CHAPTER 18: THE TRUTH OF BILL MURRAY
John stared at Murray, disbelieving. All these years, he had believed what he had been told about the attack on the road: bad intelligence, an unpredictable ambush, the nature of war. He'd never doubted it, had never had any reason to. But if what Murray was saying was true, then his own people had wanted him dead. Why? Because of Sholto? Because of Karim? He was reeling. Somehow, his failures had tainted him as a potential traitor. And traitors needed to be dealt with. But despite their suspicions, they had no proof. Just the word of a nurse. That was all.
'They wanted me dead,' he said in numb horror.
He rocked back on a heel and covered his mouth. For a second, a wave of heat passed through him, settling in his stomach, and he thought he might be sick. They had hated him, hated him, enough to orchestrate his demise. Men he had trusted, respected, honoured as good men, just men. They had sent him off on a fool's errand, knowing he would never reach Ghorak. They had lied to him. Had everything about his service been a lie? The men he had served under and commanded, had they all, each and every one of them, smiled to his face while plotting behind his back?
'You're an idiot,' said Sherlock, stepping closer to Bill Murray, who shrank down in his chair, 'if you think, even now, after all this time, that John was a conspirator.'
Murray rushed to deny it. 'I was wrong! I know it now. I knew it then. Just not until . . .'
'Until it was too late.' Sherlock flung a disgusted hand in his face. 'A sheep has more advanced critical thinking processes than you.'
'I didn't think they would do what they did, I swear to God,' he protested. 'I only meant to do right, and be honest. It's all I've ever—'
Sherlock gave a great ha! 'And that's how you ended up Moran's lackey, is it?'
'No! That's not—!' He gave a stuttering sigh. 'Not how it happened.'
'Out with it, then. Tell us just how you accidentally became embroiled with a murderous sadist.'
Murray covered his face with his hands, trying to compose himself. 'When I came back from Afghanistan, end of 2009, I thought I could leave behind everything that had happened, and the person I had been. It was a chance to start my life fresh, with Fran. But it was true what they said. You can take the man out of the war, but he'll carry it with him even so. For some men, it's the horror of what they've seen. For other, the torment of what they've done.'
He hadn't been to St Anthony's since his dad's funeral service. Even then, however, he couldn't bring himself to pray. Not unless it counted when he screamed at the heavens, demanding to know why his father had to die. But it wasn't like anyone answered. Just as well. If an all-powerful God saw fit to take a thoroughly decent human being at such a time of life because of something as stupid as choking on grape while alone in his own home, then he wasn't the kind of God that Bill Murray wanted anything to do with.
He swore he'd never return. But he'd not been on British soil even twelve hours before his feet took him back to the old wooden door, as if they had a will of their own, or were commanded by some vengeful spirit that would see him answer for his sins.
Perched on the badly worn kneeler, he touched his forehead and breast, one shoulder then the other. It was action as natural as breathing, almost a relief to a body that had so long been holding its breath.
'Bless me, father,' he said quietly, unable to control the tremor in his voice, 'for I have sinned. It's been four years since my last Confession.'
'You are most welcome back, my child.'
He could make out the silhouette of the priest on the other side of the screen with some clarity, if he had had the courage to look for long. He did not.
'May God the Father of All Mercies help you make good Confession,' said the priest, when Murray's silence endured and it became evident he was in need of prompting. 'Your Confession is sacred to the Lord, and safe with me.'
Murray wiped the sweat from his palms to his knees. 'I, uh . . . I only recently came home. From Afghanistan. I was a combat medical technician.'
'Thank you for your service.'
'Don't thank me, please don't thank me. I wasn't supposed to come home. Not now. Not like this.'
The priest tried to pre-empt his guilt with consolation. 'Many soldiers, when they return home, are . . . haunted by the things they have seen, and done. You need not suffer it alone. There are many support groups, right here in Edgware, you'll be happy to know—'
'You don't understand,' he interrupted. 'I . . . did something. Something bad.' Murray whispered now, unwilling to hear his own voice speak the dreadful words. 'And because of what I did, a friend got hurt. He nearly died.'
The priest waited patiently for the story. After a few false starts, Murray recalled that day on the road, a day that now felt like it belonged to another man's life. He didn't mention the secret plot. That confession was too much. Instead, he spoke weakly of how he knew something was wrong and didn't act fast enough. But he could not speak words of conspiracy and name himself a traitor, not in the eyes of God.
'God will absolve you of your sins,' said the priest once he was finished. 'But if you feel you have done wrong by this man, make peace with yourself by making peace with him. Go and serve and love him, and your soul will rest.'
Then they prayed together:
'Oh God, I am sorry for having offended Thee. I detest all of my sins because of Thy just punishments. I resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more. Amen.'
All he had was an email address. It took him three days to work up the courage to write, and three drafts to say what he wanted to say, which in the end boiled down to little more than a dozen short words:
You'll never believe it, but I'm back in England! How are you?
He held his breath and hit send. Ten seconds later, he got a reply:
Message Failed to Deliver / Unknown Recipient
It was piercing relief. He had tried, and no one could fault him for trying.
But the thought wouldn't leave him: Watson needed to know he was back, and Murray needed to know his former captain was all right. Not knowing kept him up at night. It haunted him during the day. Fran noticed something was off, and when she asked, he just smiled to reassure her. One night, they tried to make love, but he was too preoccupied to perform. In the morning, thinking him in need of support she couldn't give, she suggested he 'see someone'.
'Let's get married,' he said in response, and he hated himself in that moment, because he said it not out of love or desire, but to shut her up about sending him to some sigmund freud. Her eyes went wide, and she started to cry. For a moment, he thought her upset, but then she laughed, threw her arms around his neck, and said yes through her tears.
They planned to marry straight away, before the end of the year. They had waited long enough, and what was the point in a fancy do, when for less than fifty pounds they could go down to the local registrar's office and make it official in under an hour? She could invite a couple of her closest friends, and he'd grab a mate. An old army mate, as it turned out, bloke named Sam Jefferies from Wokingham. He hadn't seen Jefferies in over a year, and they weren't especially close, but he needed somebody, anybody, and Jefferies fit the bill.
The ceremony was short, and the celebrations entailed little more than pub hopping and a nice-ish hotel in North London. But the weekend passed, and they returned to Edgware, husband and wife, but little else had changed. There was work to do and bills to pay, and despite it all, in the end, it hadn't been enough—he needed to find John Watson.
For days, internet searches brought up absolutely nothing. Then one night in mid-December, he found it:
johnwatsonblog
He clicked. It was just what it claimed to be, a blog, and it had been created just the day before. There wasn't a whole lot going on with it. Two posts, the first, evidently, a test post titled 'Nothing'. The second, posted just that morning, was called 'Pointless', and contained four pathetic words: Nothing happens to me.
The ever-present guilt roiled in Murray's stomach. He knew Watson had loved his work, and he was damn good at it. Being sent home, a wounded soldier, had obviously been devastating. Before he could lose his nerve, Murray clicked the comment button and typed: Hi John. I tried emailing you but it bounced back. how are things? I'm in London t the end of the month. Do you fancy meeting up?
He didn't even proofread it for its errors, just hit Post. Then he let out a great breath. It was done. It had sent. It was in Watson's hands now.
It wasn't until after the New Year that he heard anything at all: an email from a different account to the one he'd sent his own letter to. It read:
Hey Bill, sorry for not responding. Now's not a great time, but maybe sometime soon we can meet up. I owe you a drink. Glad to hear you're home safe. John.
It turned out to be more than a courtesy email. A couple of weeks later, Watson rang him up. He'd finally got a phone, he said, a gift from his sister. They talked only briefly. Watson sounded tired, like he had just woken up, or maybe never went to sleep.
