Dreams to Die For

by Alan G Boyes

  * * *

  “What time will you and Mrs Crossland require the car, Sir?” Jack Donaldson, Crossland’s burly driver, enquired.

  Donaldson also held the title of ‘personal security consultant’ but in reality that was little more than a bodyguard, though he never carried a firearm. His sheer size made him an intimidating figure. He stood a little over six feet tall and weighed close to 240 pounds. His spiky ginger hair was short-cropped close to his scalp and his cavernous mouth was circumscribed by thick bulbous lips. His pale blue eyes, set in a deeply pockmarked face interrupted only by a crooked nose that had been on the receiving end of too many fists, constantly darted back and forth. His alert and piercing gaze was frightening in its intensity of penetration, and just looking at him made others nervous. He was superbly fit, despite his size, and since leaving the army and subsequent spells as a mercenary, Donaldson had made certain his physique was maintained by regular visits to the gym. Whenever Crossland travelled, the doughty driver at his side was a reassuring and necessary presence for a well-heeled banker of dubious repute and probity.

  “What are you doing here, Jack? I told you to take a break until Monday” Crossland retorted somewhat exasperatedly.

  He did not take kindly, when working on his private files, for his concentration to be interrupted by his secretary buzzing through his driver, especially when the man should be on holiday.

  “I thought you would need the car to get home, seeing as those bastards seem to be blowing London to bits and the stations are likely to be closed.”

  “What? What did you say?”

  A thousand images entered Crossland’s mind as his brain struggled to absorb the realisation of what he had just been told and had been witnessing out of his window. Bombs, bloody bombs – that would explain it. He turned away from his desk, slowly rose from the comfort of his chair and walked to the window and stared at the assortment of vehicles below, their powerful engines rendered impotent as they were hopelessly trapped in the congestion. He stayed silent, trying to clear his mind but there was one recollection that kept repeating over and over in his head. The traffic lights, the backfire behind him, the startled, turned faces. He walked slowly to the chair and sat down. Crossland’s face went suddenly ashen, the realisation of the possible horror etching itself into a facial expression of deep shock. He looked over to Donaldson.

  “My God, Jack, I hope Cindy is OK. Tell me what you know. Quickly.”

  * * *

  Alan Crossland spent a worrying few hours trying to trace what had happened to his wife but it was not until almost five hours later, at his fourth enquiry of the emergency call centre telephone number, that he received news that she had been admitted to Charing Cross Hospital that morning. Despite his pleas, the operator had no additional information to help remove his anxiety. An hour later he was at her bedside where she lay sleeping; worry turned to relief when the ward staff informed him that Cindy’s injuries were not particularly serious. She had undergone a simple routine operation to reset her left leg which was now covered in a protective plaster cast, and she had suffered numerous cuts and bruises. Evidently her injuries would have been far worse had not a fellow passenger’s full briefcase landed across her legs just as the blast threw her sideways and onto the floor. A split second later the back of the seat she had been leaning against was wrenched from its fixings and twisted around onto the lower half of her body, crushing the case. Cindy was due further X-rays on her ribs, probably the following day, and there was some fluid on the chest that was being kept under observation. Crossland drew up a rather uncomfortable plastic and chrome visitor chair and sat beside the bed. He gently held her hand and waited. Two hours later, Cindy started to regain consciousness and gave a thin smile.

  “The Tube. Dust. What happened? Do you know?” she asked.

  “There was a bomb, and you have a broken leg, cuts and bruises, but thank God, you have had a pretty miraculous escape. It could have been a lot worse.” He kissed her gently and gave a broad grin. He kept telling her how much he loved her and how worried he had been.

  “I’m alright, Alan, I’ll be fine. Thanks. Thanks for coming, for being here.” She spoke in a croaky voice, explained later to him by a nurse as the consequences of the toxic smoke and dust his wife had inhaled and swallowed. As he spoke quietly he noticed that she began to close her eyes again, the anaesthetic still partially having its effect. Alan used his index finger to gently clear her face of some long, loose blonde hairs and kissed her again before departing. He told her that he would stay for the next few days in their Shoreditch apartment in order to be close by and so he would be there whenever Cindy needed him.

