Surviving the Evacuation, Book 17

by Frank Tayell

  “Do you see the ring?” Siobhan asked. “It’s supposed to be two candles next to one another, because sometimes one isn’t enough to illuminate the darkness. If you scroll ahead again, there’s a photograph of the tattoo on his left calf.”

  “A dolphin, and there’s… is that Chinese writing?”

  “Korean,” Siobhan said. “He thought it translated as swim free. It was a couple of years later that he learned it meant dolphin free. As in dolphin-free tuna.”

  “Ah.”

  “That’s Mark,” Siobhan said wearily. “I exhumed seven bodies. There are more, but that was as much as I could manage. I could put a name to two more of the people in that grave. They came from Malin Head. The others, I couldn’t recognise them. No one could. Not now. If you scroll forward a bit more, you’ll get a photograph of the entire gravesite. It’s large enough for fifty bodies Probably more.”

  “I thought they said Mark had left here,” Kim said. “That all the people from Malin Head were exiled.”

  “Not they, she, Rannvieg,” Siobhan said. “The older of the two women we met on the bridge. She was the one who told us that people from Malin Head had come here, that Gunnar Niclasen lost his leg during a confrontation, and that they were then allowed to leave. She might believe that’s true. All three of them might believe it.”

  “But someone is lying,” I said.

  “Yes,” Siobhan said. “Us. Perhaps them, too, but we began with a lie. When we first met on the bridge, they asked if we knew Malin Head. We, or I, implied only in a geographical sense. On that basis, and considering the brevity of the conversation, why would they have mentioned this? Would we, on Anglesey, in London, have begun a first meeting with strangers by listing those with whom we’d fought?”

  “Why did you dig up the grave?” Kim asked.

  “I didn’t,” Siobhan said. “The birds did. Looking for worms, I hope, but it was only shallowly covered. I saw the head first. If you scroll back, you’ll find the photograph.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” I said.

  “It wasn’t damaged,” Siobhan said. “Pecked-clean, yes. But not destroyed. Then I saw the hand, the ring. That’s when I started digging.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kim said. “I truly am.”

  Siobhan waved the sympathy away. “Grief can wait until after we’ve reached a decision on what to do next.”

  “That has to begin with what else we know,” Kim said. “How did they die?”

  “Admiral?” Siobhan said. “This is more your area than mine.”

  “They were shot,” Admiral Gunderson said. “There are two bodies, or two photographs, with head wounds. The rest were shot in the chest. As far as I can tell, most with a three-shot burst. To add a note of caution, that is more an assumption than an assertion. Without examining the bodies for myself, or without better pictures, I cannot be definite.”

  “A three-shot burst implies an execution, doesn’t it?” I asked. “That’s what you’re saying.”

  “Not necessarily,” the admiral said. “Their hands aren’t tied. They didn’t die there.”

  “Didn’t you find a load of spent shells when you arrived?” Kim asked.

  “Near the harbour,” Siobhan said. “But there was no blood. No bullet holes except in a few signs. I don’t think they were shot there.”

  “All we can say,” the admiral said, “is that, if they’d been put up against a wall in this town, we’d have found evidence of it by now.”

  “Do we know when they were killed?” Kim asked.

  “No,” the admiral said. “It’s a shallow grave, but there is very little wildlife on this island except for the birds, and we don’t know how recently or frequently they flocked here. In addition, there are the cold temperatures to consider.”

  “Could we collect the bodies and conduct an autopsy?” Kim asked.

  “Not in secret,” the admiral said.

  “I don’t think the locals are watching,” Kim said. “If they were, they’d have said something about Crawley going to that farm.” She glanced again at the phone. “Or they’d have killed him.”

  “We wouldn’t be able to keep it secret from our people,” the admiral said. “Consider for a moment what impact this news would have on our already fractured morale. Right now, news of Calais is spreading. People are still shocked by the car crash. Add this as well, and it might bring chaos. It might make Crawley revise his plans for stealing a ship. No, this news will stay close, for now.”

