by Jon Lymon
Haygue shook his head. “Onamoto was a no show.”
“He’s here.”
“What?”
“He was the first on board, according to this.”
“Have you seen him?”
M Krugler shook his head. “What am I, the concierge? I arrived after him and got straight in here. Lots of shit needs checking before launch, as you know.”
“Where is this Onamoto guy now then?” Haygue unclipped himself from his seat, intent on searching the ship until he found him, but M Krugler’s strong arm held him back. “Stay there. We need to hit the sky now or we’ll miss our window.”
“I need to find Onamoto. Give him his spacesuit.”
“That can wait. We need to get going. You can catch up with him once we’re in orbit.”
M Krugler bent forward to address the microphone that let him communicate with the rest of the five-strong convoy. Two fighters were set to launch before them, another two afterwards. No one was going to get to Haygue or his diamond without a battle.
“We’re cleared for take off. Passengers please ensure you are strapped in and ready.”
Haygue breathed deeply, recalling the adrenaline rush and heart thump this stage of a mission always induced. Stock was strapped in the seat behind him, missing his iPad which he’d left in his cabin, but knowing there’d be plenty of time to tell the world about the emotions he was experiencing, and this mysterious mission he was on.
“You scared, Stock?” Haygue asked.
“Fuck, yeah.”
Haygue afforded himself a smile. “Get ready to venture into the unknown.”
“I’m as ready as you are.”
“I doubt that, Stock.”
The first two fighters roared into the brilliant blue above the space centre, disappearing with a flash of yellow.
“Let’s go and see ourselves some real deep space,” M Krugler roared as he eased the thruster forward.
“Hell, yeah,” Stock shouted seconds before the G-forces took effect, pinning the crew to the backs of their seats. As the wheels left the Earth’s surface, each man knew there was no turning back now. But only one had an accurate idea of how this mission would pan out.
21
DT was sitting on a stool at the bar in The Old Mitre when the news came through. It was a truly sickening revelation for anyone who dreamt of being the first. Of being the headline maker. The legend creator. The name that would top every TV chat show guest list, nightclub VIP list, New Year’s honours list, World’s Richest People list. The news was enough, even, to get Gordon to stop polishing his glassware and punch the sound up on the remote.
A sneering newsreader announced that a ship of Norwegians had made it to the asteroid belt. And they were getting their hands on unadulterated chunks of priceless diamond. The report was accompanied by grainy pictures which could have been of anything, and a soundtrack wrecked by interference and reverb to such an extent that it made no sense, even to Norwegians.
But DT felt hurt. He thought he now knew something of how Scott must have felt on discovering Amundsen’s achievement in Earth’s icy wastes all those years before. The Scandinavians were at it again, always getting into difficult to reach places before anyone else. It must be in their DNA, DT thought. All those crevasses, fjords and icy slopes back home. The tricky pavements they had to negotiate all year round. They were used to facing a challenge. From birth they had to get from A to B without going via Casualty. And having conquered every challenge on Earth, now they were making mincemeat of the solar system.
DT tapped the bar, wondering how the Norwegians had got there so quickly. They weren’t a space nation, or a nuclear power, and even if they had managed to get their hands on a nuclear rocket, they’d have to go some to get to the asteroid belt so quickly. It had only been six weeks since news of the asteroid broke. He smelled something suspicious, but the fact that there was still a week to go before the launch date he’d pencilled in niggled him.
DT knew he ought to be patient, but then again people ought to drive thirty miles an hour in built-up areas. They ought to declare every penny they make cash-in-hand. And they ought to go to church. But those who worshipped at ‘the altar of the oughta’ were never going to make anything of their lives. Never going to get their hands on raw, alien diamond before anyone else.
He pressed a few buttons on his handset.
“Jim? It’s DT. Any news for me, my friend?”
Gordon watched as DT nodded and smiled and directed him to fill up his whiskey glass. At the end of the call, DT pocketed his phone and clenched his fist.
“It’s coming on Friday. The fuel’s getting here on Friday. It means we can launch a week earlier than planned.”
Gordon nodded and said the drink was on him. DT said he’d make sure he was looked after, if he got back with any diamond.
“I’m not sure I can wait that long,” said Gordon forlornly. “As you can see, trade is far from brisk.” Gordon’s broad arm movement encompassed the whole pub which was empty save for two lawyers on the quiz machine and an old man who looked ready for his grave. “What with the tax on beer, and ships falling from the sky, this isn’t a great time to be doing what I’m doing,” he continued.
“I had no idea things were so bad.”
“It’s been even worse since I banned Remnant.”
DT looked surprised.
“I had to. The man was turning away what few customers I had left. He’s a liability.”
“In what way?”
“You can never tell which way he’ll turn when he’s drunk. There’s always that underlying sense that he’s going to flip at any moment.”
“He doesn’t sound like the sort of man you’d want to spend any length of time with. In a confined space.”
Gordon could see the direction in which DT was trying to twist the conversation. “Oh, no, he’s as good as gold most of the time. It’s just on those rare occasions he overdoes it. I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
DT did not look so sure. He excused himself from the bar and headed into the small beer garden where he leant against a beer barrel for a short cigar and an even shorter phone call.