  * * *

  The following morning Cindy awoke early and despite the previous day’s ordeal, she was surprised that she felt reasonably well. She ached all over and had various items of medical monitoring equipment and plastic tubes attached to her – but if she had been inclined to complain of pain anywhere on her body she would only have mentioned the site of the injection tube on the top of her hand which was very sore. She wriggled her toes just to check that she wasn’t paralysed and pronounced to herself that she had been a very fortunate woman not to have suffered more extensive injuries. As her thoughts of the preceding day gradually returned, she remembered the kind stranger on the train; the way he had kept her talking, and how calm and reassuring he had been. She blushed slightly when recalling that she had informed this man of much of her life history, but she couldn’t remember all the details of the conversation and wondered just how much she had revealed.

  “God, I hope not,” she mumbled audibly as thoughts of things she might have told him raced around her brain. She remembered he had written his telephone number on her arm and she eagerly raised it up in order to read it. It wasn’t there. Where was it? She tried her other arm but uttered an immediate low groan of disappointment. Both limbs had been cleaned, along with large parts of the rest of her body, by the surgical team at the hospital and the precious vital number had gone! The frightened loneliness she had experienced in the battered carriage twenty-four hours earlier returned, unwelcome and invasive, and the haunting memories made her physically shake. She needed to see this man again, or hear his voice, whoever he was, and in a slight panic she started talking rapidly to herself as she placed her arms closer to her face, desperate to see if there was any trace of ink remaining. Nothing, both arms had been scrubbed clean. Her mind flashed back to those horrible, final moments in the carriage and the scrap of paper the stranger put into her hand. She knew she had held onto it, recalling how tightly she had clutched her fingers around the crumpled ball as the doctor gave her an injection.

  What happened to it? Where has it gone? she asked herself over and over again. She tried to change position to see what was on the small cabinet beside her but found it was difficult for her to move and so called out for a nurse.

  “When I came in yesterday or whenever it was, I had a slip of paper, a telephone number, in my hand and it’s most important that I find it. Do you know where it is? Can you help me find it? Please?” she blurted out the words, her normally careful delivery overtaken by the imperative of finding the note.

  “There’s nothing here my dear. In fact you were only identified by the smashed phone in your pocket. The police traced your name through that. I expect the rescue services gathered up all the handbags and briefcases and they will be returned sometime. None of that sort of stuff came in here.”

  Cindy was disappointed but managed to reply to the well-meaning nurse.

  “Well, no, I don’t suppose it would, everything was thrown about. It’s marvellous that with so much to do they had time to check phones and things.” She paused, wondering who had found the note or what had become of it. The realisation that she might never find out the identity of the kind stranger who helped her in the immediate aftermath of the explosion made her sad.

  “Are you sure it’s not there? Please, please look again,” she implored. The
nurse started to re-examine the cabinet but it was very apparent there was nothing of Cindy’s except her smashed mobile in the drawer and a bag of clothes beside the bed itself.

  “We have put what remained of your clothes in a bag but there’s nothing in there either” said the nurse when she reappeared from sorting through the few belongings. Cindy said a meek “Thank you” and closed her eyes.

  After a few minutes, she started to cry quietly to herself. Whoever he was, she knew this man was important to her. The only slight comfort was that she remembered his name.

  Gordon. It was Gordon. Gordon, she repeated it over and over in her head. She did not want to forget his name, ever.

  * * *

  The day passed slowly and quietly for her. Alan visited a couple of times before going back to the apartment at eight-thirty in the evening. He had taken the bag and Cindy had given him a list of fresh clothes and toiletries she needed for the following day.

  An hour after Alan had waved goodbye to Cindy, a bright-faced, cheery young nurse came by and closed the curtains around the bed.

  “Hi! I’m Jacqui, night shift. I’ll be recording various measurements for the chart and I can let you have some more pain killers, if you need them. Just ask. Actually, you look a lot better than you did last night. How do you feel now?”