  “Then we’ll examine the bodies in situ,” Kim said. “If anyone asks why we’re missing, we can say we’re still investigating the car crash. That’ll keep Crawley on the back foot.”

  “There’s no point,” I said. I leaned forward, and placed the phone on the admiral’s desk, then leaned back and closed my eyes. “There isn’t, right? With the tools available, with the time, even if you conducted a full autopsy, we’ll learn when they died, and how, but not why. The next stage in the investigation would be to interview the Faroese, and you can’t do that.”

  “We can,” Kim said.

  “You mean interrogate them?” I asked.

  “No. Carefully, diplomatically, we can find a way,” Kim said.

  “But we won’t believe what they say,” I said. “We were discussing Calais,” I added. “About whether we should have taken a prisoner to learn more about the cartel, how many more were alive, and where the survivors might go next. But we were also discussing what we’d do with that prisoner afterwards.”

  “Here we face a similar dilemma,” the admiral said. “There is a near-innocent explanation, and a heinous one. The truth probably lies somewhere between. It could be that Mark’s people arrived. There was a battle. Many died on both sides. The Irish survivors departed these islands. The Faroese buried the dead, many locals among them, and now the locals are justly suspicious of newcomers. Or they are like the cartel. They kill all new arrivals, except those they enslave. The only reason that Siobhan and Sholto didn’t face that fate is because they were in touch with us by sat-phone, and we are far, far more numerous than they. The Faroese are keeping contact to a minimum so that we leave on the first of March, and they can return to their barbarously piratical ways.”

  “It could be worse than that,” I said. “It could be they didn’t kill Siobhan and Sholto because they want our ships, and they’ve not attacked because they need more time to plan the assault.”

  “There has to be a way of proving it,” Kim said.

  “There isn’t,” Siobhan said. “We can’t gather evidence without being discovered by our people, or by theirs. If we confront the Faroese, regardless of their guilt, they will reply with the most innocent of explanations. They will follow up with a demand to know why we broke our agreement to stay within the town. But there is a third possibility, one off the spectrum the admiral described. I find it strange that the grave is so shallow, and so near where they stashed their alcohol. It could be that the murder of the Irish is a dark secret held by a few. After Gunnar Niclasen lost his leg, his friends took revenge, unknown to the rest of the community. Confronting the Faroese with the truth could cause a civil war among them. No matter how quickly it is resolved, the locals will not thank us for it.”

  “On the other hand, why are there cars there with live batteries?” Kim asked.

  “Which is why it’s a theory,” Siobhan said. “They’re all theories, and speculation has brought us to a brick wall.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Even if we knew, even if we had evidence, video proof of what had occurred, then what? We’d have a choice of a confrontation or leaving. If we confront the Faroese, there is a strong chance it leads to violence. What would a fight gain us?”

  “There won’t be a trial, will there?” Kim said. “We’ll never, ever know. For good or ill, it won’t be like Anglesey.”

  “And it isn’t like Calais,” the admiral said. “They do not have a warship. They cannot pursue us once we depart. Yes, the choice bef
ore us is fight or flight. No, there will never be a trial, save this one. There will be no jury except for us. We cannot decide on their guilt, only on whether we wish to pursue punishment.”

  “We have to decide?” Kim asked. “Just us?”

  “Us four,” the admiral said. “Colm must remain unassociated with the final decision, as must George and Mary, and the colonel. People will have to be told, and when they are, they may demand retribution, but they might settle for our resignation. Yet, if we are to be a democracy, I can’t decide alone.”

  “Then let me think,” Kim said. “Let me run through the options, the scenarios.”

  We all did, in silence.

  “This is what it means to live in a world without laws, isn’t it?” Kim finally said. “No juries, no judges, just us. It doesn’t matter really. Even under the best-case scenario, what are hoping for? We go speak to the Faroese. We confront them. We tell them we knew about Malin Head. They say, yes, there was a fight. People died. So what? It won’t make them let us stay longer. We’ll still have to leave before the first of March.”

