When she turned back Mrs Simons had taken a seat on one of the bar stools and was leaning forward across the counter, resting her elbows on the curved edge of the bar. She cradled her drink in both hands, looking tired, but as if she was settling in.
‘I thought I was ready to fall asleep,’ she said, after a first sip. ‘But you know, you find you’re sitting there in a room a couple thousand miles from home and you realize sleep is the last thing that’s going to happen. I’m still on that plane, I guess.’
‘Is this your first visit to England?’
‘I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not!’
She made a wry grimace, then picked up the glass as if to drink more of the whiskey, but apparently thought better of it and put the glass down on the counter.
‘My mother was English and I was born here. In that sense I’m English. My dad was a serviceman. I don’t know what people here call it, but in the US they call people like me an Air Force brat. My ma married Dad while he was stationed here…there were a lot of our troops over here then. He was from Virginia. You ever hear of Richmond?’
‘Yes, I have. Are your parents still alive?’
‘No.’ She added, with a shrewd look at Amy, ‘It’s been that way a long time. I still miss them, but you know…’
‘Do you remember much about England?’
‘I was only small when we left, and before that I always seemed to be on the base. You know how some Americans can be. They don’t like being too cut off from familiar things. That was my dad. We lived on the base, we went shopping on the base, we ate burgers and ice cream on the base, we saw movies on the base, all my dad’s friends were on the base. My ma sometimes took me to see my grandparents in Birkenhead, but I don’t remember much about all that. I was too young. I grew up in the US. That’s what I tell people, because that’s where I feel like I’m really from.’
She had a mannerism when she spoke, perhaps exaggerated by fatigue: she often reached up and stroked her head behind her left ear, running the fingers down to her neck, gently touching something. She was wearing a silken scarf, so it was impossible to see what was there. Amy assumed the woman’s neck was stiff after the journey, or that she had some kind of sore place.
She said, ‘So are you on holiday?’
‘No.’ The whiskey glass was empty already, and she was turning it in her fingers. ‘I’m here to work. May I buy you a drink?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘You sure? OK, then let me have another double, and after that I’m quitting. I was drinking on the plane, but you know it sort of flows through you and you don’t feel anything. Not until you get up to go to the john, and then it seems as if the plane is moving all over the place. But that was hours ago.’
She took the newly filled glass of iced bourbon that Amy placed in front of her.
‘Thanks a lot. I guess I’m talking too much. Just for tonight…I want to go to bed and sleep, and I can’t do that after a journey unless I’ve had a couple of drinks.’ She glanced around the almost deserted bar. Amy instantly looked at the back of the woman’s neck, which was briefly exposed when she turned. ‘So what’s the main action in Bulverton?’
Amy said, ‘Not much action, really. Some people come here to retire. If you go towards Bexhill you’ll see a lot of big old houses, most of them converted into nursing homes. There aren’t many jobs in the town.’
‘Are there any places to see? You know, sights for tourists?’
‘There’s the Old Town. That used to be the big attraction. It’s just round the corner from here. Where you parked the car, at the back, there’s a road that leads away from the seafront, going up the hill. If you walk up there you’ll see the market place. That’s the heart of the Old Town.’
‘You got a museum here in town?’
‘A small one. There’s another in Bexhill, and there are a couple in Hastings.’
‘Local history, that sort of thing?’
‘It’s been a long time since I went to any of the museums, but I think that’s what you’ll find.’
‘Is there a newspaper office here, where I can go talk to them?’
‘The Courier, yes. There’s a shop in the Old Town where they take bookings for classified ads. But the editorial office is in Hastings, I think. Or maybe Eastbourne. I’ll try and find out for you in the morning.’
‘So the newspaper doesn’t just carry local news? I mean, about Bulverton only?’
‘We’re not big enough to have our own paper. Actually, the real name of the paper is the Bexhill and Bulverton Courier, but everyone calls it the Courier. It’s the only one. It covers this stretch of coast, as far along as Pevensey Bay.’