  “Not too bad thanks… my husband has visited a couple of times… but this tube hurts” said Cindy falteringly, whilst pointing to her hand.

  “Yes, that one usually does. It will be taken out in a day or two, so not too long.” The nurse started feeling inside her tunic pocket and then held up her hand saying, “I’ve got something for you. As you can imagine, virtually all of us here were drafted down to help in Casualty and the ER yesterday, and when you came in I was on the team to which you were allocated. You were asleep of course due to the drugs the rescue doctor gave you, but when you were examined you were still clenching a bit of paper. When I took it, I noticed it had a phone number on it and that you also had the same number written on your arm. Thought it must be important so rather than risk losing it in the chaos down in ER, I put it in my pocket and resolved to find you today, whichever ward you were on.”

  She passed Cindy the paper and said, “Bit of luck finding you here.”

  Cindy was so overjoyed, she was temporarily lost for words and burst into tears. After several seconds she blurted out, “You wonderful, wonderful girl. Thank you so much, I really thought I had lost it.”

  Nurse Jacqui smiled back. “All part of the National Health service. Well, don’t lose it now, will you?” She picked up the pen she had used to record Cindy’s blood pressure on the admission chart, and slipped back the bedclothes covering Cindy’s broken leg. “Perhaps I should write it on your plaster?”

  Alarmed, Cindy quickly replied “Oh God, no, don’t do that. But if you can put it on another piece of paper or something that won’t get lost, that would be great – just in case.”

  The nurse turned and a wry smile spread across her lips. “I’ll be back,” and true to her word within two minutes she was. “Here” she said. “Sounds to me as if you might not want the number seen by too many people, so I’ve written it on this.”

  She handed Cindy a new tampon with Gordon’s telephone number clearly written on the internal applicator. “That, hopefully, you can keep private,” she said laughing.

  5

  Since he sold his own business in 1999, Gordon Truscott had extensively refurbished and extended his Scottish Highland home, Mealag Lodge, and its adjoining estate of open land and forestry. He had never totalled the cost involved but his accountant had mentioned to him once that it ran to several million pounds, though this did not elicit any concern or further interest on Gordon’s part. The Lodge was substantial but it was not grand. It had been built in the early 1920’s and whilst Gordon had spent a considerable sum improving, extending and furnishing it to his taste, he had spent more on developing the estate forestry and renovating the workers’ own cottages. On part of the estate near to the lodge, Truscott had built nine high-quality chalets. These were generously spaced around a large clearing that had been made close to the southern shore of Loch Quoich. Three chalets were utilised to accommodate any casual staff or special visitors, and the remaining six were solely for ‘guests’ – as Gordon liked to regard those who attended the management courses he ran periodically. There were a further two buildings, both hidden by trees. One, which resembled a very large bungalow from the exterior, was a spacious purpose-made conference and training facility, with its own well-equipped kitchen / dining area, a lounge and various rooms including wash room facilities, ensuring it lacked nothing in its support for the delegates that studied within its walls. Affixed to the outside was an erratically shaped slab of wood, part of the Old Caledonian pine forest which Gordon had found one morning on the shore of the loch. It was about twenty inches in diameter and burnt into it was the name Ruraich – literally meaning “search for” in Gaelic, but used by Gordon to remind him of his first springer spaniel which he had named Rummage.

  Sited next to the large Mealag Lodge, but at least thirty metres away from it, was a compact, but spacious, timber-framed bungalow. This was permanently occupied by Sandy and Margaret MacLean, both of whom were indispensable to Gordon. Margaret was general housekeeper and cook, and Sandy attended to any maintenance whether to the lodge or the boats or anything else – plus he was a fully-accredited instructor in safety and first aid, a mountain rescue volunteer and an excellent fishing and shooting companion. Sandy and Margaret were now in their late thirties and were the only estate workers within the actual grounds of the lodge complex, the others having their own crofts or homes scattered amongst the adjoining two thousand acre estate which spread into the area known as Knoydart. Well to the rear of the MacLeans’ bungalow, Gordon had built a private helipad. It had been cleverly positioned within a separate unevenly-shaped clearing, such that it was shielded by trees and therefore out of view from the large house itself and the bungalow, though not so distant as to be completely out of earshot. The entire Mealag complex was surrounded on three sides by high wire steel fencing that had been constructed within the forest to obscure it from view, leaving the only open aspect to the front where it bounded and faced the loch.