They met up at a pub in North London. Watson was already there, waiting for him, and apparently had been for a while. One glass stood on the table, drained, and the one in his hand was halfway gone. Leaning against the table was an aluminium cane.
He tried to keep his eyes off the shoulder, wondering how bad the damage was. And he didn't understand the cane at all, but was too afraid to ask. 'Looking good there, mate,' Murray lied.
He lied all night. He told Watson about the DVT, about being on blood thinners, about being sorry to have left the Army prematurely, about his excitement to marry. He thought he was commiserating, but Watson wasn't keen to talk about his own misfortunes, and neither even mentioned that day on the road.
If he had been hoping to provide a morale boost to his former captain, he knew by the end of the night he had failed. Watson was clearly in a bad way. He seemed lonesome and depressed, every smile forced to his face and cut short like it cost him something to wear. To Murray's alarm, he mentioned something about serial suicides in the news. Murray hadn't been following the news, but that was beside the point. Was Watson thinking of . . . doing something? Something drastic? Had Murray's agreement to conspire against him doomed him in the end after all, despite the foiled plot?
He tried to distract Watson from dangerous thinking and asked after his sister, but apparently it wasn't the best move. Watson had seen Harry only once since coming home, only to learn she had split with her long-term partner and was more interested in mourning the relationship and drinking herself stupid than showing any concern over her brother's near-death experience and crippled state. He had also started seeing someone, a therapist, but he didn't think it worth his time and was looking for a reason not to go back. If his sister couldn't help him, if his therapist couldn't help him, what chance did Murray have? What business did he have even trying, given that he was responsible for Watson's having ended up in that state to begin with?
It was coming on late; the night was over. Murray rose to standing, and when he saw Watson struggling to get his feet under him, he moved to help, but was met with a stolid rebuff. 'I got this,' Watson said, and planted the cane, pushing himself upright.
'Maybe we can do this again sometime, eh, Watson?' he asked.
'John,' came the reply. 'I'm not a captain anymore. I'm not anything.'
He never did answer the question.
To Murray's surprise, John updated his blog that very night. It wasn't long. He mentioned the suicides again. He mentioned their evening together. He still sounded depressed. Keen to keep the mood light, Murray commented, telling him to come meet the new wife, teasing him about past birds, as if nothing had changed and John was the same as he ever was. He received no reply.
But next day, a new post. Something about it was . . . different. Murray couldn't quantify it. He'd never been one for textual analysis. But it was different in a good way. John had bumped into another friend, one who had apparently been more helpful than Murray had been by introducing him to a potential flatmate. Murray hadn't even thought to help him find better housing, even though he knew John was in a bedsit little better than a dosshouse. Some friend he was.
It was the first time he read the name Sherlock Holmes on John's blog, but it was far from the last. As the days and weeks passed, John's blog became, in effect, a blog all about the flatmate. Holmes was strange, and rude, and brilliant, and eccentric, and John was clearly, obviously, enthralled. As much as he moaned about this Sherlock Holmes' shenanigans, even an idiot could see how much John was taken by him. More than once did it cross Murray's mind that John had a crush. But hell, if living with such a madman (John's words, not his) made him happy, then more power to him.
He began following John's blog like it was a new religion. Because damn, those stories! The things he got up to, the mysteries and adventures! A few times, he doubted they even happened (maybe John was spinning fictions), but then the news story came out, and shit, it really was true. Sherlock Holmes was a genius, and John was his right-hand man. Sometimes he saw John and Sherlock in photographs; sometimes they were on the telly. It was like knowing a celebrity. But the most important thing, Murray knew, was that he hadn't, in fact, ruined John's life. He was happy again, loving his work again, and he was good at it. The heavy guilt weighing over Murray's heart was lifting.
In June of 2011, Sherlock Holmes committed suicide by jumping from the roof of a hospital in Central London. Murray heard about it on the news. He didn't believe it, not at first. But the headlines kept rolling, naming him a fraud, a fake, a charlatan, a conniver. It was a scandal, every way you looked at it. Murray was embarrassed he'd be taken in.
John updated the blog, one last time:
He was my friend and I'll always believe in him.
He had disabled comments. Not that Murray could think of anything to say. What do you say to someone after his flatmate kills himself? Especially if that flatmate was . . . more than a flatmate? How did he address that sensitively? Was it really his business? Maybe his sympathy wouldn't be welcome. And what if . . . well, what if John had known all along that his Sherlock was a phony? Maybe he had been in on the scheme, and now needed to keep a low profile, lest he be charged as a co-conspirator or fraudster himself.
Murray had to stop thinking like that. It was these very thoughts of conspiracy that had led him to getting John into trouble the first time. He didn't want to walk that road again. But he couldn't put John out of his mind.
Once again, he found himself sliding toward obsession with John's welfare. He kept checking the blog, hoping for an update. But none ever came. He thought, I should call. See how he is. But it seemed too near the date of Holmes' suicide to intrude on his life again, and then, almost without his being aware of it, it was too late. He'd let too much time go by. How could he suddenly pop up now? How could he explain his absence in the wake of a friend's tragedy? Try as he might to gather the courage to call, whenever he opened his phone and scrolled to John's number, that courage faltered.
He couldn't shake the guilt, the feeling that he was somehow responsible for yet another devastation befalling John. After all, if he had not done what he did in Afghanistan, John would never have been invalided home. He would never have met Sherlock Holmes. He would never have suffered this loss.
He returned to St Anthony's.
'The parable of the two debtors comes to mind,' said the priest, after listening to Murray's heavily edited recounting of the ways he had failed John Watson. 'You'll remember it, I trust. A lender had two debtors. One owed him 50 denarii, the other 500. Neither could pay, and the lender forgave both. Our Lord asks, which of the two debtors loves the lender more?'
'The one with the bigger debt,' Murray answered. He remembered the story from Sunday school.
'The story is told in the presence of a woman who had greatly sinned, but who, from the moment she entered the house, had not ceased to serve the Lord. She washed his feet, kissed them, and anointed them with oil. And in so serving earned the Lord's love and forgiveness.'
'So, you're saying . . .'
'Earn your friend's love, and God will forgive you your trespasses against him, no matter how great your debt. Serve him, as the woman served Jesus. Then your soul will be at peace.'
On the train home, he resolved to phone John that very night. He rehearsed what he would say: Hey buddy, been thinking of you. Let's get drinks. Let's catch up. Let's get wasted together. Fran's got single friends, loads of them. Bet she can hook you up with something real special.
Miraculously, the baby went down easy that night. Fran, pregnant with their second, turned in early, leaving him alone, the whole night quietly stretched before him with no other obligations and no interruptions.
He never called.
Their second child came on a Sunday morning. That night, Murray got drunk. To celebrate, he told himself. Lately, he'd been looking for just about any excuse.
Drinking helped. God, how it helped. When he drank, he didn't have to remember that he was guilty of perjury, lying on official documents to get out of the RAMC, for which he was still collecting a pension. He could forget, for a few hours at least, what he had done to Watson, was still doing to Watson. Growing up, he had never seen himself as a bad person. Now, he didn't know what he could do to see himself any other way. He couldn't confess to John, that was for certain. He had tried confessing to God. But how could he face God when he couldn't even stand to look at himself in the mirror? So he drank.
And when he drank, he fell into strange beds. At first, it was entirely accidental. Wasn't it? He had woken up in a room he didn't recognise, a bed entirely too soft for his liking, and a woman he'd never seen before in his life. That time, he had fled, without a backward glance, and drank some more to purge his brain of the memory of it. When he thought of Fran, he wanted to cry. She did not need to know—it would only break her heart. He was many things, but he would not be so cruel to his wife. It was a mistake, and it would never happen again.