  “It’s worse than that,” Siobhan said. “What if they said we could stay until May, or July, or as long as we liked? Would we believe them? I don’t think I would.”

  “It is possible we could learn to live with them, to trust them,” the admiral said. “But not while they control the power and water. Not while they restrict us to this one town. No, confronting them is unlikely to change that. If we confront them, they could cut the power. Without electricity, the frozen fish will defrost. We’ll have no drinking water except the rain and what the Ocean Queen can desalinate. We would have no choice but to leave.”

  “Then we must leave while it’s our choice to do so,” Kim said.

  “Agreed,” Siobhan said, and so quickly it was clear she’d reached that decision some time ago.

  “Bill?” the admiral asked.

  “Agreed,” I said.

  “It’s unanimous,” the admiral said.

  “We’ve told the Faroese we’re putting on a talent show, and the final will be on New Year’s Eve?” Kim asked. “Then we have to leave before then. If they are going to attack, it would be then, wouldn’t it? When most of us are all gathered in one place, celebrating.”

  “It doesn’t leave us long,” I said.

  “It’s longer than I’d like,” Siobhan said.

  “We can board the ship in a quarter the time it took to disembark,” the admiral said. “There are other preparations to be made, but readying the ship doesn’t require secrecy.”

  “I mean it doesn’t leave us long to figure out where to go,” I said.

  “East or west,” the admiral said. “It’s the same choice as before.”

  “By east, you mean the Mediterranean?” I asked. “Kim and I were talking about that. Some of the cartel will have survived. Without a ship, they’ll go east. To the Med, to the coast, with their tanks. We’ll have to prepare for war.”

  “The alternative is a journey west, into the unknown that is Boston,” the admiral said. “But it is not quite as desperate as that. Nilda and your brother may learn something in Canada. We may learn something more from the satellite images we’re still taking of France.”

  “Even I can hear the desperation in that,” I said. “Where is The New World?”

  “Off Labrador and approaching Newfoundland,” the admiral said. “I don’t think we should tell them about this. Not yet. There is too great a chance someone might overhear, or that they might mention it the next time they call in.”

  “What’s it they say about keeping secrets?” Siobhan said, “That it’s best to tell no one, and better if you don’t even tell yourself. But should we ask them to turn back? They’ve not been ashore once, yet.”

  “Indeed,” the admiral said. “But telling them to return would rouse suspicion here, and only cut a day or so from their journey.”

  “We do need a new plan, though,” I said. “We need oil, and we need to forget the Alps, and avoid any part of the Mediterranean a tank can reach. I think it’s time to dust off the books on the Middle East. After all, it’s where civilisation began once before.”

  Part 2:

  Apple Pie

  North America

  Day 281 - 19th December

  Chapter 13 - Spinach

  The Strait of Belle Isle, Canada

  As The New World slid through the winter-waves, the deck rocked, the lights flickered, and Jay sighed. “I wish we’d gone ashore in Greenland,” he said.

  “Not in Iceland?” Chester asked, as he pushed his mop along the gangway.

  “Nah, not really,” Jay said. “I mean, it would’ve been cool to see the volcanoes, but there was a kid in my class, he went to Iceland one summer. I don’t know anyone who’s been to Greenland.”

  “Do you reckon he was talking about the supermarket?” Chester asked.

  Jay rolled his eyes. “I’m going to fine you,” he said. “Anytime you make a joke that was ancient back in the old world, you have to put a coin in the jar.”

  “Have to start minting some coins first,” Chester said. “Anyway, you saw what the coast was like around Greenland. Utterly chocker with debris and ice.”

  “Do you think that was from all the refugees who went up there from North America?” Jay asked, then continued without waiting for an answer. “Anyway, that’s not why I wanted to go to Greenland. It was the places on the map with the names crossed through. Like how Julianehab was renamed Qaqortoq. That’d be the old, proper name, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “But what about how Ammassalik was changed to Tasiilaq? Neither sounds European, so why’d they change them?”

