so long desired to bring about.

I shall tilt the rearview mirror so Redson can look out. And he will help me stay awake.

Third Person.

Tony Ballantyne.

THE STEAM BOMB was a perforated metal sh.e.l.l the size of a tennis ball, filled with water and loaded with an F-Charge. On detonation it squirted needles of pressurized steam that drilled through anything within a radius of half a meter and left anything at a radius of one meter slightly damp. The bomb that landed in the hot street tore apart Bundy's upper thighs, punctured his stomach, and left his forehead covered in a refreshing pink mist. "It came from up there, sergeant," murmured Chapelhow into his headset, pointing to the roof of a nearby house. Mitch.e.l.l fired his rifle with a m.u.f.fled crack and an overweight woman slumped forward and fell from the roof. No contest. Mitch.e.l.l was a regular, she was just a conscript, flushed and confused by the hot Spanish sun. Mitch.e.l.l lowered his black rifle and resumed his patient scanning of the surrounding area, black gloved hands ready on his gun, black booted feet planted wide.

Bundy was screaming without seeming to notice it. He was fumbling at his rifle with blood-slicked hands, trying to reload. Sergeant Clausen shook his head.

"He's done," he said. "Chapelhow, finish him."

Chapelhow felt his stomach churning; nonetheless he raised his cheap conscript's rifle to his shoulder and shot Bundy through the head, silencing his screams. The bra.s.s-bound round the wounded man had been trying to load slipped from his fingers and rolled across the road. Chapelhow was rubbing his shoulder through his thin silk shirt, the kick of the rifle too much for his thin frame.

"Take his gun," chided Sergeant Clausen impatiently, "we're going to need it."

Despite his thick black uniform, Mitch.e.l.l looked cool. Just like the sergeant. They weren't sweating like the conscripts. They didn't have dark patches beneath their armpits from their exertions, nor did they have beads of moisture on their upper lips. They moved like lazy cats, turning this way and that to scan the dusty street.

"There'll be more, sarge," said Mitch.e.l.l. "SEA always try for the pincher."

"I know. Chapelhow, Hamblion, go back toward the seafront. Singh, Reed, up toward the town. See if you can spot anyone else."

Chapelhow knew what it meant, to be paired with Hamblion. Hamblion was grossly overweight. He was expendable. If Hamblion was going back to the seafront, then that was were the sergeant was expecting the attack to come from.

Most of the buildings were shut up for the midday siesta. The only sign of activity came from a man in a white shirt, carrying little round-topped tables and setting them out in the shade just in front of his bar. The expendable Hamblion waddled past him, staying in the shade where he could, his arms burnt bright red from the sun, like sore corned beef, his podgy hand making his rifle look like a stick of liquorice. Chapelhow limped along on the opposite side of the street. The thin soles on his expensive leather slip-on shoes were coming loose, more suitable for a night out clubbing than for a conscripted soldier on a sortie. The sound of the sea and the shouts of the few children left playing on the beach could be heard up ahead. There was a sc.r.a.ping noise as a door opened in a house on the shady side of the street. Chapelhow jumped, he and Hamblion turning their guns toward it. Two middle-aged women walked out, chattering., in Spanish. They wore floral print skirts, their hair permed in short curls. Both carried smart leather handbags.

Chapelhow relaxed, turning his rifle back toward the sea. The two women pulled pistols from their handbags and pointed them up the street at the sergeant. Chapelhow shot the one on the left, grunting as the recoil slammed the rifle into his shoulder again. Hamblion's fat finger caught in the trigger guard and he clumsily fired his rifle up into the air. A third person, a man dressed in the dark green uniform of the Southern European Alliance stepped out from the dark doorway and aimed calmly at the sergeant.

Hamblion paused in the act of loading his rifle, realizing there wasn't time. He dropped the gun to the floor and stepped forward in front of the man in green, his body giving a great hiccup as the enemy fired.