Only, it did. It might not have seemed right, to the moralist, but if they could only understand, it was to save his marriage, not destroy it. These women, they were . . . a release. He loved his wife, he loved his kids, but at home, he felt like he was burning up. He got into tempers where he didn't even recognise himself, shouting about the most trivial of things, like being called to the dinner table in the middle of a football match, or being expected to fix the clog in the shower. What was he, a plumber? The kids were too loud. Why couldn't they just shut up and eat their carrots? Fran wasn't even trying anymore. When's the last time he had seen her in anything but sweatpants? Their sex life was nothing. She was always too worn out, and he respected that. He did. He would just find another outlet for his frustrations, and spare her and the children. It wouldn't be forever. Just until he got his head on straight.
It was summer, and the air was stifling. Inside the pub, the fans were turning, but he felt little relief. Already he was on his third lager. That girl with the ponytail—apparently, she wasn't coming tonight. That was fine. He would just get blind drunk and maybe sleep in his car. He sure as hell wasn't about to go home.
'Damn, it's hot tonight.'
Bleary-eyed, he rolled his head to his left to take the measure of the man who had just sat two stools over. He was a tall man with close-cropped hair and sharp angles everywhere but his face, which was doughy like a muffin. After ordering a drink, he shucked his leather jacket and draped it over the stool between them.
'Reminds me of Afghanistan.'
A fuzzy sort of lightbulb went off in Murray's brain, and he licked his soured lips to speak. 'You been to Afghanistan?'
'Her Majesty's Royal Army,' said the man, toasting the air.
'Me too,' said Murray. 'RAMC. Been a few years.'
'Came back in 2010.'
'End of '09.'
The man regarded him with a smile, moved his jacket, and slid the next stool over so they were sitting side by side. 'To coming home,' he said, and they two clinked glasses.
Like old war buddies, they began to reminisce—about sand and desert roses, camel spiders and deathstalkers, bastard COs and those god-awful drills—and in short time, Murray's new friend (Everett, he thought his name was) bought him another round. He didn't mention how many he'd already downed.
'I had a friend at Camp Bastion,' said Everett. 'Name of Watson. John Watson. Ever come across him? Woulda been there about the same time as you, I reckon. A doctor.'
'Shit, yeah, I knew John,' said Murray glumly into his glass. 'I tried to kill him.'
His words were sliding, slipping, greased by alcohol, and he had no sense left in him to shut his mouth and stopper the flow. God, it felt good, getting it out, explaining himself, naming his sin. The glory of confession, at last. His new friend listened without judgements, without prescriptions for restitution, just a sympathetic ear. Bill wasn't a bad person, of course not. He'd been confused and coerced. He wasn't evil.
He woke next morning in his car with a sour mouth and a pressing need to urinate. Despite the hangover, though, he felt like a boulder had been lifted from his chest, one he hadn't even known had been pressing down on it for so many months, even years, and he could breathe again.
He returned home, showered, and kissed his wife. He played with his children. He went to work sober and professional. He thought about John, as usual, but this time forgave himself. John was his own man. He had control over his own life; he didn't need Bill Murray, casual acquaintance of bygone years, worrying after him. A new leaf had been turned, and Murray was ready to live his own life again.
Normally, he didn't answer calls from unknown callers. But this one had a name that he had evidently programmed into his phone: Everett. When had he done that? Who was Everett?
'Hello?'
'Hiya Bill,' came a cheerful but mostly unfamiliar voice. A fuzzy memory of a pub floated to the surface of his mind, which meant it could have been from anywhere, anytime.
'Who's this?'
'Everett. You remember me. We met a couple nights ago. At the pub.' When Bill remained silent, racking his brains for a connection, the man filled in the blank, saying, 'You told me all about what you did to John Watson.'
The blood in his veins suddenly ran ice cold. What had he said? How much had he said? Who was this man, and how did he know John?
'You sober this time? You and I need to talk.'
He made up an excuse, a good one, too: Fran needed cigarettes. She'd taken up smoking again, though they had made a bargain—never around the kids, and never in the house. He bought two packs, but instead of heading straight home, he went to a local pub where the man Everett was waiting for him. As he approached the corner, prepared to deny everything, to blame it on the delusions of a drunkard, he realised that now, yes, he did recognise him, and the memory of the midnight confession sharpened just a little.
'Listen—' he began.
'No, that's your job.' But the man laughed, like they were old mates, and this was the kind of prank they often pulled on one another. 'Hey, don't look so serious! Sit down, sit down. Let me order you a drink.'
'No, thank you,' said Murray.
'Sit. I'm not here to make trouble for you.' Everett fixed him with a steely eye. 'But after what you told me? It'd be pretty easy to do. I mean, come on. Faking DVT?' He chuckled. 'Clever son of a bitch. Wouldn't the RAMC like to hear about that? Wouldn't John?'
'What's this about?' Murray said tensely, sitting despite his self-preserving instinct to flee.
'John Watson, of course. We have business with him, and we believe you can help us.'
'We?'
Stubbins pulled out what Murray initially mistook as a black wallet. But when it hit the table and fell open, he saw the gleaming silver badge and insignia for the Metropolitan Police and a photo ID naming him Everett Stubbins, Sergeant Detective.
'Christ.' Murray scrubbed two hands down his face. 'You're with the Met?'
'Like I said, you're not in trouble.' Everett Stubbins picked up the badge and slid it back inside his jacket. 'Not if you help us. This is about John Watson, not you.'
'John and I haven't talked in years.'
'Just as well. We don't need you to talk to him. Just, provide some information. Keep tabs. Take notes. That sort of thing. You'll be well compensated.'
'Why can't you do that?' he asked. 'You're the police.'
'The situation is more delicate than that. I'm not at liberty to discuss it. But trust me, Bill. This is in John's best interest.'
'What did he do?'
Everett shook his head and smiled with closed lips, and Murray knew he would get nothing more from him on the matter. Top secret police business, he supposed.
'And this is all . . . okay? Like, I'm legally allowed to do this? And John, he'll be okay?'
'Of course, of course. I wouldn't ask you to do anything unethical, Bill.'
Murray chewed his cheek in thought. 'Right. And if I do this? You won't rat me out to the Army?'
'You have my word.'
'I'd like that in writing.'
Everett laughed and clapped on a hand on his shoulder. 'That, I can do.'
Because of the drinking, because he kept coming in late or missing days entirely, Murray was fired from his job at the hospital. No matter. He had another source of income. The undercover police officer was good on his word. After just two weeks of following John around London and reporting his movements, money was deposited into his bank account, exceeding his usual salary by more than two hundred pounds. Not a bad gig, really.
It was strange, seeing John again after so long, even if it was from a distance. He had a new job at St Elizabeth's Hospital in South London; he was living on Porters Avenue in North London; and he had someone new in his life, a good-looking ginger who worked at a flower shop. He seemed reasonably happy, if not a little reserved. Who would have thought this was the same man who had run toward explosions to save fallen soldiers, or who had once commanded a hectic operating theatre with a single barked order, or who had chased down criminals in London with the madman genius? Only, the latter hadn't really happened, had it? He had been living a lie. Now, he lived a placid life. Predictable. A little boring, even.
For weeks, he tracked John's movements. They weren't especially interesting, but he took diligent notes all the same: the exact minute he stepped out his front door, the number of the bus he took to do the shopping, the way he checked his watch as he approached the doors to St E's, the change of jacket depending on the weather, everything. He noted when John had a cold, or yawned more than usual, or talked to someone on the Underground, or dropped a handful of coins in the open palm of a homeless man. Good guy, John. Unremarkable, and good.
Murray was never seen, and he felt proud of himself on that front. He spent a fortune on taxis and filling his Oyster card, but he was well compensated for every expenditure, even his coffee and lunches. He felt useful in a way he'd not in a long time. He didn't know what the police were doing with his reports, but he was thanked and complimented for them, and so carried on without question or complaint.