  “I bet there’s plenty in Canada to pique our curiosity.”

  “If we go ashore in Canada,” Jay said. “And it’s not just curiosity. It’s like, we’ve got half a story and we’ll never find out the rest. It kinda bugs me, that’s all.” He picked up his bucket.

  “Lid!” Chester said.

  “Yeah, yeah, I remember,” Jay said. And, this time, he did remember to slide the lid closed before he went onto the deck to empty the bucket.

  Chester leaned against the bulkhead. They’d washed the corridor twice now, counting cleaning up the spill from the first time. Soap might clean the ship’s scratched carbon-fibre skin, but salt was seeping into her iron bones. Around rivets and bolts, paint bubbled above an orange bloom of rust. They needed a dry dock, copious paint, and five times the crew. But they would make do with soap and desalinated water. They’d have to.

  The ship didn’t need many people to operate, which was fortunate since there weren’t many aboard. Dr Harabi and a nurse; Chief Watts and four of his engineers; Sergeant Toussaint and his three Marines; Norm Jennings, Sholto, Nilda, and Jay. He totted up the crew and came up one short. Oh, and himself. Someone was always on the bridge, and the chief was always in the engine room, except when he came up to the bridge to complain. Which was another way of saying Chief Watts only spent half his time down below. A lookout was always on duty, sometimes there were two, and sometimes on deck, depending on the ship’s speed and the weather’s frozen chill. It truly was a skeleton crew. Or, to put it another way, Lisa Kempton had built a cruise ship one person could pilot alone. But to keep her afloat, there were a million everyday chores that were exhausting on land. Aboard, they were made thrice as difficult by the swaying deck, the ice and occasional snow, the rising fatigue with each sighting of a new stretch of unreachable land, and the growing sense of desperation with each truncated message from Faroe. In short, life aboard ship was not the honeymoon reality TV had led him to expect. He grinned. On the other hand, this was real life and he was actually married.

  “You falling asleep on your feet again?” Jay asked, having returned.

  “Just thinking,” Chester said. “Principally that I’m not going to make a career at sea. What’s it like out there?”

  “The wind’s stopped,” Jay said. “And the sun�
�s out. Sort of. I mean, it’s still gusty, and there are still clouds, but it’s definitely brighter.”

  “And over the side?”

  “There’s barely any debris at all,” Jay said.

  “Really? That’s something. Any ice?”

  “Nope. I saw Norm on deck.”

  “How is he?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “After hearing about the death of all his mates in Calais.”

  “He was talking,” Jay said. “So I guess he’s okay. He said we’re nearing the Strait of Belle Isle. So we’ve got the Gulf of St Lawrence ahead, Newfoundland on our left, and Labrador on our right.”

  “You mean port and starboard. Or is it the other way around? I can never remember.”

  “How about east and west?” Jay said. “Except they always are, aren’t they? I mean Newfoundland is always east of Labrador. Nope, left and right, that’s far more sensible.”

  “Let’s get these mops and that bucket away, then. We’re late for giving the chief a hand with the wiring.”

  “What do you think we should do now?” Jay asked as they walked along the narrow corridors.

  “I just said, we’re going to help the chief,” Chester said. Which would be an opportunity to check up on the engineer. They’d received news of the assault on Calais just before it began, and only a few hours before they’d been informed of the casualties. Tuck wasn’t among them. Nor was Locke, but Chief Watts and Norm Jennings had both served, and survived, aboard the Vehement. They knew the dead more than just by name.

  “I mean what should we do about Calais,” Jay said.

  “Nothing,” Chester said. “The battle’s been won, the destroyer’s been sunk, and we’ve no reason to ever go back there again.”

  “The battle may be won, but not the war,” Jay said. “Because this is the second battle of Calais. Or maybe it’s the third. I’m not sure.”

  “It’s the last,” Chester said firmly. “And I’m not sure we’ll go to war again. Not anytime soon, anyway.”

  “Thaddeus was talking about Cuba.”