by James Blatch
She read the names of the dead.
“Oh, shit”.
“I beg your pardon?” The shopkeeper looked shocked.
“I’m sorry.”
“Well, it’s thruppence, love.”
She stared at the man.
“Thruppence. That’s tuppence.” He pointed at Susie’s open hand. She dug into her pocket and pulled out a twelve-sided thruppence coin, dropped it onto the counter and hurried out of the shop.
Breaking into a fast walk, she headed back past the church, to the bench.
She unfolded the paper and stared at the face of Squadron Leader Christopher Milford.
Deceased.
He was more than just late for their meeting.
The article had almost no information.
A routine flight … the cause under investigation.
“Christ alive.”
The clock tolled for half past the hour.
Susie entered the phone box outside the newsagent and called Roger.
“My dear, how are the flower people?”
“We have a situation.”
“Oh, yes?”
“Christopher Milford, the RAF officer I was due to meet?”
“Due to meet? Don’t tell me you missed it. Did you oversleep in your tent?”
“Roger, he’s dead.”
There was a moment’s pause.
“How so?”
“He’s been named in the Telegraph as one of the crew killed in a crash, yesterday.”
“The Vulcan in Wales?”
“Yes.”
She heard shuffling and rustling on the other end of the line.
“Well, well. That’s interesting. Of course, it could be a coincidence.”
“Roger, we spent three years in training being taught the Service doesn’t believe in coincidences.”
“True. On the other hand, it could actually be a coincidence.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I obviously need to follow this up,” said Susie. “Who brought him in?”
“Stand by.”
She waited while he disappeared, presumably to dig out the file. Outside the phone box, a young woman with a pram had appeared. Susie smiled at her and made a motion with her hand to indicate that the call had some time to go. The woman pushed the pram off toward the newsagents.
Roger’s voice came back on the line. “He called us.”
“Really? No-one brought him in? That’s unusual, isn’t it? It’s not like we’re in the Yellow Pages. Someone must have given him a number and codename.”
“Well, whoever received the call didn’t ask him, unfortunately. I have the transcript. It was brief.”
“Damn.”
More rustling at the other end of the line.
“There is something here, though,” Roger said. “Have you read the report in the Express?”
“No. What does it say?”
“Check out the last line. It’s not much but might be a start. Meanwhile, I’ll send this up the pole. Give me an hour or two to find out what I can and call back.”
She replaced the handset and pushed the door open.
In the shop, she tapped the young mother on the shoulder.
“I’m all done.”
The woman gave her a wan smile. It looked like she might have been crying.
It was a small community and three people were dead.
She picked up a copy of the Express and took it to the counter.
“Ah, it’s sweary Mary,” the shop owner said when he saw her. “Can’t get enough of the news today, dear?” Susie passed over a tuppence coin.
As she walked out, she scanned the report, which was on page two. Again, it had little detail, but Roger was right. The last line was of interest.
There was one survivor.
Rob awoke.
He entered a twilight between sleep and consciousness, where yesterday’s events were neither real nor unreal. As if it was a story he’d been told in the mess the night before.
As he fully awoke, the reality set in and the weight of grief settled on him again.
He lay still, facing the open window.
The birds tweeted merrily, reminding him of the few minutes spent on the Welsh hillside.
He closed his eyes and saw Millie in his kitchen eating breakfast with Georgina.
Planning their Saturday, looking forward to dinner with the Brunsons.
Millie faded from view. Now he saw Georgina, sitting alone.
Robbed of the love of her life.
“Are you awake?”
Mary’s hand appeared on his shoulder. He turned over but kept his eyes closed, curling up against her.
“It’s OK. It’s OK.” He felt her breath as she spoke.
“It’s not OK.”
“We’ll get through this and we’ll help Georgina get through it.”
It was breezy on the small dock, as it was every year.
Professor Belkin inhaled a lungful of air and let it out slowly.
He looked across the Bristol Channel to the faint outline of his destination.
Ahead, the small Lundy ferry approached, the bow rising and falling in the gentle swell.
“Leonard!”
He turned around to the sound of a familiar voice.
“Callum! How the heavens are you?”
“Aye, still alive. And you, I see.”
Belkin smiled and held out his hand. “The Lord has spared me for at least one more Lundy fortnight.”
“Aye, well, here’s your ham and a few other provisions.”
The bearded Scotsman, exiled in Devon, handed him a brown bag. Belkin opened it and sniffed.
“Smells excellent.”
“And there’s a wee present from Mrs MacPherson and me when you get to the cottage.”
“Really, Callum, you shouldn’t have.” Belkin thought for a moment. “Is it Ruth’s sloe gin?”
“Indeed. Careful, though. It’s a strong one. If you don’t like it, take it home as paint stripper.”
Belkin laughed. “I’m sure it will be quite delicious. I also have a couple of bottles liberated from the college cellar, so I think I’ll survive.”
