Ibrahim & Reenie Read Online Free PDF Page A

because that was what she trained to be. Shame then that she wasn’t a journalist, but a researcher; a job only one or two rungs up from runner, though she could barely tell the difference. Still, this was your ‘foot in the door’, as people told her. Your way in. Knuckle down, look for stories. If you’re good, they’ll notice. They – the anonymous They . The omniscient They . The all-seeing They . The practically trademarked Powers That Be. Would they notice her this time? Would this be the filler, the piece of fluff, the small dose of whimsy that drew attention to her? Perhaps. She had seen true nonentities promoted for less substantial stories than this.
    Though she slowed the car as she passed them by, Kirsty was soon a hundred yards ahead of them. It would have looked strange for her to slow down to their pace, as if kerb crawling, and there were other cars behind her, so she drove on until the next roundabout, performed a U-turn, and came back, driving past them a second time.
    Perhaps it was a statement. Some kind of protest. There was something bohemian about the old woman. Didn’t seem the cosy, grandmotherly type. Was their journey political? A comment on the struggles of people in a faraway land? But if that was the case, where were their placards and t-shirts printed with slogans? Where was their message?
    Or perhaps something theatrical; an oblique work of performance art. No, that was ridiculous. Perhaps there was nothing to the story. Perhaps there was no story. Perhaps she should drive back to Cardiff and tell Rhodri there was nothing worth seeing, let alone reporting.
    And yet, as they shrank away, framed in widescreen by her rear view mirror, they looked like a story. So telegenic. This could work. This could work.
    Presently, she found somewhere to pull in and called the office, waiting briefly on hold before being put through to Rhodri.
    â€˜So. What’s the story?’
    She pictured him staring fixedly at that grey plastic triangle on his desk, the lid of a ballpoint pen tucked in one corner of his mouth where he wished he had a cigarette.
    What was the story? They looked like a story. But what was the story?
    â€˜They’re on the move,’ she said. ‘They’ve left the hotel and they’re heading in to Newport.’
    â€˜And they’re both walking to London?’
    â€˜I think so. Well. They’re definitely walking to Newport.’
    â€˜Right.’
    She felt the prolonged silence from the other end of the line draw all the air out of her lungs and stop her heart from beating. Her mouth got dry, and she felt she might be blushing. Why had she called him so soon? Why hadn’t she taken the initiative to follow them, stop them, ask questions before calling Rhodri? This wouldn’t be the day she got noticed. If anything, this would be the day she got unnoticed, reverse-noticed, ignored.
    Forget Kirsty. She’ll bring you nothing but rubbish. In fact, maybe she’d make a better runner…
    â€˜Sod it,’ said Rhodri. At last. ‘Find them. Quiz them. If they’re walking to London, call me back and I’ll send Angharad and a crew.’
    And Kirsty promised him she would do just that.

4
    They had reached the Coldra, a large interchange on the far side of Newport, and Ibrahim couldn’t remember another time when he had felt so tired.
    In the centre of this interchange, in the shadow of the motorway flyover, lay an oasis of grass and trees, the perfect place for them to pitch Reenie’s tent. The motorway would provide shelter, should it rain, and the trees could hide them from the road.
    He could leave her there, of course. Sure, it was getting late and the sky was beginning to ink over with night, but in the plans he drew up, the notes he scribbled on maps, he ended his first day so much further along the road than this. He had thought he might walk for twelve hours, at least, and in those plans ended his