Stubbins was always his point of contact. He didn't like to talk on the phone, so they always met up somewhere in the city for debriefings and assignments. Murray liked assignments. He was good at following orders. It spared him from having to think. Strangely, he had missed that. Maybe, when this was all over, he might consider a career in law enforcement. Maybe Stubbins would write him a reference.
It was a rainy night when they met up again in June. Murray had another spiral-bound notebook of observations to deliver. The pub near John's flat was crowded and noisy, the best sort of atmosphere for going unnoticed, Stubbins said. They sat together at the bar, but hadn't been there even five minutes when, to his surprise, John and his girlfriend, Mary, came through the door.
'Shit, he'll see me,' he said into Stubbins' ear. He was careful not to make any sudden movements, lest he draw attention to himself.
'Doubtful. Too crowded. But if he does?' Stubbins shrugged, completely unperturbed. 'You're his friend. Shoot the breeze. I guarantee he won't give me a second glance.'
Stubbins was a cocksure son of a bitch, which he demonstrated by spending the next thirty minutes staring at John with unabashed interest, while Murray tried to look anywhere but. Sure enough, John never once glanced their way. He was relieved: the last thing he wanted, really, was to actually speak to him again. Not after all this time.
By the end of summer, Everett Stubbins informed him over the phone that his role as tracker was over.
'We need something else from you.'
'What?'
'You have property in Wingrave.'
'Yes?'
How did they know about his dad's cottage? It was a French-style farmhouse he had never cared for. Too open, too many windows. Two years ago, when he and Fran had moved house, he had put it on the market. He even got an offer. But one day, he slipped up again, and brought a woman there, and they made love on the living room floor, and, he thought, he needed to keep it. As a refuge, an escape. A sanctuary for the occasional tryst. He lied to Fran, told her it sold, and she never once questioned it. When she said they should go on holiday, and pay for it out of the proceeds of the sale, he dipped into the inheritance money instead. It was a lie he was still living to this day.
'Meet me there. Tomorrow, six o'clock.'
He arrived early, and with beers, which he put in the fridge. Then he sat on the sofa and waited in silence. He had disconnected the cable, and he couldn't concentrate well enough to read a book. All he could do was watch the clock.
They arrived in a transit van, five men, all in plain clothes. Everett Stubbins, it was instantly clear, was not the leader. He followed at the back, looking somehow smaller than he ever had. Then again, he was eclipsed by men of greater stature, one with the bulk of an ox.
Fighting his nerves, he let them in, and guided them to the living room, where he invited them to sit. They did not.
'Bill,' said Stubbins, gesturing to one of the men, 'the Colonel.'
The Colonel was a good-looking man, dark of hair and broad of shoulder, but his face was narrow, and he would seem tall—certainly taller than Bill—but for the giant standing just behind him, whom Stubbins called Daz. The other two, Pete and Lex, stood by stoically, feet apart and hands behind their backs, as if at ease, a military state of alert.
'I didn't know colonel was a rank in the London police,' said Bill.
'It's not,' said the Colonel. 'Lex, Pete, go survey the house. Mr Murray and I have business.'
He would never be able to explain it. It was like he was under a spell. The Colonel said he needed to use the cottage as a rendezvous point for him and his men, and Murray agreed. He said he needed unfettered access, and Murray turned over the spare key. He praised the detailed surveillance notes, and Murray was flattered. And last of all, he told Murray to be ready to act when called upon, and Murray said, without hesitation, 'Yes, sir.'
'Sergeant Stubbins was right to trust you, wasn't he?' said the Colonel. 'You're a good man. An honourable, reliable man.'
'Yes, sir, I am.'
The Colonel clapped a hand on his shoulder and smiled. He felt special, important. It was only after they had all left, when he stood alone in the cottage, alone with his thoughts, that he wondered why he hadn't asked more questions, and what he had actually agreed to.
He would always remember it, sitting in a pub in mid-October, drowned in the ceaseless susurrations of a dozen conversations all around him, when he glanced up at the football match on the screen, perched on the far wall, and read the scrawl at the bottom of the screen:
London police seek public's help locating 41-year-old London-based doctor, John H Watson, last seen Wednesday . . .
He practically fell over himself getting off the stool to get closer to the screen, waiting for the scrawl to repeat. When it did, his eyes jumped with magnetic attraction to the name: John H Watson. Doctor. Missing.
He stumbled out into the street, fumbling for his phone.
The news is reporting John
as missing. Do you know
about this?
While he waited for the reply, he paced anxiously and googled news sites on his phone, trying to get more information. But other than the report that John was missing, there was little to be had.
His mobile rang.
'I want to be clear about one thing,' said Stubbins without greeting. 'You don't call me. You don't text me. I call you. Got it?'
'I know, I know, but . . . Something's happened to John. What do you know?'
'Calm down. Go back to whatever you do. Everything is under control.'
'Is he in trouble? Do the police know more than they're saying? You're on the inside, you must know—'
'It's under control. We've got this. John Watson is not your problem.'
'Not my . . . Why would you be asking for the public's help if—?'
'Bill, listen to me. Here is what you're going to do. You're going to delete that outgoing text. Then you're going to erase your call history. Last of all, you're going to go home, kiss the wife, pat the little ones on the head, and go to sleep. Nothing else is your concern.'
'Oh my God,' he whispered. 'What have you done to John? Who are you people?'
There was a long pause. It seemed to Murray that the streetlights were dimming, the city lights fading. There was no light at all in the night sky.
'We're your people, Bill. Don't forget that. You're one of us.'
He couldn't sleep. He couldn't eat. Fran asked if he was feeling well, and he snapped at her, took her cigarettes, and went into the back garden for a smoke. He didn't even like smoking.
What the hell had he got himself involved with? Everett Stubbins, was he really with the police? His credentials had seemed legitimate, but then, Murray wasn't exactly practised at spotting fakes. How could he have been so stupid? He should have asked more questions. Or better yet, cut all ties. He should never have answered his phone, or agreed to tail John, or handed a stranger the keys to . . .
When he remembered the cottage and Moran's interest in it, he went straight there, heart racing with trepidation, but found it dark and empty. He felt like he might have a panic attack. What should he do? Go to the police? Then what would he say? He didn't know much of anything, really, let alone where John was, or even if he was in danger. Or even . . . alive.
No, no, don't think like that. You're being paranoid. It's fine. It's all going to be fine.
But what if it wasn't? What if he went to the police and they arrested him as a co-conspirator? Oh sweet Jesus, what if Stubbins twisted things, and accused him? He was the one with a history with John after all, the one who had betrayed him once already and had been living with the shame of it ever since. It would be easy to foist the blame onto him, a guilt-ridden would-be killer. Their own motives were . . . unknown. Why did they have him surveil John in the first place? What was their interest in him? Who was 'they'? A dirty policeman, a colonel, a giant, and two wildcards. He knew nothing of nothing.
He tried not to think about it. Tried to be normal. Smiling, talking about the weather, making the kids sandwiches and slicing up apples for lunch. But even Fran was asking about John Watson now. He pretended to be ignorant, then confused, then worried. Well. He didn't have to pretend at that.
'How long can a man go without water?'
The phone call came in the middle of the night. He left the bed, told Fran to go back to sleep, and stepped outside in his bare feet. 'Who is this?'
'Answer the question. You're a medical man. CMT. How much water does a man need to survive?'
'Lots, he needs lots!'
'Don't be cheeky. Just give me the answer. The minimum amount.'
'Uh.' He was sweating, and feeling rather thirsty himself as he tried to think through his hydration survival training. 'Body needs a good litre a day, at least. What we expel in urine, sweat, and even breath, it has to be replaced. A good litre, minimum. But not all at once or the body won't conserve it right. Every . . . four to six hours, it should be rationed out.'
