The Crocodile Hunter by Gerald Seymour (english novels to improve english txt) 📗

with a check in it, a tie that was loosened and hung askew, and a jacket that might have been a genuine Harris tweed or at least an imitation. He assessed the former owner was now deceased, and that a house clearance had put the garments into a charity shop, assessed again that the charity shop would have been close to where the young man had come ashore: he’d have arrived wet and shivering, at the door of a Deal charity shop and the staff would have taken pity on him, would have kitted him out, and done it carefully because the clothing hung well on him. He would have every charity outlet in the town of Deal checked out, and their casual volunteer workers identified. Their time, the staff’s time, would come, and he made a note of it. Maybe that afternoon, if all went well, maybe the next morning, they would be interrogated – would probably face charges.

Cameron Jilkes sagged down on to one of the rough wood benches. Seemed to flop, then checked his watch, would have been satisfied that he had time for a brief rest before moving on to the railway station.

The dog was allowed to sniff some more, and Jonas guided it with fractional flicks of the wrist. It was an obedient little soul and did as it was directed.

Aching in his back, and in his legs, and aching because of the welcome he had failed to receive back home, Cammy slumped.

Saw an old man meandering towards him, a dog on a lead. Just an old man out early with his dog . . .

He would sit here for five minutes or ten, not more. Would draw the air down into his lungs, take strength from it. The first layer of sunshine came over the grass and nestled on his face. In five minutes or ten, no more, he would go down to the stream and crouch and wash his hands and see how much mud was on his jacket, and might dump it and might not . . .

The old man followed the dog. Seemed to talk to the dog but Cammy could not hear what he said. He had glanced around, had done a full rotation before sitting on the bench. If there had been police, he would have seen them. They’d have been in black dungarees and would have had German Shepherds, and they’d have had firearms. He had looked, not an idiot, far from it, had seen nothing . . . A couple came from the path beside the housing estate but they veered away, went towards the Leisure Centre – would have been shagging and would have come across country because they were too early for the buses. He’d seen them, checked them, and they held hands. It was a pretty little dog. His mum would have liked a dog like that. His mum could not have a dog because she was out too early in the morning and back too late in the evening, and slept when she could. He did not want to think of his mother, and whether she had a dog, or did not . . . hurt him to think of her.

The old man came closer, had not looked up and their eyes had not met, but the dog gazed at him, seemed to interrogate Cammy.

Cammy would be a suicider. Had seen them often enough. All boys, thin as rakes and murmuring to themselves, and might have been dosed up, fidgeting. All had handlers who spoke for them and received the instructions on where in the line they were to run to, at what moment they should reach the checkpoint they would demolish, when they should go forward in the armoured vehicle. Cammy was sitting in Kingsmead Park, close to the Leisure Centre where he had learned to swim, was among the late daffodils, and a river, clean and fresh, flowed ahead of him, and he reflected on suiciders. He had thought most of them dosed up because they had no conversation, just nodded in rhythm, and most – God’s truth – were useless. They seemed to have no names and were given no respect. Were just detritus and might achieve a moment of advantage in a fire-fight and might not . . . If they wore vests or drove an armoured vehicle then there was a second detonation system programmed in, and should the suicide funk out then the big man, far back and safe, could press a button and do the job the kid had failed to carry out. They would have made promises, the would-be suiciders. All about promises . . . would have made promises and would not be able to renege on what they said. Were committed, could not back down. Himself? Neither could he back down . . . Could not consider it . . . One option was to go home, go in by the front door, sit in a chair and wait for the police to come. Another – to go into the city, through the old gate, and give some flannel as to his business and then sit in the area reserved for the choir and look to see if the priest came back, or had already shopped him. Have himself carted out of the cathedral, marched past the tomb of the Black Prince – the warrior. And another – could go into the city and past the Miller’s pub and on to St Peter’s Street, over the bridge and on to the High Street, out past the city walls and turn up at the police station: “Had enough, was scared, want to jack it in, and promises mean nothing”. He laughed out loud. The thought of it . . . and saw the faces of his brothers. Laughed some more at the thought of ditching his word . . . How would it be? Would be fast. What would he feel? Nothing.

Would have been his laugh that attracted the dog. Just a few yards away now . . . The old man seemed dressed in clothing similar to his. The sun warmed him. He arched his