CHAPTER 14
I read a comic book once when I was about ten.
Some old geezer with a beard was saying his ears were burning. The accompanying cartoon showed flames pouring from his ears. Then his beard caught fire. If it was supposed to trigger laughter, then it failed with me because I was trying to work out where the expression might have come from.
I know what it means. It means someone, somewhere in the world is talking about you. But if you’ve also been talking about them, then it’s called a coincidence, and there is much controversy about coincidences. I think coincidences can be encouraged just by doing more, and if two people think or talk about one another often enough, then surely there comes a time when they do so at exactly the same time.
That is not then a coincidence but a logical outcome. But why am I saying this?
***
It was past midnight when Kevin’s phone rang. It had been raining steadily since they left Scotland, but despite the road spray and poor visibility, Roger had talked for most of the way. He stopped talking when he heard the phone.
Kevin, worried that it might be Khan even at that hour, struggled to remove the phone from his back pocket, and by the time he put it to his ear, it had stopped.
“Friend Khan checking up on you in the middle of the night?” Roger asked.
“There was no number showing,” Kevin replied, so Roger continued from where he’d left off.
“So six passports,” he said. “Three British, one German, one Greek, and one Pakistani. Do we assume they’re stolen? Read out the names again.”
Kevin picked up each of the coloured photocopies Hamish had made. “Thomas Caplan, British. Age thirty-one,” he read. “White face, dark tee shirt, dark curly hair, staring like he’s seen a ghost. Looks mixed-race African. Next, Jaffar Ghafoor, British. Age nineteen. Probably Pakistani or Afghan. Then, Jacob Adebayo, British. Age twenty-two. Looks more like a West African.”
Roger interrupted him. “Impressive. Living where you do, I suppose it’s easy to put nationalities to faces.”
“Isn’t that racist?”
“No idea. But why no passports for old men or women. Don’t they deserve a nice fake passport? What about the Greek?”
“Giannis Andreopoulos. Age twenty-five. It’s the one with no photo.”
“The Pakistani?”
“Khayal Zaman Sharif. Age twenty-two. Looks fifteen. Definitely looks Pakistani.”
“The German?”
“Mohammed Muller. Age twenty-one. Might be Turkish.”
“So what do you reckon, Kevin? Stolen or forged. Of course, the only way to find out would be to check with the passport office, but then they’d want to know who we are and what business it is of ours. And I don’t suppose you’d want to be linked with asking too many questions right now.”
Roger’s eyes were on the motorway ahead, but he glanced quickly at Kevin. “Do you think the other packages you collect and deliver for Khan, like the ones for Mr. Greg, are also passports?”
“Maybe. They’re a similar size.”
“The interesting question, of course, is what Khan does with them next.”
Kevin didn’t reply because his phone rang again. This time, he was quicker to answer it. “Hello?”
There was a delay, an echoing crackle, and then a voice.
“Kevs?”
Kevin took the phone from his ear to double-check the screen.
“Kevs? Can you hear me, man? Is that you?”
Kevin stared at the phone and then at Roger. He couldn’t see Roger’s eyes, just the reflection on his glasses. “It’s Cass,” he said.
Roger turned his head. “Cass? Right now? What a . . . then answer it, man. Don’t just sit there with your mouth open.”
Kevin took one more look at the screen and found his tongue. “Cass? Jesus, man.”
“Yeh, Kevs. It’s me, not Jesus. Sorry, man. I got a bit delayed. Say something, Kevs. I’ve been wanting to call you for ages.”
“Yes. It’s me.”
“Is that it, Kevs? Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten me.”
Kevin found his voice. But first, he cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “Two years. Where the hell have you been? Where are you?”
Roger was overtaking another huge truck and spray beat on the windscreen. He risked a quick sideways look at Kevin but could only see the whites of Kevin’s wide eyes.
“Sorry, Kevs. Long story, man. I tried you earlier. I got so much to tell you. Big trouble started straight after I arrived in Istanbul. But now . . .” There was an echo, and Kevin missed the next few words.
“Cass, listen. I was talking about you today. Can you hear me? Cass?” Kevin realised they were talking over one another, so he stopped.
“Listen I need to talk to you a lot, Kevs. Things are—”
“Give me your number. Where the hell are you, man?”
“Malaysia.”
“Malaysia? What’re you doing there?”
“Long story, Kevs, How’s my ma?”
“I don’t know, Cass. I think she’s moved away.”
“Away? Where?”
“I don’t know. Give me your number. Can I call you back?”
“This isn’t my phone. Someone lent it to me to make a call,” Cass said. “I just wanted to talk to someone. I’ll call again when I can. OK? I just don’t have much money. But I’m free, Kevs. I’m free, but I’m still scared that someone’s following me. But, Kevs, don’t tell anyone, OK? Especially don’t tell Mr. Khan.”
The phone went dead, and Kevin stared at Roger. Roger’s head had been pivoting—one second on the road ahead, the next on Kevin. “Cass?” he said again.
Kevon smiled. “After two years, he’s phoned me,” he said. “He’s in Malaysia.”
“Good Lord. Telepathy? Coincidence? Do you possess magical powers as well as long eyelashes, Kevin?”