A long pause on the other end.
'Minimum food requirement.'
Murray ran a hand through his hair anxiously. '2000 calories a day.'
'No. The minimum. Mere survival.'
Shit, oh shit. 'It's not just about calories, it's nutrients, too. Vitamins, proteins, you really can't skimp—'
'Such as? Non-perishables. Name them.'
'Uh, uh . . .' He cast his mind around quickly. 'Tinned foods? Tomatoes, peas, beans. Black beans. They're higher in carbs and proteins and magnesium. Um. Spinach, salmon, mackerel, prunes—'
'That's enough.'
The line went dead.
Two nights later, he received another call.
'How much blood can a man lose and survive?'
Murray covered his mouth to keep himself from crying out in dismay. Oh God, oh God, this was bad, this was very bad.
'Answer me.'
'What's happened? Tell me what's happened, and I can—'
'Answer the damn question.'
'15 to 30 percent blood loss is classified as a class 2 haemorrhage. But it's really hard to assess just by looking, yeah? So . . . Is his heart racing? Is he pale? Skin cool to the touch?'
There was a long pause. 'Yes.'
'He . . . look, you want him to survive, right? You wouldn't be asking me any of this if you wanted him dead. So he can't lose any more! Got it? Class 3 haemorrhage will necessitate a transfusion or he may go into cardiac arrest.'
'How quickly does the body naturally replace its loss?'
'Four to six weeks! You can't let him . . . Please. Tell me what is happening!'
'We'll call again if we need you.'
He was in denial. It wasn't real, none of this was real.
Then they found the body of Mary Morstan. He heard about it on the news.
'Not my fault. Not my fault.' He paced the men's loo at the pub, feeling heavy with drink. 'I didn't know. I didn't know.'
He thought, You've put it off long enough. Go to the police. Now.
He couldn't.
He stood outside the doors of St Anthony's. He didn't go in.
It would be best, he thought, if John didn't make it.
Not for himself. For John.
But the truth was, he didn't want his sins to come to light.
'You're needed.'
It had been ten days.
'Is he . . . ?'
'You want to keep your friend alive? Be at the rendezvous in one hour. Bring medical supplies.'
He started a fight with Fran, over what he didn't even know. But he needed her to kick him out of the house. She did. He slammed the door on his way out.
At the cottage, he waited in near darkness, a solitary lamp shining dimly in the corner.
The giant arrived first, the one called Daz. He said little, only that they were bringing him within the hour, and to be ready.
It was past midnight when he heard the crunch of gravel, and the beam from headlights shone through the windows. Car doors opened, closed with a bang that set his heart racing. This was insane. Heaven's joke. His only hope was that John was unconscious, or blind, or dead. He hoped he was dead. He couldn't bear the thought of John seeing him, and knowing he'd been betrayed.
But John wasn't there at all.
'He's bleeding badly,' said a woman he'd never seen before. She was bearing up the Colonel, whose right arm hung limp at his side, blood dripping from shoulder to fingertip. He held the other hand over his nose; his face was a smear of blood.
With Daz's help, they laid the Colonel on the long kitchen table, where Murray began to cut his clothes off, mind racing. He was trained to perform emergency medical treatment in the field, but that didn't qualify him as a surgeon. The Colonel had been shot in the arm, and the bullet was still lodged there. He had been gashed across the face, slicing clean through the bridge of his nose. Another wound flayed his leg from knee to ankle. And he'd been stabbed in the hip. He needed to go to A&E. He needed a team of doctors for this kind of thing. But he'd barely started saying so when the Colonel barked his order: 'Stitch me up, or I'll put shoot your goddamn head off.'
That night, he saved Sebastian Moran's life. Too scared to know, he didn't ask about John's.
Shortly thereafter, the story broke: John Watson, victim of a kidnapping plot, was alive and in hospital. And Sherlock Holmes was back from the dead. Only at this point did Murray learn that John had been used as bait, nothing more, a tool to draw out of hiding a murderer who had taken the life of a man named James Moriarty. Beyond that, they had no interest in John at all.
The cottage became something of a refuge and hideaway for Moran and his people, where they concocted their plots. Murray wasn't often there, but when he was, when he was made to come, to bring supplies and groceries and run errands, he learnt things about John's time in captivity that was not released to the media. Not only did Moran tell stories, but they passed around the footage on smartphones. Murray caught only a glimpse before spinning away, unable to bear it. They laughed at him, sat him in a chair, and with guffaws and ribbings, crowded around, and made him watch.
Later, when he at last escaped, he got sick in the loo. For days, he was unable to scrub the horrific images from before his eyes.
They didn't talk much about their own men who had been killed, like Pete, or those who had been arrested, like Everett Stubbins.
Was Stubbins talking? How long before Bill Murray's name came up, and they came breaking down his door to arrest him?
As it turned out, he wasn't the only one worried about the police.
'Greg Lestrade is a problem,' the Colonel said. 'Moriarty named him as one of the three, and he colluded with Holmes to track down his little puppy. O'Higgins should have done a better job distracting him. Fool. He deserves what he gets. And as for the DI . . . It's time we took him out of the game.'
The Colonel turned a steely eye onto Bill.
Bill Murray lay flat on his belly, which roiled and squelched. The scotch, which was meant to calm his nerves, wasn't helping. The air was cold, the skies threatened rain, but he licked the salt off his upper lip and his sweat-slicked finger slipped on the stock. Quickly, he wiped his palm on his trousers.
It's okay, it's okay, he coached himself, trying to forestall the tears, but there was nothing he could do about the tightness in his throat. He won't suffer. He started a little when a pigeon landed on the ledge, just feet away. Greg Lestrade has no children. No wife. No one who will really care.
He thought of his own children, his own wife. He was doing this for them. To protect them from an evil he hoped they never came to know. But the tears began tracking down his cheeks. Forgive me, Fran, he thought.
His earpiece crackled. 'Buck is exiting the building. Steady on, Ranger One. Prepare to engage.'
Murray pushed to his knees, lifting the sniper rifle above the ledge of the high rise, and put his eye to the scope, swiftly correcting his aim.
A group of officers had just appeared outside the doors of New Scotland Yard, ten of them, maybe twelve, he didn't have time to count. He didn't know which was Greg Lestrade. Though he had been shown a photograph, the distance and small crowd made him indiscernible from his fellows. But the Colonel had taught him a trick. With a nervous finger, he tapped the phone he'd been given, the one with an inscription of love on the back, a love that had been broken and regifted and stolen and abused, to send a pre-written text to the pre-programmed number. One word.
Bang.
Through the scope, he watched as one officer paused, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone to read a text.
God forgive me, for I shall sin.
He pulled the trigger.
It was the turn of the peg that snapped the taut string. Sherlock started forward, drew back his fist, and punched Bill Murray hard in the face.
Murray's head flew back and blood spurted from his nose and mouth. The chair tipped but did not fall.
'Bastard!' he shouted.
'I'm sorry, I'm sorry,' Murray sobbed.
'Not good enough!'
Sherlock turned away, shaking the sting from his knuckles. For an hour, he had listened with measured disinterest, a computer receiving and sorting data, in part because that was who he was, in greater part to balance the unpredictable fires burning silently under John's skin. He would be cool where John was hot, and keep things under control. But even he was more than machine. This man had just admitted to firing a bullet at his friend's skull, and it the last chink of the chisel to crack wide the stone.
'If you had killed Greg Lestrade, I would murder you myself. Know that. Right here, right now, I'd strangle the life out of you, you son of a bitch.'
He was shaking now, from the thought of what might have transpired on that day, from the effort of not choking Murray with both hands. It was almost too much to bear. If things had gone differently, he might have suffered two devastating losses that day, perhaps that very hour. He would not have survived it.