‘Right. Thank you…I don’t know your name.’
‘Amy. Amy Colwyn.’
‘Nice to meet you, Amy. I’m Teresa.’
Teresa stood up, saying she was going to hit the sack; Amy asked her again if everything in her room was satisfactory, and was told it was.
As she left, Teresa said, ‘I hope you don’t mind my asking. What kind of an accent is it you have?’
‘Accent?’ It was the first time anyone had commented on the way Amy spoke. ‘I suppose…I mean, it must be the way we all speak around here. It’s nothing special.’
‘No, it’s very attractive. OK, I guess I’ll see you in the morning.’
CHAPTER 3
The first few times Teresa used the extreme experience scenarios she had played a witness. That was how the Bureau worked. You wired in and they did the stuff on you, and soon enough you found yourself in a situation that was about to go wrong.
The problem of being a witness, as they described it, was having to decide where to be before the action began. You had to witness, be close enough and see enough so you could write a report afterwards, but you also had to survive.
It was the Bureau’s way not to explain too much in advance about what was going to happen, so before their first experience the only training Teresa and the others received was in how to abort a scenario.
Her instructor was Special Agent Dan Kazinsky, who said to her, ‘You don’t need to know how to get out. You only have to know that if you survive. But I’ll show you anyway.’
He taught her one of those acronym mnemonics the instructors were so fond of: LIVER. Locate, Identify, Verify, Envision, Remove.
‘But you aren’t going to make it,’ said Kazinsky. ‘You might later on, but the first few times are tough.’
The first extreme experience lasted exactly seven seconds, and for all of that short time Teresa was overwhelmed and disoriented by a flood of sensations. Some were physical, some mental.
She shifted abruptly from the cool, underlit ExEx laboratory in the training facility in Quantico to brilliant sunshine in a city street at noon. She staggered as she entered the unaccustomed weight of another woman’s body. The noise of traffic burst against her like an explosion. Heat stifled her. The tall buildings of the downtown area of a city crowded around and above her. The sidewalks were full of people. There was a siren wailing somewhere, construction workers clattering at something metal, car horns blowing. She stared around in amazement, astounded by the shock of this false reality.
Information rushed in at her. This was Cleveland, Ohio, on East 55th Street between Superior and Euclid. Date: July 3, 1962. Time: 12.17 p.m. Her name was Mary-Jo Clegg, age twenty-nine, address—
But the first five seconds were already up. Teresa remembered what she was here to do, braced herself against the risk of some violent event, and stepped into the cover of the first doorway she came to.
A man with a gun emerged through the door at the same moment, and he shot her in the face.
Entry into an extreme scenario was an almost instant process; withdrawal and recovery after virtual death were slow and traumatic. The day after her first session, Teresa had to report back to Agent Kazinsky to continue her training. She did so after only three hours’ sleep, having spent much of the previous day and most o
f the night undergoing recovery therapy at the Quantico clinic. She was exhausted, terrified and demoralized, and convinced that she would never again venture into extreme experience.
She was obviously not the only one: two of the other trainees had not turned up at all, and were immediately dropped from the course. The remaining trainees looked as fatigued as Teresa felt, but no one had time to compare notes. Kazinsky announced they were all to return to the scenario and attempt to resolve it. Their only relief was that they would be more fully briefed about the details of the incident they were dealing with.
Instead of having to learn about the witness in the few seconds before the incident began, Teresa was now given a full character profile. She learned not only factual details about Mary-Jo Clegg, but something about her personality. She was also informed, significantly, that Mary-Jo had survived the incident. It was her description of the bank robber, and later her ability to pick him out in a line-up, that secured his conviction and, ultimately, his execution. Details of the gunman were also given. He was a man called Willie Santiago, age thirty-four, a repeat offender with a string of armed robberies behind him. At the moment of his encounter with Mary-Jo he was attempting to escape from the bank he had just held up. He had shot and killed one of the tellers, and was being pursued by the bank’s security officers. The police had already been called, and were on their way to the scene of the crime.
