Bridging the Gulf (Aka Engulfed)

by Malcolm Hollingdrake

  The house had belonged to his parents and on their untimely death he had been sole beneficiary. Little had changed for he saw no need to alter anything, after all home was home. He went into the kitchen and loaded the breakfast things into the dishwasher, one of Joan's contributions to the home. The sight of his jacket brought the previous night to mind and a smile to his mouth. Just three more and he would be in business.

  Chapter Two

  In 1986, Roy had enjoyed his final twelve months at school but he needed a break away from the claustrophobic atmosphere. His parents, both in their mid-forties, were desperate that he realise his true potential and go to university, after all he had the necessary qualifications. His peers were eager to experience the freedom education on this level could bring. They talked ceaselessly if not optimistically about parties, the sex, the laughs that would follow as if by right. Roy found the talk puerile and he felt decidedly uneasy; these were his troubled days.

  It was a colourful advert in a magazine that first attracted his imagination to his future path, a future that could have been no further from his mind. The advertisement was a catalyst, it did something to him, it captured his imagination and set the ball rolling with its promise of adventure. The library was to continue the momentum when "Who Dares Wins" by Tony Geraghty became his reading. He remembered the Iranian Embassy siege in the May of 1980 and the elusive men dressed in black, who had within eleven minutes prevented the deaths of the innocent by bringing death to the ‘guilty’, with what we were led to believe was perfect precision. Although he had no yearning for the SAS he could see that a short career in the forces might be the elixir he needed to expand his mind and take him away from his home.

  Roy had never travelled abroad with his parents but had been to Germany with his school when he was sixteen. They had travelled by coach and he remembered the nausea. The culture, the architecture, the history fascinated him. He knew Bradford was a small part of a large world and he yearned to see as much as he could. On his return his enthusiasm was to be lost on his parents and he felt sad for them.

  ***

  Roy locked the front door of the house and pressed the remote on the key ring. The central locking responded and within minutes he was heading towards work. An unfeeling thumb pressed the cassette into the machine and music filled the car. His musical taste was varied but Blues was a regular companion. It normally took fifteen minutes door to door and today was no exception.

  Drew was already there … Drew was always there. The company, D.M. Business Machines had been started by Drew McKenna, an amicable Scot, on his return from America. Originally gestating in a corner shop in West Street before making the grade, it had then relocated to purpose-built premises in one of the many industrial sites around the city’s ring road. The trade was now more computers than general office equipment and the competition was fierce. Drew had been looking for a book-keeper in those early days and Roy's mother had fit the bill. It was this connection that had enabled the maimed Roy to re-establish himself into society, giving him the will to carry on and, as it turned out, the finances to even the score.

  The business had certainly rewarded Drew with a home in Harrogate and a horse; his build was evidence of his early aspirations to be a jockey. It had under Drew's reign grown into a successful, respectable business. However, it had taken its toll. Mrs McKenna was no longer at home. An expensive divorce had nearly put paid to the company and Drew on more than one occasion. He was small but was made of strong stuff. Times were now good.

  "Morning Roy, be with ya in a jiff. Everything go well in Liverpool?"

  "Fine, the one computer is now three and they also need a copier, some faxes and some furniture. Didn't need to discount too much either. The Director says he remembers you as a salesman in Phoenix in about 1961."

  "Good man, he can remember me from wherever he likes providing he places orders like that. Your mail's on your desk. Be in later."

  Roy, taking the hint, moved through to the office that was his; the desk with leather chair, copier, filing cabinet, settee and a window which looked out onto another identical building. To the left, however, was a view of the motorway and a bridge that spanned the narrow valley linking with the M62. This bridge would never be his; too close to home.

  There was a brief knock and Emma, the secretary, appeared. "Coffee, Roy?"

  "Morning. Love one."

  She smiled and closed the door. Within minutes she had returned to place the fresh coffee, black and steaming on his desk. "POETS day thank goodness," she smiled again and left.