'I'm sorry,' Murray repeated woefully. 'But the Colonel, he said . . . he swore . . .'
'What? What did he swear?'
'You have to understand! He threatened me. If I didn't do it, he'd kill my family. He'd kill my children!'
'He's lying,' John said in a monotone.
Sherlock stood straight and looked over his shoulder. John's arms were crossed and his feet spread shoulder-width apart, planted solidly on the ground. He appeared unmoved by Murray's tearful plight. 'How do you know?'
'Because that's what Bill Murray does.' John slowly stepped forward, his face stoic but eyes hard as ice. At some point, they must have exchanged temperatures. 'He lies.'
Murray shook his head hard. 'I'm not lying, I swear, I'm not.'
'Moran doesn't threaten,' said John. 'He executes. He doesn't scare you with the thought of breaking your fingers to get you to talk. He just breaks them, and it's the blinding pain that drives you to do what he wants, whatever he wants. He doesn't threaten to chop off the finger of the woman you love—he just does it. And he makes you listen to her scream. So don't give me this bullshit that he threatened you. He didn't have to. You were already scared shitless.'
Tears continued to flow as Murray looked up at John. 'I'm sorry about Mary,' he whispered.
'Like hell you are.'
'I didn't know he'd go after her. I didn't. That's the truth.'
John put a finger in his face. 'Shut up about her. You don't get to talk about her. Not one goddamn word. Don't you even say her name.' Then he spun away and began to pace.
Sherlock sneered at Murray, chest still heaving. 'So Moran sent you to kill Greg Lestrade. The sniper sent a nurse.'
'His wounds were . . . severe.' Murray sniffed, wiped the blood from under his nose. 'He couldn't even hold a rifle, let alone aim one. The pain from the gashed nose was causing double vision, and he was so doped up, he couldn't have done it. There were others at his beck and call, though, better shooters than me. I mean, I barely even qualified to hold a rifle at Pirbright. It didn't make sense, his choosing me. But—'
'It was strategy,' said John. He was leaning now against the back wall of the barn, in the shadows, as though physically distancing himself was the only way to keep from going after Murray himself. 'Don't you get it? He wins either way: If you are successful, Lestrade dies, and he wins. If you fail, he punishes you. Sadists like that sort of thing.' There was a beat of silence. Sherlock tried to make out John's expression in the dark, but could see nothing. 'So what was it? How did he punish you for missing your mark? For killing off one of Moran's own?'
Murray blinked like he had an eyelash caught under a lid. 'One of Moran's?'
'That's what I said.'
'Anthony Pitts?' He shook his head. 'Pitts wasn't one of ours.'
'Ours,' John spat derisively.
'His! You know what I mean! The Colonel's!'
'Stop calling him that!'
Murray cowered, and made to apologise, but Sherlock stepped on his first word.
'What do you mean, he wasn't one of yours? Pitts was Moran's man, like Stubbins had been. One of the ten.'
'Ten what?'
'Spies! At the Yard! Stubbins said there were ten players. Nine were arrested. That left Tony Pitts as number ten.'
'I don't know anything about that. All I know is, when the Col— When Moran found out how I'd screwed up, he laughed. Actually laughed. A bug he didn't have to swat, he said. I'd been aiming for a fly and taken out a wasp, he said. But I had still failed to take out my mark. Like you said, there were consequences.'
Tony Pitts hadn't been a spy? Then what about that phone call? And who had they overlooked? He put them aside for now. It would not do to get distracted.
'Go on, then. What consequences?' Sherlock asked. 'What else did he make you do?'
Murray sniffed again, but allowed the blood to drip down his chin. 'The cottage became headquarters. People coming and going all the time, even when I wasn't there. And I wasn't there much. I had appearances to keep up at home, you know? I didn't know half of the A.G.R.A. crowd, but I was learning, and—'
'A.G.R.A.' Sherlock interrupted. 'What do you know about A.G.R.A.?'
'It's the network.'
'I know that! How does it work? Who is part of it? How do they communicate?'
'And what does it stand for?' John added.
'What does it stand for? I don't remember.'
'You don't remember?'
'I only heard the full name once, and it's not even English, I don't think. Don't know what it was. But that's not the point. A.G.R.A is a code. When you become part of the network, you can signal to others, let them know you're a part of it. Then you sort of, I don't know, help each other out.'
'How?' Sherlock asked, and at the same moment John asked, 'Why?'
Murray looked rapidly between them. 'There are trackings all over the dark web. That's where most of the communication happens. But some of us—them, I mean—have surface clues, like pins or tattoos or stationery, things people don't think twice about. There are businesses, too, whole storefronts. They have a public face, legitimate services, but—'
'We know about those,' said John. He was growing impatient.
Murray blinked. 'You do?'
'Andre's General Repair and Renovation Assistance? Automotive General Retail Agency? Aggie Red Ales. Yeah. We know. But why.'
Murray wiped his forehead. 'It's his masterpiece.'
'Moran's?'
'James Moriarty's. That's what Moran told me. It was all his idea. A collusion of criminals scratching each other's backs. If you rob a bank, a pub down the street will help you launder the money. If you kill someone in your warehouse, a service will come clean up the evidence. Like Andre's. I used them twice, the first time after Moran showed up that night, bloody from head to foot. Then again in March. And every time you do it, you report it, and you get a reward. It's like, an incentive for crime. Small potatoes, most times. But not always.'
'Where does the money come from?' Sherlock asked.
'I don't know.'
'Who moves it around?'
'I don't know.'
John snorted. 'But you got your own slice of the pie, didn't you?'
'Three hundred grand,' said Murray. 'Untouchable. Sitting in an offshore account. I touch it, they find me. Moran, or the police, whoever. But I don't want it. I don't want so much as a penny.'
'You can't run forever, Bill.'
Murray's shoulders slumped and he shook his head pitiably. 'I know.'
Sherlock shivered. The damp was seeping into their bones. 'What else did you hear in the cottage?' he asked. 'How did Moran punish you for failing to kill Greg Lestrade?'
'They made me part of their plans,' Murray answered, 'going forward. It was punishment enough.'
The plot to draw Sherlock Holmes out of hiding had been a success. That's what Moran kept saying. He was a glass-half-full kind of guy, after all.
But they hadn't killed him. So the man who had murdered James Moriarty still lived and breathed on Baker Street, probably not even knowing how well protected he was by forces greater than himself. They weren't done with him, Moran said, not by a long shot. But Murray didn't quite understand. If they wanted him dead, surely there were ways to do it, and quickly. Snipers and bombs might not be elegant, but it would do the trick, surely. But there were different machinations at work, apparently, spearheaded by two masterminds, Adler and Moran. 'Dead men don't suffer,' said the woman on more than one occasion, and Moran recited, 'I'll burn the heart out of him,' as though it were a long-held mantra.
It was a game to them, one Murray didn't comprehend. He was not inner-circle.
They planned behind closed doors, but that didn't prevent him from overhearing a fair bit in passing, though to him it was all fairly nonsensical, like disparate puzzle pieces in a grand picture he couldn't fathom. Conversations about flowers, one day, and Jack and Jill another, and London Bridge. Murray thought of his children, and how he wished he were at home with them.
Then one day, in early December, while setting Old Speckled Hens in the back of the fridge, he spotted a stack of stapled papers on the counter. Curious, he dragged the papers closer, eyes skimming. It was a long list of names ordered, apparently, by initials, with some markings beside names he didn't understand.
Stephen Jacobs
Sam Jefferies
Simone Jeffords
Sean Johnson
Scott Jurewicz
Henry Owen Hatch
Hector O'Halloran
Holden O'Harris . . .
'Know what they all have in common?'
Murray jumped and spun. There stood in the Colonel, in the doorway of the butler's pantry, watching him.
'They're all homeless,' said the Colonel.