“Hello?”
“Mitch?”
“Speaking.”
“This is DT. There has been a change of plan. We go Friday night.”
“Friday? This coming Friday?”
“Correct. Launch date has been brought forward to this Friday night. We meet outside The Old Mitre at midnight. I’ll send you the address.”
“Received and understood, sir” said Bettis just before DT hung up.
Remnant was sitting watching an old video of a documentary about real-life vampires in eastern Europe when the call came through. At ten past ten it was too late to be anything but bad news. He thought it might be Ramage checking he was still in the country or wondering if he could come down to the station in the morning to answer a few loaded questions. He wasn’t expecting DT’s hushed tones.
“Have you seen the news?” DT asked.
“The Norwegians? Yeah. Bastards. They got there quick.”
“Too quick, if you ask me. I bet it’s a hoax. But listen, at the very least it’s a warning that we cannot afford to wait. And the good news is the fuel has come through earlier than expected.”
“You got it? Oh, brilliant.”
“Yes, I am taking delivery of it this very Friday. And listen, I want us to launch on Friday night.”
The turmoil that statement caused inside Remnant left him sick, dizzy, weepy, barely able to speak. “We can’t,” he croaked.
“We have to. Even if this Norwegian thing is a hoax, it is getting dangerous for us to wait any longer. We cannot afford to delay for an hour, even a second more than we have to. It could mean the difference between success and failure.”
“Damilou, that’s the day before my daughter’s wedding.”
DT knew full well the significance of a Friday launch.
“We have no choice, my friend.
We must launch on Friday. We cannot leave such a huge supply of liquid hydrogen in such close proximity to a nuclear engine. It could destroy half of London.”
Remnant wanted to terminate this conversation now. He was finally going to be a proper father to Chloe. Arm in arm down the aisle, a bit of stand up at the reception and get the champagne down for the rest of the day. ‘Toasts, toasts, thanks, yes, I’m very, very proud. Couldn’t be more proud. Best day of me life. Best day of hers. Beaming. Where’s the bar? Stock up on some of that free booze. Order whatever. Not bottles or cocktails though. Pints and wine only. Come on. Don’t take the piss. I’m not made of money. Speaking of money, look at him, that Carl, the man who’s taking me daughter away from me. Replacing me. Taking her off me hands. OK. She was never really on me hands. I washed me hands of her too many times. That’s what her mum would say and she’d be right. But I didn’t mean to. I was in a bad place. It was best for her that I wasn’t around. Let her mum do the work. I didn’t send money, because there was none to send. I would have if I could have. Her mum knew that. And she’s over there now with her new fella who won’t ever come and talk to me. Or if he did he’d be really nice and fake. I got in there first, mate. And look at the beautiful daughter I helped make. There’ll be no kids for you two. She’s past it now. Had the op. Anyway, the hassle we had first time put her off for life. Put me off too. But there she is, my little girl, she survived a harsh introduction into the world and now she’s all mature and getting married and this is the best day of her life and I need to be there to share it with her. Else there’ll be questions in the church. ‘Where’s her dad? Is that her dad? Who’s that walking her down the aisle then?’ It has to be me. Has to be me. Has to.’
“I can’t,” Remnant told DT. “I’m going to my daughter’s wedding.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, for DT was not a man totally devoid of emotion. “I will have to recruit another crew member, then. Diamond asteroids wait for no man, my friend. We need to fly this Friday.”
Remnant’s choice was stark, his mood dark, his chance to leave a mark in a world in which he’d performed unimpressively for nearly fifty years teetering on the precipice.
He could see Elena’s reaction now. She’d be fuming whatever he did. It was a lose-lose situation, one that he was familiar with. Elena would not be happy to see him at the wedding, and she’d be furious not to see him at the wedding.
“Could we not delay it another week?” Remnant asked. “Until after the wedding? I’ll see if I can get you an invite. There’ll be free drink, for a bit.”
“With the greatest respect, Sye, I am not interested. I need a decision now. Else I shall be forced to seek a replacement.”
Elena was shouting screaming hyperventilating in his mind’s eye now. She knew what he was going to say. He was going to think of himself first like he’d always done. His wife and daughter, the perennial runners-up.
Minutes later Remnant hung up. He buried his head under a dirty cushion which vibrated in time with the peak of each of his sobs and soaked up the tears that weren’t filtered away by the deep ruts that adorned the areas around his swollen eyes.
22
Sleep did not find Remnant that night, and finally at half past five, having paced the room passing a thousand times the wedding suit that hung from the lounge door like a dead man, he grabbed his jacket and left his cold flat.
It was a journey he would have given anything not to have to make. Several times along the way his step faltered and twice he stopped, his brain trying to make sense of what he was doing.
He reached Porchester Terrace half an hour earlier than anticipated, having resisted the urge to borrow some flowers along the way, knowing it would take the entire contents of the Chelsea Flower Show to soften the blow he was about to deliver.
Carl answered the door in a bathrobe that looked more expensive than Remnant’s entire wardrobe. After removing his shoes, he was shown through to the breakfast room, where Chloe was sitting at an expensive, expansive wooden table tucking into a bowl of cereal.