  At 11:30am, Gordon was standing at Quoich dam having walked the two thirds of a mile from the lodge before clambering over the small, iron gate barring the entrance to the walkway at the southern (Mealag) end of the dam wall. He was wearing an unzipped, size thirty six camouflage jacket, deliberately loose-fitting over a cotton check shirt. Each leg of his matching multi-coloured green, black and brown trousers was tucked inside an expensive Aigle boot. His dark hair, worn just slightly on the long side, had a slightly unkempt look about it. Fractionally under two metres tall, weighing no more than 190 pounds and with a weathered, tanned complexion gained not from some Mediterranean resort but by regular exposure to every conceivable type of weather that only the Highlands can produce, he cut an imposing figure. A pair of high powered Zeiss field glasses, slung from his neck by a platted leather cord, swayed in sync with his movements.

  It was the middle of July, a week after the London atrocities 650 miles away, though to Gordon those events now seemed of another time zone and another world. The sun was high, bright and intense, pushing the air temperature well into the seventies and the loch surface water was barely ruffled by the soft breeze. This caused an edge of sparkling, uneven light to run along the entire length of the dam wall as the strong sunlight caught the water lapping against the protective concrete slabs. He checked his Omega stainless steel all-weather watch. In the next half an hour or so he reckoned his new ‘guests’ would be travelling along the Kinloch Hourn road that passed alongside the north side of the loch and he had deliberately come to the dam early to witness their arrival, an event which usually provided a spectacle of some amusement. From his high vantage point by the dam he had a tremendous view of the narrow road opposite as it woun
d its way along the base of the glen and passed through Corach five miles or so away. A white transit van, travelling towards Kinloch Hourn, would be visible to him at least ten minutes before it would pass the far side of the dam, and he could follow its progress onwards for almost another mile before the driver would pull in at the lay-by almost opposite Mealag and allow his apprehensive passengers to alight.

  Gordon chuckled at the thought but his attention was temporarily taken by a golden eagle soaring high above Gleouraich, the 3,400 feet mountain opposite. It was not uncommon to witness eagles around the Munros, as hill walkers have generically named all Scottish mountains that exceed a height of 3000 feet, and Gordon was always fascinated by the large bird’s combination of power and grace. As he lowered the binoculars from his eyes he slowly turned his head to admire the vast empty spaces all around the loch. It was a view he had seen a thousand times and more, but it never failed to take his breath away.

  Between the dam and the end of the road at Kinloch Hourn, the loch was flanked by eight Munros towering imperiously skywards. To his left on the southern shore, were the Sgurr Mor and Gairich mountains. The triangular Gairich was pointed and sharp, its gravel surface washed light grey by the thrashing rain that beat upon it virtually every day of the year. Several large, dark scars bore witness to the frequent cascading torrents of water that had scoured deep ravines into the triple faces of the mountain. Sgurr Mor in contrast was part of a massif, as its western flank joined with the eastern flank of Sgurr na Ciche over a mile from it. The broad roundness of its summit was quite unlike the pointed hat worn by Gairich. Huge boulders, some seemingly impossibly fixed as they jutted out at crazy angles, gave periodic shelter from the elements to those who tested their bravery and skill in making an ascent upon the mountain. Around the black rocky faces were areas of bright green where grass and mosses clung to the thin earth blown into the numerous shallow crevices. Directly opposite where Gordon stood was series after series of grey, ebony, and purple-coloured pinnacles, the high hills illuminated by the ever changing light and appearing to criss-cross over each other like a crowd of standing spectators striving for a better view of the loch below.