'Oh,' said Murray, not understanding. 'Okay.'
'So get this. James Moriarty uses his brilliance to orchestrate a network of well-disguised criminals, filling the entire globe. He ruled the world. But Sherlock Holmes? The man who claims to be more clever, more brilliant, than the most intelligent man who ever lived? He uses his intellect to fashion a network of London-based homeless sods. Ha!'
Above the unsightly scarring across his nose, the Colonel's eyes danced with a kind of excitement, and clear invitation to appreciate the joke. Murray laughed weakly.
'We're going to steal it,' he continued. 'Weaponise it. We'll turn it against him. Along with all of London. It'll be a sight to behold, wait and see. These'—he drew nearer to Murray and drummed his fingers on the page—'are the first pieces of my puzzle.'
Murray looked down at the list again, still confused but afraid to know what it all meant.
'What do you think, Bill?'
'Me?' He laughed again. Play stupid. Play incompetent. 'I don't think anything. I just thought I knew one of these guys, heh.' He cleared his throat. 'But if they're all homeless chaps, then I'm clearly mistaken. Sam Jefferies is probably a really common name.'
'You know Jefferies?'
'Well. Not that Jefferies.' He nodded at the page.
The Colonel regarded him for a long and silent moment. Then: 'Follow me. The cellar needs refurbishing, and I have some ideas.'
The A.G.R.A. crowd weren't coming around the cottage much anymore. Moran had left, too. To where, God only knew. He hadn't seen the woman in more than a week, either. It was just as well. The holidays were approaching, and he needed to be with his family.
Christmas was a special misery. He tried to be cheerful, appreciative of the ways Fran tried to make it magical for the kids. But he was on edge, waiting for an anvil to fall on his head, or London Bridge to explode, or the ghost of John Watson to show up on his doorstep with a pistol levelled between his eyes. Sometimes he forgot John wasn't dead. God, those photographs, those videos. If plucking his eyes from his skull could erase the memory of them, he would do it.
'You're not even trying,' Fran snapped at him as they cleared away Christmas wrapping paper.
'Not tonight, Fran.'
The kids were in bed. In years past, he and Fran had always celebrated a job well done with a bottle of red wine and love making. Tonight, it was clear neither of those things would happen.
'How long has it been?' she asked. She couldn't look at him. Just kept shoving paper into bin bags.
'Since what?' he asked.
'Since you stopped loving me?'
He froze. Sighed. Straightened. 'Don't start this.'
'Should I just end it, then?'
'Fran—'
'I mean it, Bill. If you don't want this'—she swept her arm wide, taking in the whole living room, the house, the children, their life together—'walk away. Because your children don't deserve a daddy that doesn't want to be here. I don't deserve it, either. You don't want to talk to me? You don't want to admit you've got troubles? Fine. Figure it out on your own. But not at our expense.'
He wanted to scream and rail. He hadn't wanted this! Any of it! He hadn't asked to be a pawn on the board of evil men. He hated that he was afraid of the man he saw in the mirror and the shadow on the wall. If he could only turn back time. If he could only find a way out of the burning rubble with all his limbs intact. If only the hand of God would part the stormy clouds and pluck him up and save him from this mortal coil. If only he deserved any of it.
She went to bed alone. He lay on the sofa, but didn't sleep.
It was New Year's Day. He was drinking when they contacted him again.
They wanted him to reconnect with Sam Jefferies. Sam Jefferies, with whom he had lost contact since his wedding, and who, having fallen on hard times related to his time in Afghanistan, was now homeless.
They wanted him to pick up Jefferies in front of St John at Hackney Church in Lower Clapton. 'Tell him you want to take him for a drink. Catch up. Like old times.'
They handed him keys to a black transit van. He hailed Jefferies on a corner. Jefferies climbed in smiling, thanked him for calling. Murray smiled back, and they started chatting, like old times.
He didn't know that the giant, Daz, was in the back. Not until they parked, and the divider parted, and Jefferies was grabbed and hauled into the back end of the van.
Hands pressed over his ears and eyes squeezed shut tight, Murray trembled and cried, but he couldn't shut out the ungodly sounds of savagery that followed, nor fail to notice how the van pitched from side to side like a rowboat caught in a storm. It seemed to go on forever. Murray wanted to scream: Just kill him already! Just die! But he could do nothing but sit and listen to the giant do to Jefferies what he had done to John.
At long last, the screaming, the groaning, the gurgling all stopped. The van stilled.
'Drive,' came the order.
Murray obeyed.
'You're gonna help me get him in the tree.'
The back doors to the transit van hung open, but Murray, frozen in shock, couldn't look inside. The giant's words jolted him, and he fell back a step. He had thought Daz would dump the body, and they'd drive away.
'Grab the bleach. And rope.'
Then Daz grabbed Jefferies' half-naked corpse by the ankles and hauled him out.
'I . . . can't . . .'
Next he knew, Daz had him pinned against the van, and a massive hand was around his throat. 'You'll do what I tell you to do, or you'll end up just like him.'
He did what Daz told him to do. While Daz fixed a rope in a tree, Murray treated the body with bleach, pulled the laces from one shoe, and used it to bind the dead man's hands in front of him. His every action was mechanical, detached. This isn't me, this isn't me, he thought, when he thought anything at all. This isn't happening. This isn't Sam. There is no Sam.
Over and over, he repeated it like a mantra, with every tug on the rope, as the body rose toward the sky. This isn't happening. This isn't me. There is no me.
After that night, he didn't return home. He never went home again.
There were other jobs, other missions. Nothing like the one in the park in Lower Clapton. Maybe they didn't trust him anymore. Maybe it was clear to Moran that Daz hated him. Whatever the reason, he wasn't there when it happened to O'Harris, or Nichols, or the two homeless lovebirds. In fact, he was barely aware that anything more was happening at all, not until it was reported in the news or through the grapevine.
Instead, he was tasked with little things, like receiving a parcel to the cottage: a small box containing what looked to be a red dog bowl. He was to do nothing with it, only store it in the wine cellar. He was asked to collect hemlock and a rose petal and leave it in a plastic baggie in the fridge at the cottage for someone to collect. He helped set up a television set in a tunnel near Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. Little things.
He had long stopped thinking about going to the police with what he knew. Instead, he fantasised about the moment when they caught him. Maybe they would surround him on the street somewhere in London, or come crashing through the door in Wingrave, dressed in riot gear and toting assault rifles, like they did in the movies. They would drag him away in handcuffs and interrogate him about everything, from John Watson to Tony Pitts to Sam Jefferies. Would that be when he did it at last, offer his confession? Into an audio recorder and before a host of police detectives who had no power to offer either justice or mercy?
Maybe he would just kill himself. But the thought was bitter-sweet. He wasn't ready for his Final Judgement.
They brought a man to the cottage wearing a bag over his head. In the few seconds he had to observe him before they dragged him to the wine cellar, Murray noticed the brown of his hands and heard the soft murmuring beneath the bag. The words were foreign and reminded him forcefully of Afghanistan. But they were soft, ceaseless, desperate. He didn't understand a word, but he recognised them just the same, one God-fearing man's soul speaking to another's. Words of prayer.
He didn't want to know what would happen next. So he left the cottage. He stood at the edge of his property, facing away from the house and across a field, and lit a cigarette. He pulled a pre-paid phone out of his coat pocket. After a few drags, he called home.
'Hey love,' he said.
Then he closed his eyes and listened to the voice of his wife berate him, question him, beg him to come home. He made no attempt at another hollow apology, but asked how the kids were doing, how she was doing, were they managing the cold all right, was the neighbour boy still tossing cigarette butts into their garden? It was a short call. When he hung up, he rang Anita. He needed money, and a place to stay.
Two nights later, they called him again.
'Meet Daz at Newport Cemetery. Bring a length of rope.'