  Roy read the mail, filed what was necessary and checked his messages. On his desk was his palmtop and under ‘Agenda’ he brought up the week's diary. He had grown to like this little electronic wizard, so much so he had discovered its full ability with the help of the technicians with whom he worked. It was this machine and its diary that would make all the difference to the planning that he had embarked on all that time ago and that was so close to fruition. Three more bridges would bring the number to fifty-seven.

  The palmtops had been easily purchased as part of his job was selling them, but the explosives had been difficult, certainly the most risky and definitely the most expensive. Yet his travelling and his involvement with the import of business machines, linked with the connections made during his time in the forces, alongside endless patience and thought made anything possible.

  The coffee was good and soon all was in order. He rang a couple of customers to make appointments before leaving. He straightened a photograph on the wall to the left of his desk of himself in a different life, a life that had been cut short. The uniform made him look older than his years. He was proud and having the time of his life. He rubbed his left hand. It was cold and motionless. Sometimes he would wear a glove but now he felt people had to live with it just as he did, but it made him angry, bloody angry. He glanced back at the photograph and then at his hand.

  He rang home leaving a message for Joan. "Appointments in Leeds and Wakefield. Call me on the mobile should you need me. I'll be home by 5."

  The motorway was busier than usual, Fridays did affect the traffic making it unpredictable and as Emma had so succinctly pointed out, it was POETS day. The Subaru gurgled its way through the traffic. The only giveaway to its 208 BHP was the radiator scoop on the bonnet. The car itself was simple, almost family saloon in its configuration, certainly not the usual rep machinery.

  During the afternoon Roy had covered seventy-two miles, had been interrupted four times by phone but most importantly he had chuckled three times: he had driven over three of his bridges. He arrived home slightly later than anticipated and Joan was in the garden to the back of the house. He watched her briefly from the dining room. She moved slowly, carefully deadheading her baskets. He tapped on the window; it made her jump. She smiled and came in.

  "You're earlier than I thought, made me jump!"

  They chatted briefly before Roy went into the cellar to prepare. Joan returned to the garden. The cellar was, for want of a better title, Roy's workroom. He had always used it from being a child and the walls still reflected the different phases of childhood. His father had converted the waste space for him. Once it had been the store for food and coal but now with its insulation and heating it made an ideal workspace, secret by being subterranean. There was a workbench and tool racks, cupboards and a timber store. Suspended from the low ceiling the plastic model aircraft he had made, each collecting dust that covered the various colour schemes so painstakingly applied. It was in this room that Roy not only designed his bombs but also stored the necessary equipment, and it was here that he was going to prepare the last three. Each device had been carefully thought out, not one was identical other than the TPU. He had taken into consideration the site, the type of bridge, its construction and design and the location. Some devices had intricate anti-handling features and he was pleased with his originality.

  The thrill of construction was immense but no match for the excitement leve
l he reached in placing the bombs. The hours of planning and preparation were drawing to a close and the testing time would start. He only hoped he would be able to keep control of the situation and see the plan through to fruition. Only time would tell. He had these to plant and then the clock would start. The following week he would plant all three. He could hardly wait. He was like a child on Christmas Eve. His excitement bubbled.

  ***

  The following Thursday was damp and overcast and the journey to Preston was without incident. Business over, Roy took the A59 out of town stopping in a lay-by close to a hotel and restaurant that overlooked the River Ribble. It was 10pm. The new bridges over the river had been completed months earlier to take the ever-increasing demands of traffic. They towered over the old stone bridge, lights aglow. Roy knew this was to be the last, his fifty-seventh. They were all similar: all large spans, all heavy traffic carriers, all key sites, all vital to the movement around the country and all expensive to replace. They were all his or they would be. Now he could, should he wish to do so, turn back, cease this game of death but it excited him more than anything he had done before. In twenty-one-days it would start and nobody but he would be able to stop it. The bridges would certainly all collapse unless they agreed to meet his demands.

  He checked across at the hotel which seemed busy. A man stood by the front revolving doors with a cigarette. He looked like a waiter. Roy moved to the rear of the car and removed his bag. His night shift had started.

