At Risk

55

Faraj watched dispassionately as Jean, kneeling naked to the waist on the flagstoned towpath beneath the bridge, bent forward to rinse her hair in the river. Beyond the arches of the bridge lay a grey, baleful dawn. It was 9 a.m., and very cold. Jean’s fingers scrabbled methodically at her scalp, a thin soapy cloud drifted downstream, and finally she raised her head and wrung out the dark rope of her hair. Still crouched over the water, she took a plastic comb from the unzipped washbag, and dragged it repeatedly forwards from the nape of her neck until her hair was no longer dripping. Then she shook it out, and pulled her dirty T-shirt back on. Her hands were shaking now after their immersion in the river, her head ached with the cold, and hunger was knotting her guts. It was essential, though, that she be presentable.

It was the day.

Pressing her flattened hands into her armpits to warm them for a moment, she searched in the washbag, found a pair of steel hairdressing scissors, and handed these and the comb to Faraj. Events had taken on a strange clarity. “My turn for a haircut,” she said, a little self-consciously.

He nodded. Frowned as he took the scissors. Flickered them experimentally.

“It’s simple,” she said. “You work from the back to the front, cutting so that every strand”-she held up her index finger-“is this long.”

The frown still in place, Faraj seated himself behind her. Taking the comb and scissors he began to cut, carefully dropping the severed locks into the river as he went. Fifteen minutes later he laid down the scissors.

“Done.”

“How does it look?” she asked. “Do I look different?”

A word of tenderness. A single word would do.

“You look different,” he said brusquely. “Are you ready?”

“I just want to take a last look at the map,” she said, glancing sideways at him. He was not yet thirty, but the stubble on his chin was silver. His face was blank. Reaching for the book, squinting in the dim light, she re-examined the topography of the area. As the crow flew, they were just three miles from the target.

“I’m still worried about the helicopters,” she confessed. “If we go across country and they spot us, we’re finished.”

“It’s less risky than taking another car,” he said. “And if they’re as clever as you say they are, they won’t be searching round here anyway. They’ll be concentrating on the approaches to the US bases.”

“We’re probably fifteen miles from Marwell here,” she admitted. “Maybe sixteen.”

But fifteen or sixteen miles still didn’t seem very far. It was the infrared cameras that she really feared. Their heat signatures on a screen, two pulsing dots of light growing larger and larger as the beating of the rotors grew louder and louder, roaring now, blotting out all sound and thought…

“I think we should walk to West Ford along the towpath,” she said, levelling her voice with a conscious effort. “That way, if we hear any helicopters, we’ve… we’ve got a chance of hiding under the next bridge.”

He looked expressionlessly down at her hands, which had begun to shake again. “All right,” he said. “The path, then. Pack the bags.”