“Mornin’ darlin,” said Remnant, his tone not even hinting at the grim news to follow.
“You been out drinking all night?” she asked.
“Of course I ain’t.”
“You look like you have. Why you round here so early? Me wedding’s not today, you do know that?”
“Yeah, of course I do. I just want to make sure you’re ready for your big day.”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Yep. You?”
“Getting there. Happy with the dress?”
“Oh, it’s fab. Wait until you see it.”
“White is it?”
Chloe’s spoon stalled in her mouth. She withdrew it slowly. “Of course it’s white. Why wouldn’t it be?”
“Well, they ain’t all white these days, are they?”
An awkward silence followed. That was obviously a dubious comment he’d made. It seemed reasonable enough to him, but they were more sensitive to things this side of London. Less salt of the earth, unless it was Bulgarian salt.
Remnant looked around the wooden-floored whitely-furnished room and wondered if other Dads had such awkward conversations with their daughters.
“Checked the weather forecast?” he asked. That sounded a desperate comment even to him, but it was out there now.
“It’s going to be pretty good, considering it’s October,” she said.
Remnant looked at his daughter. She still looked like the girl he was half responsible for, but she didn’t feel his. The circles she moved in had changed. Despite only living a few miles away, just beyond the far end of Oxford Street, his daughter now inhabited a foreign land.
“OK. Yeah listen,” he said. “You might need a Plan B.”
Chloe dropped her spoon which clattered against the side of her bowl. “What you going on about?”
“I have to go into hospital for an operation. Life or death.”
Chloe shook her head. “You’re lying, Dad. You trying to tell me you ain’t coming to the wedding?”
“I might be dead by then.” For once he was telling the truth.
“Why didn’t you mention this operation earlier?” Chloe sounded like she was on the verge of tears.
“Because I didn’t know about it then. I went to the doctor’s yesterday and they found something and they want to operate straight away.”
“I don’t believe you. Show me the letter.”
“What letter?”
“The letter from your doctor.”
“I ain’t got a letter.”
“They always give you a letter.”
“I left before the postman came. Maybe it’s waiting back at the flat.”
Chloe raised her voice. “I can tell when you’re lying, Dad.”
“I’m not lying. I’m dying.”
“You’ll die sooner if you don’t get out of my fucking house now!” Chloe screamed, gripping her bowl by the rim with both hands, preparing to chuck its contents at him.
“I ain’t well, darlin.”
“Bollocks you ain’t well. Probably off on another bender with yer mates aintcha? Or off to that asteroid, is that it?” Chloe’s anger again betrayed her central London council roots.
“I’m not a well man. The doctor says I could drop dead any day now.”
“Doctors don’t say that no more. You’re just a bullshitter, Dad. Get out.”
“It’s not definite, I might be all right.”
Chloe was crying now, but shouting through the tears. “You’re meant to lead me down the aisle. Say a few words at the reception.”
“I can’t if I’m dead.”
“Carl, get him out.”
Remnant stood, not wanting to be manhandled by a man half his age. “I’m sorry darlin’. If I could have it any other way.”
“I don’t care if what you say is true or not, Dad. You’re dead to me.”
“No, don’t say that, darlin’.”
“Why not
? You don’t give a shit about anyone but yourself.”
“I do. I had the suit ready. I was gonna get a present today. I’ve learnt the speech.”
“Get him out, Carl,” Chloe shouted.
Carl grabbed Remnant by the shoulder but the older man shook him off and pointed a warning finger up at the taller man who spread his arms in a pacifying gesture.
“You heard what she said,” said Carl.
“I’m going.”
Remnant walked out of the room into the hallway, the sound of Chloe snivelling behind him breaking his heart.
“This is the proudest day of my life,” he shouted. “Seeing my little daughter Chloe all grown up and walking down the aisle.”
Carl thrust him towards the front door.
“I was delighted and surprised when she asked me to do her the honour of giving her away, because as some of you will know, I have not been the best father. Chloe deserves better than me. Her mum too. But the fact that I’m here at all today shows my little girl has a kind heart. Something she must have inherited from her mother.”
Carl pushed Remnant out of the house. “Don’t ever come back.” He slammed the door shut.
Remnant turned on the steps and faced the house. “I hope I’ve not let you down today, Chloe,” he shouted at the house, “even though I know I have many times in the past. But it’s time I let you go. Let you fall into the arms of a man who will take better care of you than I ever did. Bye bye, darlin. I love you with all my heart. And I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
23
Remnant sat for hours on his shapeless sofa, staring at the sun setting over Holborn, unable even to muster up the enthusiasm to watch a documentary about redcurrants. Instead, he half-watched news stories about turmoil in the stock markets, unrest across the globe, and frantic negotiations at the UN that soon descended into anarchy. He was as stunned as the rest of the world was by footage of suited diplomats fighting each other, clambering over desks and leading with files fists feet. A clip round the ear with a clipboard, a punch with a hole punch. Even the Swiss got involved, siding with the Russians because they’d been sitting near them since the early Nineties and had started nodding good morning and goodbye to each other every time they were both in session.