Colonel Moran was back in London.
Murray was summoned to the cottage and found the Colonel there alone at the kitchen table, two beers set in the centre. He had the comportment of a businessman and a gentleman, dressed in a dark suit and tie with is hands folded together on the surface of the table. His hair was longer than when Murray had seen him last, slicked back and held in place with gel, and his beard was full and close to the cheek. All these details faded into the background, however, beneath the mass of scar tissue running across his otherwise pristine face, like a split in the earth. He indicated that Murray take a seat.
'The game is nearly over,' he said, sliding a bottle toward Murray. 'Three more days.'
Murray had always recoiled mentally every time they called all of this a 'game'. It sounded perverse. Nursery rhymes and puzzles and games—it was a hell of a way to toy with the lives of men.
He took a swig of beer.
'I have an assignment for you.'
He was given the details. In three days, a small team, including Daz, was to make a pickup in London. The final seizure, he called it, the last piece in the puzzle. They would bring the mark to the cottage, and they needed Murray there to act as medical man. 'Be ready to clip a bird's wings,' said the Colonel. 'Keep it alive, but unable to fly.'
The mission was code-named 'Cock Robin'. Murray knew who that referred to, exactly who. All along, there had been code names, for both of them. Wren and Robin.
When the plan was laid out and Murray's role made clear, the Colonel, clunking his empty beer bottle back to the table, said, 'You're my man, Bill. Isn't that right?'
'Yes, sir,' he said without any force of conviction. It was true, but not because he willed it to be so. It was the way a prisoner belonged to the governor.
'Before this is all over, Irene Adler will come to you. She will tell you this was all her design and that she shot the wren from the sky. She'll want you to believe her. She'll ask you to join her in what comes next.' He cocked his head, eyes fixed on Murray as surely as a needle fixing a dead moth to a pinning block. 'But you're my man. Not hers. Do you understand?'
Slowly, Murray nodded.
'This is my kingdom. All this? This is my great work. The glory is mine. Irene Adler is a thief and a liar. A usurper. So you'll stand by me, won't you, Bill? You're my man, aren't you?'
'I've always obeyed my superior officers,' said Murray. 'Always.'
One last time, he called home.
'I love you,' he said. Tears tracked down his cheeks. He clapped a hand across his mouth so she couldn't hear the ragged breath that followed.
'You love me?' she asked, incredulous. 'You love me, you'll get your arse home! I'm going mad here on my own. You hear me, Bill? You come home this instant! We'll figure it out, okay? Whatever it is, we'll figure it out!'
Fran was a woman who never cried. But she was crying. He heard it in her voice.
'Kiss my babies for me, Fran,' he said.
'Bill!'
He couldn't manage another word, and he couldn't bear any from her. The moment the call was ended, he fell to his knees and sobbed.
'I ran. I left Dad's cottage, and I didn't look back.' Murray ran a hand across his weary face. 'I've been running ever since. Hell. I've been running since Afghanistan.'
Outside, the rain had stopped. Now, only a whistling wind cut past the windows.
'He'll come after me, I know it. He'll kill me. It's only a matter of time.'
Sherlock didn't doubt him. Moran was not the sort to live and let live. And if the network was as vast as Murray suggested it was, and as Sherlock himself had been witness to while trying to dismantle it abroad, he had a thousand spies. Murray wouldn't be able to hide forever. And if he managed it much longer, Moran would apply pressure elsewhere to draw him out. They'd seen him do it before. They needed to get Fran and her children to safety.
He heard a scraping behind him and turned to see John emerging slowly from the darkness, where he had sequestered himself for the last of Murray's testimony. His face was stoic as he dragged in his wake a folding wooden chair, which he set before Murray. Then he sat.
John said nothing. For a long moment, Murray looked down at his own hands. But as the quiet dragged on, both Sherlock and Murray seemed to realise that John was waiting. He wouldn't speak until Murray looked him in the eye. Slowly, Murray lifted his head. Their eyes met. Sherlock held his breath.
'When he brought Mary to the convent, she was wearing pyjamas and her feet were bare. Her hair was cut.' John leant forward, elbows to knees, but his head didn't bow, and his eye contact with Murray didn't break. 'She didn't understand what was happening. I could see the confusion in her eyes, the fear. But you know what else? I saw the trust. She trusted me. She trusted that I was without fault, that I would figure a way out of that place for the both of us. She believed it wouldn't be long before we were safe back home, together, with the memory of that awful place behind us. I saw that in her eyes. I can't stop seeing it. And I let her down.'
Murray winced, and it was as if Sherlock could read his thoughts, as they resonated in harmony with his own: It's not your fault Mary died. It's mine.
'We both know what Sebastian Moran is capable of. You didn't need him to break your fingers or kill your loved ones to know it. You saw what he did to mine. That was enough. So I know why you did what you did.' John shook his head sadly, his voice low and soft. 'You should have come to me.'
'I know,' said Murray woefully. 'I think about it all the time. I should have come to you at the very start. I should have talked to you after Major Sholto died. None of this would have happened.'
But again, John shook his head. 'Not to you. But to me, it was always going to happen. I don't lay that at your feet.' He sighed. 'You could have saved yourself, though, couldn't you? You could have come to me at any time. Don't you know that? After Sholto died on my table, after Sherlock fell from the rooftop, after Mary, after Sam. Last week, for Christ's sake. You could have. And I would have helped you. Isn't that the damnedest thing? I would have helped you.' He pushed back from his knees and sat straighter. 'Why did you make me have to come to you instead?'
Murray repeated his question from before. 'What are you going to do to me?'
'I don't know.' John arose and faced away. 'We're going to protect your family, first and foremost. But as for you? God, the things you've done, Bill. You've done some terrible things. You don't just get to walk away from them.'
'Are you going to kill me?' He sounded calm, almost hopeful.
Sherlock stepped closer. 'No,' he said.
'Then . . . have me arrested?'
Sherlock waited for John to look at him before he answered. 'No. We're going to let you go.'
Both John and Murray looked stunned. 'We're what now?' John asked, an edge to his voice.
'You've just told us one hell of a story, Bill. And John is right. The things you've done are criminal. We could turn you over to the police, certainly, and get you the punishment the law says you deserve. Maybe it is what you deserve. But there's something larger at stake, and if we take you into custody, we lose our advantage. Don't we?'
'What advantage?' Murray asked.
'You. An inside man.'
John's eyes widened as he realised what Sherlock was planning. Sherlock waited for him to step in and interject, and when he didn't, he continued:
'You want to expiate your wrongs against John? You want to rid the world of the evil that is Sebastian Moran?'
Tremulously, Murray nodded.
'Then you'll become the very thing we need to defeat him: a spy.'
'He . . . he'll know. He doesn't trust me anymore, not after I ran.'
'He'll trust that you're still a coward. That you fear him more than anything and anyone and will always do as he says.'
'And that's how you'll deceive him,' said John, coming to stand at Sherlock's side. 'Because deep down inside of you, somewhere, is a man who can defy the devil. If you can only let him out.'
'So,' said Bill, 'you'll let me go. Tonight. And . . . do what? Go back to the cottage?'
'The cottage is gone. He burned it down over a week ago.'
He paled. 'Oh my God.'
'You're going to let Moran find you. However you do it, do it quickly, and do whatever it takes to win back his trust. But you'll be reporting to us. You want redemption? This is what it takes. You're going to help us take this bastard down.'
With rounded eyes, he looked between Sherlock and John, like he couldn't believe his own ears. But as Sherlock observed, a subtle but unmistakable transformation was taking place. The rounded shoulders began to square, and the lines of fear hardened into something resolute.
'I'll do it.'
'At long last, a righteous choice,' said Sherlock. 'Welcome to the side of the angels.'
End of Part 2