Free Border Crossing by Pat Barker

handled this very well, have I?’
    ‘Oh, I don’t think you did too badly.’

SEVEN
    Martha Pitt called first thing next morning, her smoke-roughened voice sounding, as it always did on the phone, slightly tentative. It had taken him a long time to work out why. It wasn’t that she disliked the phone; she just hated giving her name. At first he’d thought it was her nickname – ‘Pit Bull Martha’ – that she disliked, and you could see why – not a lot of women would have liked it – but it turned out to be ‘Martha’ she couldn’t stand. ‘How do you think it feels? Condemned from the cradle to choose the worser part.’
    ‘What is the worser part?’
    ‘Doing good, rather than contemplating God.’
    Martha was a Catholic. She knew that sort of thing.
    ‘Bloody good name for a probation officer, then.’
    ‘Aw, piss off.’
    Now she said crisply, ‘I think we need to talk.’
    ‘What about?’ he asked, teasing.
    ‘Ian Wilkinson.’
    They arranged to meet for lunch at one o’clock. He’d been standing at the bar for five minutes when Martha came in, clutching the enormous black satchel she carted around with her everywhere. Sometimes, watching her scrabble about inside it for something she knew she had somewhere, he imagined her disappearing into it, backwards, dragging make-up, car keys, court reports in after her, like a badger pulling fresh bedding into its sett.
    Bending to kiss her, he breathed in the familiar smells of stale cigarette smoke and peppermints. She’d become addicted to mints during her last attempt to give up smoking, and now scoured sweetshops for stronger and stronger varieties. Fiery Fred was her latest fix. The last time they’d met he’d made the mistake of accepting one, and his eyes had watered for a full five minutes afterwards.
    ‘Do you want a pint?’ he asked.
    He waited, patiently, while the usual struggle with temptation played itself out on her features, ending as it always did. ‘Yeah, go on, why not?’
    ‘Cheers,’ Tom said, raising his glass. ‘Probably the end of useful work for the day, but never mind.’
    ‘How’s it going?’
    ‘Not bad. I ought to finish the first draft by the end o**next week.’
    ‘Then I can start reading?’
    ‘Yes. Gently.’
    They took their glasses over to a table by the window and sat down. ‘Well, then,’ Martha said, lighting a cigarette, ‘how does it feel to be a hero?’
    ‘Dunno.’
    She smiled. ‘C’mon, Tom. How close was it?’
    ‘For him? I don’t know. He’d taken enough pills to knock him out, so I suppose, yes, it was pretty close.’
    ‘Extraordinary coincidence.’
    ‘Extraordinary.’
    They didn’t need to say much to make themselves understood.
    ‘Of course he’d say it wasn’t a coincidence,’ Martha went on.
    ‘That’s right. Arranged by God.’
    ‘Well, don’t knock it,’ she said. ‘A lot of perfectly rational people would agree with him.’
    ‘Yes, I know. And a lot of perfectly rational people would say it happened that way because Danny planned it.’
    ‘Why would he do that?’
    ‘I don’t know. And, anyway, he has to be given the benefit of the doubt. There’s no way we’re going to prove anything. And outrageous coincidences do happen. He’s told you he wants to come and talk to me about…” He glanced round, but they had the back room to themselves. The solicitors and barristers who were the Crown’s daytime clients preferred the lounge bar. ‘The murder.’
    ‘He’s been talking about doing that on and off ever since I’ve known him. And I’ve always encouraged him. I think he needs to do it. Whether this is the right time
    ‘Did you think he was depressed?’
    ‘No. He seemed angry, if anything. But then I suppose if the anger’s got nowhere to go…’
    ‘How often do you see him?’
    ‘Three times a week.’
    Tom whistled. ‘That’s a helluva lot.’
    ‘Yes, well, he needs it.’
    ‘Do you find him difficult?’
    ‘Draining. Sometimes after