Chapelhow shot the second of the Spanish ladies and calmly reloaded. He could see Hamblion hanging onto the soldier as the enemy emptied his rifle into his fat body, wobbling waves spasming up and down his length with each shot.

Now Chapelhow shot the soldier. Sergeant Clausen's voice sounded in his headset.

"Chapelhow. Get Hamblion's rifle and fall back to me."

"Okay, sarge." Chapelhow scooped up the rifle and limped back up the road.

"What now, sarge?" Mitch.e.l.l queried through the headset.

"We're going into the town."

"Won't that make us easier to pinpoint?"

"Yes. But there are too many of them around. We'll use the civilians as cover."

"We need a drink, sarge," said Reed from the other end of the street.

"And something to eat," added Singh.

"We do," agreed the sergeant. "There'll be cafes and bars in the town. Shops. We can get something there."

Chapelhow came limping up to the sergeant and Mitch.e.l.l, a rifle slung over each shoulder.

"Got any money, Chapelhow?" asked the sergeant. Chapelhow reached awkwardly into the breast pocket of his paisley shirt.

"I've got about twenty euros, sarge," he said, sorting through the bills. There was a yellow piece of notepaper there with the words "You are Andy Chapelhow" scrawled hurriedly across the top.

"I've got money," said Singh.

Chapelhow was unfolding the yellow notepaper, looking to see what else was written there.

"There'll be time for that later," said the sergeant, batting at Chapelhow's hand. "Come on. We'll go into town."

The sergeant touched the pale-green pouch that hung from his belt and looked at Mitch.e.l.l. "We can round up some more recruits when we get there."

"We'll need them," said Mitch.e.l.l.

Chapelhow nodded in silent agreement as he looked back at the mound of flesh that had been Hamblion, his hot blood spreading in a pool in the middle of the road, reflecting the scorching sun.

THE CENTER OF the town was a maze of shady twisting alleys built on a hill. Alleys filled with the hot spicy smells of lunch, with the chatter of conversation that echoed from the tiled and crowded tapas bars, alleys filled with little tables at which couples drank wine and families of tourists ordered sausages and chips and spread out pictures for their children to color.

Chapelhow and the rest walked past all of this, alert and exhausted.

"Where are we going?" asked Reed brightly.

"Right through the town and out the other side," said Mitch.e.l.l.

"Why can't they just send a helicopter or a flier to pick us up?" complained Reed, only just eighteen, and consequently an expert at everything. Chapelhow envied her for her certainty. More than that though, he envied her for her walking boots, for her light jacket, and shorts. Reed had been out hiking when the sergeant had conscripted her.

"They will send us something," said Mitch.e.l.l patiently. "But if we're too obvious about it, the Europeans will just wait until we are on board and then shoot us down. That's what an exit strategy is all about. Both us and the helicopter have to rendezvous unnoticed by the enemy."

"So where are we going?"

"That's a secret. What if you got captured?"

"Hmm. Is that why you won't tell us what's in that package you are carrying?" She pointed to the cylinder the Sergeant had strapped to his belt. "Did you steal it from the SEA? Is that why they are chasing us?"

"You don't need to know that, Reed," smiled Mitch.e.l.l.

There was a crack and Singh span round, raising his rifle and pointing it at a nearby table. The sergeant knocked the gun up into the air.

"Hey, hey, hey," said the diners at a nearby table. There was some angry shouting in Spanish. Chapelhow's headset translated the words of a patrician-looking older man for him. "You watch where you're pointing that thing. We'll sue you and your army." The man jabbed a finger angrily in their direction.

"It was just a champagne cork," said the sergeant.

A mustached waiter smiled as he filled the gla.s.ses of the diners. Chapelhow thought it was funny, how quickly people adapted to technology. Only halfway through the Twenty-first century and already people believed in surgical strikes and targeted weapons. They felt safe, even with a war going on around them. Chapelhow grinned to himself. They wouldn't be so complacent if they knew how old the guns were that he and the other conscripts carried.

"We should hide the rifles," said Reed. "We stand out carrying them. What if they inform on us?" She pointed to the diners.