The ferry gingerly approached the dockside. Callum held out a set of keys.
“It’s not locked, but just in case you want them. I’m afraid we still have no telephone and the electricity is very patchy. Best light a candle in the evening before it goes off. There’s plenty of firewood.”
A young man in a thick sweater jumped from the ferry onto the dock and caught a rope as it was thrown from the boat. The diesel engine chugged and spewed black smoke that wafted across, causing Belkin to cough.
The Scot took a step closer and put a hand on Belkin’s arm. “How long’s it been now?”
Belkin smiled. “Twenty-four years.”
“Aye, well, we remember Winifred like it was yesterday. I hope you have a pleasant fortnight, Leonard.”
He helped Belkin down the steps toward the small passenger craft. “Oh, I’ve put the paper in there as well, in case you fancy a read.”
Belkin peered into the bag to see a copy of The Daily Telegraph wedged between the side of ham and a large loaf of bread.
“Now, that would spoil my splendid isolation. But I might use it to light the fire.”
Callum laughed. “So be it, Leonard, so be it.”
A couple of families with day bags traipsed past them.
The ferry tooted its horn.
“Thank you again, Callum. I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”
Belkin turned and made his way along the short boardwalk until the young man in the sweater took him by his arm and helped him onto the ferry.
Minutes later, he sat at the front of the open deck, the wind in his face, headed across the twelve miles of water for two perfect weeks of solitude.
Rob held Mary’s hand as they walked the short distance to Georgina’s.
Inside, Georgina took Rob’s hands and gazed into his eyes.
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br /> “Was it the same for you, waking up this morning and hoping it was all a nightmare?”
He nodded.
“He adored you, Robert. I know you had your difficulties recently, but that doesn’t matter.”
She looked around the room, apparently to make sure their son Charlie was out of earshot. “He loved Charlie, of course, but he would have loved to see him join the Air Force. I think that’s why he liked you so much.”
Rob screwed up his eyes and willed the tears to stop.
“I’m sorry, Georgina.”
Georgina hugged him. “It’s OK to cry, whatever they tell you.” She kissed him tenderly on his forehead.
Rob sat on the sofa. He took some deep breaths and regained his composure.
A strong shaft of sunlight streamed through the front window; again, he found himself mesmerised by the swirling particles of dust.
He was once told that dust in a house is discarded skin cells.
So, in a way, Millie was with them in the room.
The image of the outstretched arm pushed its way back into his mind.
Why had he gone to look?
He wondered if the fire had consumed the bodies after he’d left.
Mary sat down next to him.
“You alright?”
He shook his head.
Across the room, Georgina laughed.
“How does she do it? She’s stronger than me.”
“Nonsense, she’s just better at putting on a show. Plus, it’s different for her, isn’t it? You were there. It must have been awful, Rob.”
He turned to her and whispered. “It’s worse than anything you imagine. And there’s something else. Something truly awful about it all.”
“What?” Mary asked, her face etched with anxiety.
He bowed his head and whispered. “I’ve got this awful feeling, like I’ve been handed a life sentence to carry out in secret.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone else is dead, but I know the truth.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mr May?”
A wiry, ginger haired twenty-year-old stood over them.
“Charlie.” Rob stood up and offered his hand to Millie’s son. “I’m so sorry, Charlie. You must be devastated.”
“Thank you, Mr May. Yes, it was a terrible shock. If you don’t mind, I’d like to know what happened. My mother has warned me not to ask.” He glanced over nervously toward Georgina.
Rob smiled. “Let’s go somewhere quiet.”
In the small dining room, they sat close to each other at one corner of the polished oak table.
"We were at low-level. A routine trial flight, I suppose, but in our business, your father’s business, there really is no such thing as routine.
“We were about ten minutes into a run through central Wales, the hills higher than us both sides.” Charlie looked alarmed. “I’m making it sound more daredevil than it really is. Much of the RAF’s flying is at low-level now, even lower than the three hundred feet we go down to in the Vulcan.
“Anyway, something went wrong. A glancing blow from an outcrop, we think. It damaged the left side of the aircraft, left us with no ability to control it.” He paused, picking his way through the most delicate part. “It happened quickly. The aircraft dived. We had no option, we had to eject or stay with the aircraft.”
“And father?”
Rob looked down at his shoes.
“The Vulcan. The emergency egress for the rear crew was designed by men who believed it would be used at high level. If something went wrong at thirty thousand feet, they would have minutes to release the hatch and bale out. But at low-level… I’m sorry, Charlie. Your father and Steve Bright, they had no chance. No chance at all. At least it would have been instant.”
Charlie screwed his eyes closed, then opened them again.
Rob held out his hand, clasping his shoulder.
“Why did they fly at low-level if the men in the back couldn’t get out?”
Rob had no answer.
“I’m sorry, Charlie.”