  Chapter Three

  Famagusta, known to the Turkish inhabitants as Gazimagusa, is still one of the most unspoiled ports in the Mediterranean, one of the old Cyprus ports with its heavy fortification and cathedral. It now languishes within the Turkish side of the island after the invasion of 1974. Ancient and mystical, Christian and Muslim mingle together. Scars of the war are still visible but tourism is beginning to discover its unspoiled charms. It was here Roy relaxed. This was his home, where he felt at ease. He liked the Turkish Cypriots, their way of life.

  He had managed to buy a small flat in a suburb, facing fields with an unrestricted view of the mountains in the far distance. He had liked the peace of this side of the island, a seclusion he had found when friends from his regiment were discovering the sins of Ayia Napa. Roy had been captivated by this town since being based in Dhekelia, a large army garrison on the Greek side of Cyprus. He had explored its streets, its port and enjoyed the relaxed freedom it offered. It suited his intellect.

  The posting to Cyprus in 1988 had been an inspiring part of his career in the army. Much of his basic training had been carried out in England and Germany with one tour in Northern Ireland. Cyprus was where he really wanted to be. The garrison spread for many acres and resembled Britain apart from the days of constant blue sky. There was everything that Britain had to offer from its best to its worst. There was order from its pavemented roads to the rows of red bricked houses, each with its own garden, front and rear, play areas and schools that resembled any garrison in any country. The N.A.A.F.I epitomised its quintessential Englishness and its bars.

  To the young squaddy, however, the bars in Ayia Napa drew like magnets; drink was cheap and the female English holidaymakers easy, with the added advantage they would be gone in a fortnight. To Roy that held no attraction but the Turkish side drew him with a fascination he could not understand. The United Nations, whose peacekeeping role kept the Greeks and Turks from killing each other, patrolled the "Green line", the buffer zone separating the hostile sides. They also sent out vehicles to parts of Turkish Cyprus that were still occupied by the Greeks, these enclaves nestling on what was foreign soil. Roy was always eager to fill any empty seat on these patrols. The UN also knew what was good for them too, they would use Salamis, an area of coast unspoiled by development but wrapped in the ruins of the island's Roman past and pine forests. Here they relaxed, learned to sail and swim.

  The ancient city of Salamis was once large and prosperous, founded in 1184BC after the Trojan Wars and it remained the principle city until the Romans transferred the island's capital to Paphos, an area Roy knew. It was the earthquakes that had seen an end to the once fine town and harbour, and the ruins had remained hidden by sand dunes until excavation. Roy often swam and snorkelled above the stones of the old harbour, the marble white in the clear water, collecting fragments of tile and pots, running them through his fingers like a blind man trying to make contact with the distant past. The water was warm and blue and he was in heaven.

  Set back a few metres from the sea was the excavated ruin of the Roman theatre; its staged seating rising twenty metres to give the several thousand spectators a clear view of the stage. It was here, as evening approached, that Roy let his mind drift, a solitary figure surrounded by stone. Thoughts of his parents at home in their Bradford terrace, rain inevitably falling. They had believed their life was good. If only he could bring them here, transport them in an instant so they could watch the sky change as dusk approached, walk along the water's edge, feel the warmth of the sea on their hands, smell the heat and the heady aroma of pine, maybe then they would understand his deep desires to leave the industrial north, its shiny wet streets and its inhibitions. He would often whistle, the sound filling the silence, a habit he was to develop.

  ***

  It was in the autumn of '88 that Roy was called to see his CO.

  "Sit down. I'm sorry Roy but your parents have been involved in a road accident. The details are sketchy but as far as I'm aware they are both alive but in a critical condition. I've arranged a flight for you leaving Akrotiri tonight. Your parents are in Leeds Infirmary and that's all I know at present. We’re all so sorry, Roy. If there’s anything we can do let us know. All the travel information is here." He handed Roy an envelope containing details of his compassionate leave, timetables and tickets.