Full of misgivings, and terrified of what she knew was almost certainly going to happen to her, Teresa re-entered the Clegg scenario later that day.
She arrived in Cleveland in circumstances identical to the first time. The same rush of impressions swooped in on her: heat, noise, crowded downtown. Additionally, though, she was in a state of blinding panic. She saw the door to the bank, and instantly knew not only what was about to happen but that she could do nothing to protect herself. She turned away from the door and ran as fast as she could. Santiago rushed out and ran up East 55th in the other direction, firing his gun at passers-by, wounding two of them. He was apprehended by the police a few minutes later. After another three hours Teresa was still in downtown Cleveland, wandering through the streets, unsure of what she was expected to do. She had forgotten all the training, the mnemonics and acronyms. She was overwhelmed by the sheer size of the simulation in which she found herself, its incredible attention to detail and its apparently limitless size, the thousands of real-looking people who populated it, the endless procession of traffic and events: she looked at newspapers, even found a bar where a TV was playing, and saw a news report of the Santiago hold-up. Her venture into this scenario had started in panic, and, after a short period of relief that Santiago had not actually harmed her this time, it ended in the same way: Teresa began to believe that she was permanently trapped, for ever stuck in the Cleveland of 1962, knowing no one, having nowhere to live, no money, no way back to the place and time she had left. It was terrifying to think this, and in her state of mental exhaustion she began to believe it. No thought of the LIVER mnemonic, nor how it could be used, entered her mind.
Finally, Special Agent Kazinsky took pity on her, and got the Quantico staff to pull her out before she became completely disoriented.
She reported back to the Academy the following day, in a worse physical and mental state than before, and with her resignation written down on a sheet of the Bureau’s own memorandum paper.
Dan Kazinsky took it from her, read it slowly, then folded it and put it in his pocket.
‘Agent Gravatt,’ he said. ‘I’m not concerned that you ran away, as taking evasive action is warranted. However, in the real event you are attempting to take control of, Miss Clegg obtained a witness description of the perpetrator that ensured his conviction and execution. You did not. You may take twenty-four hours’ leave and report back here tomorrow at this time.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Teresa said, and went home and called Andy. They were due to be married within two months. She told him what she had done, and what Kazinsky had said. Andy, who had already trained with extreme experience, was able to help her through this difficult time.
On her next visit to Cleveland, she did not run away but stood beside the door as Santiago rushed out, and tried to see his face clearly. He shot her.
Next time she tried to get a glimpse of Santiago, then threw herself face-down on the sidewalk. Not only did she fail to get the description, she was shot in the back of the head as she lay there.
Next time she tackled Santiago, hurling herself at him and trying to force him to the ground. She tried to use the disabling techniques in which she had been trained. There was a brief, violent scuffle, at the end of which she was shot again.
Each time the experience was worse, because although Teresa retained her own identity—she never believed she had actually become Mary-Jo Clegg—the fright, pain and trauma of being repeatedly shot and killed were almost impossible to handle. The hours of physical and mental recovery that followed the extreme experience were gradually extending to two days; this was not unusual for a trainee, but it used up expensive time. She knew she had to get this right or flunk the course.
On her next extreme, she did as Kazinsky had repeatedly advised, and tried to let Mary-Jo’s own reactions control her behaviour. In the actual incident, which had really occurred as depicted, Mary-Jo of course had had no warning that an armed man was going to burst out of the bank, and she would not have reacted until something happened.
Teresa barely had time to adjust to the shift into Mary-Jo’s identity. She took four steps along the street, then Santiago appeared in the doorway. Mary-Jo turned towards him in horror and surprise, saw the gun he was holding, and Teresa’s instincts took over. She ducked away, and Santiago shot her. This time it took two bullets to kill her.
