Free Firewall by Andy McNab Page B

for her-not as much as I'd have liked, but they had a habit of reminding me how our lives should have been.
    I turned the handle. There had probably been more wind than rain in my absence, as the stain on the ceiling wasn't wet. The blue two-man tent in the middle of the floor was still holding out. I'd put nails in the floorboards instead of tent pegs and they were rusty now, but I still couldn't bring myself to take it down.
    On the mantel were two photos in cheap wooden picture frames, which I'd promised to bring down to her on my next visit. One was of her with her family-her parents Kev, Marsha; and her sister Aida-all smiles around a smoking barbecue. It was taken about a month before I'd found them hosed down in their home in the spring of '97. I bet she missed this picture; it was the only decent one she had.
    The other was of Josh and his kids. This was a recent one, as Josh was carrying a face scar that any neo-Nazi would be proud of. It was of the family standing outside the Special Operations Training Section of the American Secret Service at Laurel, Maryland. Josh's dark-pink gunshot wound ran all the way up the right-hand side of his cheek to his ear, like a clown's smile. I hadn't had any contact with him since my stupidity got his face rearranged in June '98.
    He and I still administered what was left of Kelly's trust fund, though as her legal guardian, I'd found myself shouldering more and more of the financial responsibility. Josh was aware of her problem, but it was just done via letters now. He was the last real friend I had, and I hoped that maybe one day he would forgive me for nearly getting him and his kids killed. It was too early to go in and apologize-at least that was what I told myself. But I had woken up late at night more than once, knowing the real reason: I just couldn't face all that sorrow and guilt stuff at the same time. I wanted to, I just wasn't any good at it.
    As I picked up Kelly's photos, I realized why I didn't have any myself.
    They just made me think about the people in them.
    I cut away from all that, promising myself that reestablishing contact with Josh would be one of the first things I got done next year.
    I went into the bathroom opposite, and ran the buttercup-colored bath.
    I had a bit of a soft spot for the foam tiles, now light brown with age, that lined the ceiling. I remembered my stepdad putting some up when I was a kid. "These'll keep the heat in," he'd said, then his hand slipped and his thumb left a dent. Every Sunday night, when I had a bath, I threw the soap at the ceiling to add to the pattern.
    Returning to my bedroom, I put Kelly's photos on the mattress to make sure I didn't forget them. I finished my coffee, then dug into one of the cardboard boxes, looking for my leather pants.
    I checked the bath and it was time to jump in, after hitting the small radio on the floor, which was permanently tuned to Radio 4. The shooting was still high on the agenda. An "expert" on ROC declared to listeners of the morning program that it had all the hallmarks of an inter faction shooting. He went on to say that he had known this was going to happen and, of course, he knew the group responsible. He could not, however, name them. He had their trust. The interviewer sounded as unimpressed as I was.
    I lay in the bath and glanced at Baby G. Another ten minutes and I had to get moving.
    The order of the day was first, the doctor's office at 11:30 to talk about Kelly's progress, then lie to the clinic's accounts department about why I couldn't pay the new invoice just yet. I didn't think they would completely understand if I told them everything would have been fine if a mad Russian called Carpenter hadn't fucked up my cash flow.
    My next visit would be to Colonel Lynn at the Firm. I wasn't looking forward to that conversation, either. I hated having to plead.
    The third stop on my agenda was Apartment 3A Palace Gardens in Kensington. What the hell, I was desperate. I didn't see