  Roy learned forward, numb at what he had heard. The words seemed to tumble round his head in a disjointed way and for a moment he could not speak only look at the brown envelope in his hands. The CO moved from behind his desk and rested a hand on the young man's shoulders, aware of the turmoil with which he was trying to get to grips.

  "Come on. We have to look on the positive side of this, remember we’re here if we can do anything to help, you mustn’t hesitate."

  Roy cleared his throat, "Thank you, sir". He rose before standing to attention, saluted and left the room.

  ***

  The TriStar flight was uneventful, landing at Brize Norton where a car was waiting to take him to Leeds. The time difference was in his favour.

  Both parents were much worse than he had imagined. He found himself waiting in a small room. The hospital was quiet. "Mr Hanna?" a young nurse queried. "Your parents are responding to treatment; they are stable but critical. There is little you can do here. Go home and rest, we'll call if there's any change".

  "I'll wait."

  His reply was curt and he knew it; a short smile conveyed an apology. "I'll wait through there if that's okay?"

  Even at this traumatic time he did not fail to notice the nurse’s ankles as she walked away, a bit of light relief in what was to be a gloomy twenty-four hours.

  ***

  The intensive care unit was bright with light, monitors repeatedly sounding that life was still there. The steady metronome of life support was the soporific Roy needed. The nurse with the attractive ankles covered him with a red blanket and let him sleep.

  "Mr Hanna, Mr Hanna!"

  Roy jumped to attention; thoughts of his father rushed immediately to mind hearing the title.

  "Mr Hanna, this is Doctor Elliot."

  Doctor Elliot shook Roy's hand firmly. "Mr Hanna please sit down. I'm very sorry, but your mother passed away minutes ago, there was really nothing further we could do. Your father remains stable. Would you like to see your mother?"

  Roy stared blankly, still feeling he was asleep. It was only the firm hand on his shoulder and the concerned stare of the doctor that brought him to his senses. "Yes, yes. Than
k you doctor." He rubbed his eyes and smoothed his hair instinctively as he did before seeing her. She would always comment on his appearance.

  His mother now looked so frail but somehow more human as the pipes and tubes had been removed. The bruising and cuts to her face did not distract him. He bent over and kissed her. "Why?" he muttered to himself.

  "Is there anyone you would like me to call?" the nurse asked gently, laying her hand in condolence on his shoulder, sensitive to her intrusion.

  "No, no, thank you. But could you get me some coffee please? Black."

  Roy held his mother's small hand in his before stroking her forehead with his left hand. He began to weep. There was so much he needed to say, so much, but now that was impossible. The nurse entered with some coffee.

  "I'm outside should you need me, take all the time you need, Mr Hanna."

  His short smile and wet eyes said it all.

  When he eventually left the room, he had said all he had needed to say when she was alive. The nurse was busy working with other patients. He was now immune to the sounds. A policeman was sitting alone by the door, coffee in hand and looking at his feet. He turned to look at Roy.

  "Mr Hanna. PC Clark, sir. Is it convenient to talk? I'm sorry to hear your mother has passed away."

  "About the accident?"

  "Sir, I wonder if you might be able to help."

  Chapter Four

  The Cyprus morning had a beauty all of its own, kept at bay by the shuttered windows. It never ceased to amaze Joan just how dark and cool they made the room. She knew Roy was up and about but carried on drifting in and out of sleep.

  Roy always liked to rise early when in Cyprus. He would dress in shorts, vest and Reeboks before descending the marble steps to the garden gate. He always turned left taking the road to the end. The corner house was home to a large dog that always greeted Roy with snarls and barks as it tried to slip the leash. A pomegranate tree grew at the corner and he enjoyed looking at the remnants of last year's crop that had the appearance of fossilised fruit. The road led through buildings that housed light industry flanking the Dhekelia Road, a way Roy had travelled down as a young squaddy and that had altered less than he. He turned right, breathing well and increasing his stride as the gradient increased. The road led to the border, the Green Line, No Man's Land. The view of the plain began to fill his peripheral vision, broad and vast, spreading to the mountains to the north.