They sat in silence for a while as Charlie dabbed his eyes with a blue handkerchief.
“I am so pleased you got to see your father a couple of weeks ago.”
Charlie looked confused. “But I haven’t seen him since Easter.”
Rob furrowed his brow. “I thought he visited you in Oxford the Saturday before last?”
Charlie shook his head. “No.”
“Ah, there you are!” Georgina appeared in the doorway. “Charlie, darling, there are people here who want to remark on how much you’ve grown since you were four years old.”
“Thank you, Mr May.” Charlie followed his mother into the living room.
Rob rose to rejoin the group just as Georgina popped her head back into the room.
“Rob, I think you should take Millie’s work bits, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course, I can come back with the car later.”
He and Mary left the house as more of Georgina’s relatives and old friends turned up.
“You accumulate a lot of friends in the RAF,” said Mary, as they walked back toward their own quarter.
“Yes,” replied Rob, “and you lose a lot as well.”
It was a warm day, and Rob fastened back the soft canvas top of his Healey.
He ached from the ejection, and he wasn’t sure he had the strength for meetings with anyone, let alone Kilton.
The low car barely skimmed over the surface of the single-track road that led to the main gate.
He slowed for a group of walkers ahead. They held banners, and tatty white sheeting painted with black CND symbols.
The group ambled toward him; clearly, they had no intention of letting him pass. He put two wheels on the verge and pulled on the handbrake.
They drifted past. He was conspicuous, sitting in his open-top car, in his Royal Air Force uniform. From the group of stragglers at the back, a young woman approached the car. She was pretty, with short, dark hair and wearing a thin top which was loose and open.
She walked up to the Healey and leant forward, placing her hands on the bonnet. His eyes automatically followed the line of her neck to her small breasts.
There were jeers from the others, laughing at his obvious discomfort.
He snapped his eyes up, mortified that she should have trapped him like that. The woman had a sweet smile; her eyes scanned the car, taking everything in.
She looked directly at him, held eye contact for a few moments, then straightened up and walked on.
Rob watched the group meander away in his wing mirror.
He put the car into first gear and pulled off toward the main gate.
The car search was tediously long. It was a quiet Saturday, so everyone received maximum attention from the security guards.
Rob got out of the car and waited. His eyes tracked back along the road, but the protestors had disappeared from sight.
“They give you any trouble?” the sergeant asked, following his gaze.
“No. No trouble.” A corporal continued to comb his car. “Must be nice, though.”
“What’s that, sir?”
“To be so free and easy. They didn’t look like they had a care in the world.”
“They didn’t look like they’d seen a bath recently, either. You can carry on now, sir.” He stepped back and gave a smart salute.
At TFU, Rob was faced with a new barrier, manned by a group of West Porton Security Police.
He edged toward the temporary bollards, assuming the officers would pull them aside for him, but a security man stepped out, raising the palm of his hand.
“Sorry, sir. This unit is out of bounds. If you’re after TFU staff, they’re in the station headquarters building.”
“Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
The HQ building was quiet.
A corporal sat at a desk in the station commander’s outer office.
“Mr May?”
Rob nodded.
“Wing Commander Kilton is expecting you. You can go in.”
In the office Mark Kilton sat at a small conference table; Periwinkle was behind his desk.
“Sit down, May. I’m afraid I have some very serious news.”
Rob took a seat.
“In clearing out Millie’s locker, we have found something very disturbing.”
“I’m sorry?”
“We found extensive evidence that Millie was stealing information about Guiding Light. Data tapes, records of previous trials, part of a manual with his own handwritten annotations. And that’s just for starters.” Kilton stared at him. “You look surprised, May, but I’m not.”
“You’re not, sir?”
“Millie was bad with money, May. We all know he lost his savings on that stupid investment. This project was worth millions. He was nearing retirement. I’m afraid it all adds up. And to think I charged him with the investigation into who leaked Guiding Light to the outside world.”
Rob glanced at the station commander, who so far had said nothing.
“It was probably an oversight. I mean, they were still in TFU, weren’t they? So he hadn’t actually stolen anything?”
“We don’t know that, May. The locker was probably just a staging post before he smuggled them out. We’ll find out everything. Dead men have no secrets.” Kilton stared at him. “Is there anything you need to tell me? It will be a lot better for you if you speak now.”
The phone rang. The station commander answered it, said a few curt words and hung up.
“Well, May? Anything we need to know?”
“Millie worried about the system,” said Rob. “I’m sure that’s what this was all about.”
Kilton didn’t look convinced. “What does that mean, though, Rob? Did he tell you he was up to something?”
Rob shook his head.
“Of course, he might have used his supposed concerns as a cover for something else entirely.”
Rob could only stare back at Kilton, who stood up.
“Fine. We’ll know more once they carry out a full search. They’ll turn his house and car upside down.”
“But Georgina’s at the house.”
“So? This is simply too serious to delay.”