Teresa finally got it right on her seventh extreme. She allowed Mary-Jo to react as she would, turned in surprise as Santiago appeared, faced him, then raised an arm and stepped forward. Santiago fired at her, but because the instinctive attack by an unarmed passer-by took him by surprise, he missed. Teresa felt the heat of the discharge on her face, was stunned by the loud report of the gun, but the bullet went past her. At last she ducked, and as she fell to the ground she saw Santiago sprinting away in the brilliant sunshine. A few moments later two bank security guards appeared: one of them stooped to help her. Shortly after this the extreme experience scenario ended, and Teresa had survived with her description.
Over the next few weeks the extreme experience course continued, and Teresa was steadily progressed by Kazinsky and the other instructors from one type of event participant to the next: from witness to non-witnessing bystander, to victim, to security guard, to perpetrator, to police officer or federal agent. In one case she was a hostage; in another she had to negotiate.
The hardest cases to deal with were the ones in which the developing incident was not at all obvious, and the instructors set the scenario to run for a long time before the main event occurred. In one notable sequence Teresa was in the rôle of undercover police officer, staking out a bar in suburban San Antonio in 1981. She had to sit in wait for nearly two hours, knowing that the first chance would be the only one. When the gunman burst into the bar—he was a man from Houston called Charles Dayton Hunter, who was at the time one of the Bureau’s Ten Most Wanted—Teresa got him with her first shot.
Later, she moved on to direct access with some of the surviving participants. For instance, she was taken to Cleveland to meet Mary-Jo Clegg a month after completing the Santiago extreme. Mary-Jo was by then in her late sixties, a retired city employee who clearly welcomed the opportunity to earn a few extra dollars working for the Bureau in this way. She appeared refreshingly untraumatized by her horrific experience back in 1962, and minimized her contribution to the arrest and execution of Willie Santiago, but Teresa found it disconcerting to have shared so intimately this woman’s terror and, several times, death.
CHAPTER 4
Nick Surtees was living in London at the time of the
Bulverton massacre. In the trauma of subsequent events he later found it difficult to remember what he had been doing during the actual day, except that he knew he would have been working as usual at his office near Marble Arch.
At the end of the afternoon he was driving home along the elevated section of Westway, part of the A40, heading out of London towards his house in Acton. It was a sweltering day in early June, and he drove with the car windows open and the cooling fan blasting at him. The radio was on, the volume adjusted as he preferred it, just below the level of perfect audibility. He liked to think when he was driving: not great or important thoughts, but a general state of reflectiveness, helping him wind down after the stresses of the day, half his mind turned inwards, the other half coping with the car and the traffic conditions. If the radio was loud it interfered with this, whether it was with music, the blathering of disc jockeys or the more urgent tones of newsreaders. So he had just enough sound on for a relevant word or a phrase to catch his attention: ‘drivers in West London’ and ‘the elevated section of Westway’ were common ones—anything that he was already mentally tuned into.
That evening one word came unexpectedly out of the background noise: ‘Bulverton’.
He reached immediately across the dashboard to turn up the volume, but another telling phrase struck before he could do so: ‘the quiet seaside town in Sussex has been devastated…’
Then he heard it at full volume: the newsreader said news was coming in that a gunman had gone berserk in the centre of town, shooting at anyone he saw, or at any vehicle that moved. The situation was still unclear: police had so far been unable to disarm the man, or prevent him from carrying on, and his present location was unknown. The death toll was thought to be high. The news was still breaking; more would be brought as soon as possible. Meanwhile, members of the public were warned to stay away from Bulverton.
Another presenter then launched into an obviously unscripted talk on the state of gun control in the country, the blanket prohibition on most types of gun, how sports shooters’ lobby groups had failed to get the law changed, and the unsuccessful appeals that had been made to European courts. He was interrupted by a phoned-in report from a BBC reporter described as ‘on the spot’. In reality she was phoning from Hastings, several miles away, and in spite of her compelling tone of voice had little to add. She said she thought the number of dead had reached double figures. Several policemen were believed to be amongst the casualties. The presenter asked her if any children were thought to be involved, and the reporter said she had no information on that.