Oh Marina Girl

by Graham Lironi

  It was with such thoughts in mind that I slipped into another dream. I was on a beach, building a huge multi-turreted, seagull feather-flagged sandcastle with Will, who wore a flesh-coloured eye patch under his sunglasses and looked about the age he would have been had he not committed suicide.

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ I said.

  ‘You were meant to,’ he replied, patting the sand with the back of his spade.

  ‘Are you saying you deliberately deceived me?’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘I’m telling you that I didn’t write my suicide note.’

  Although this news surprised me, because such a possibility hadn’t occurred to me, it also struck me as obvious and I received it with a sense of relief, for, whatever ordeal it implied Will had been subjected to, it meant that he hadn’t written it with the malicious intention of deceiving me (the conclusion I had erroneously jumped to and which I couldn’t bear to contemplate).

  ‘Who did then?’

  He hesitated from answering, gently patting the sand with the back of his spade. Impatient, I yanked it from him.

  ‘You were abducted, weren’t you?’ I prompted. ‘The kidnapper wrote the note and took you away.’

  Will confirmed my suspicions by his failure to deny them.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. He insisted I call him “father”.’

  I returned the spade and he resumed patting the sand with it. ‘Did he — hurt you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Did he say why he’d kidnapped you?’

  ‘Yes — to punish you.’

  ‘Me? Why would he want to punish me? What harm am I supposed to have done him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he say how he knew me?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Where did he take you?’

  ‘Palma.’

  ‘How did you escape?’

  ‘I didn’t. He let me go.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Just then, the tide rushed in, drowning our ineffectual moat and drowning our ramparts, sending a turret tottering into the retreating ripples.

  ‘Why did you lie to me?’ he asked.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About angels and heaven.’

  ‘To make it easier for you.’

  ‘For me or for you?’

  When I awoke from the dream I was suffused with a feeling that somehow everything was, and always would be, all right. This soon evaporated, to be supplanted by a prolonged and acutely felt fresh sense of loss. Uniquely, I could recall every detail of the dream, and this clarity made it feel real. It was only then, recounting the dream conversation with Will, that it occurred to me that when his abductor had insisted he call him ‘father’, it could have been because he was a priest, rather than a deliberate attempt to usurp my position, as I had immediately interpreted it to mean.

  Then, regarding anew the two letters in front of me, I was finally able to pinpoint what had struck me as familiar about the kidnapper’s letter. By placing Will’s last letter to you behind the kidnapper’s and holding them up to the light, I persuaded myself that the same hand had penned the letters. It wasn’t the handwriting that convinced me of this startling fact; the give-away was the wider than average space between each word, which was exactly the same on both letters.

  chapter seventeen

  the front page (2)

  I rolled out of bed, gulped down cornflakes, showered, shaved, shit and caught the 44 into work, immersed in the front page of the paper which, I could see, contained a reproduction of the kidnapper’s second letter alongside an article on yesterday’s developments, but I couldn’t lift my eyes from the photograph dominating the front page to read them until well into my usual cramped commute.

  The photograph showed two baby-faced teenage soldiers sharing a joke about the trophy the soldier on the right of the picture was holding up to display proudly to the photographer: the head of a third baby-faced teenage soldier; freshly decapitated with eyes open, surprised and not yet bereft of life.

  This morbid fascination was interrupted when a grossly obese, sweaty schoolboy collapsed wheezing into the too-small space beside me, crushing me against the window as we swerved around a corner and I finally turned my attention to the article on the kidnapper. As usual, I’ll reproduce it for you verbatim:

  KIDNAP HOSTAGE TORTURED

  Following yesterday’s death threat, we have received a second anonymous letter from a kidnapper containing what has been confirmed to be a lens extracted from a human eye, prompting fears that the hostage has been tortured.

  This second letter has been confirmed by expert graphologists to have been written by the author of the first, received the day before.

  In the letter, addressed to our editor, John Kerr, the kidnapper writes that the publication of his first letter has momentarily spared the life of his hostage but warns that further refusal to condemn the views expressed in a letter about a book review we published earlier in the week (which seems to have prompted the kidnapping) will result in the death of the hostage, who the kidnapper asserts is a Mr Ian Thome.

  The letters have sparked a nationwide manhunt for the kidnapper, with Chief Constable Allan Wallace of Strathclyde Police confirming that the case has been given top priority. A specialist unit has been assigned to the investigation, with additional resources being made available from Scotland Yard.

  Whilst confirming that a team of investigators is actively pursuing a number of leads, Wallace yesterday expressed his firm belief that the hostage is still alive, stressing that his investigating team’s top priority is to ensure his safe release at the earliest opportunity.

  Whilst admitting that the true identity of the hostage was still open to question, and that it was unusual that no relatives had yet come forward to report an unexplained sudden disappearance of a family member, Wallace dismissed media speculation that the kidnap was little more than an elaborate hoax as ‘unhelpful’.

  He declined to speculate on how long it would take to secure the safe release of the hostage and appealed for the kidnapper to make contact with the police at the earliest opportunity to help resolve the situation before ‘matters get out of hand’.

  Wallace also appealed directly to any members of the public who feel they might have some useful information which could lead to the identification of the hostage and/or kidnapper to come forward and make themselves known to the police.

  He urged members of the public to carefully examine the kidnapper’s letter and, if they feel they recognise the handwriting, to contact either this paper or their local police station immediately, with confidentiality guaranteed.

  In what may turn out to be a significant revelation, our own investigative reporters tracked down Ian Thome (the assumed hostage) at his home address in Glasgow’s West End yesterday, prompting speculation that the kidnapper might have taken hostage the wrong person in a case of mistaken identity.

  Whilst this interpretation of events remains unverified, recent research by terrorism expert Professor Paul Buchanan of the University of Glasgow revealing that botched kidnaps are not unknown, lends it some credence. Buchanan speculates that the kidnapper might only now be aware that he has taken the wrong person hostage and predicts the imminent safe release of his unfortunate victim.

  Editor John Kerr has reiterated our steadfast stance to uphold the principles of free speech and outright condemnation of the kidnapper’s tactics; a stance publicly endorsed by the First Minister and echoed by the opposition leaders when the matter was raised during First Minister’s Questions at Holyrood yesterday afternoon.

  *We have set a £1000 reward for information leading to the safe release of the hostage and capture of the ki
dnapper. Any reader with information they think could lead to the identification of the hostage/kidnapper can call our dedicated hotline on (0800) 439 439. Lines are now open. All calls are free and confidentiality is guaranteed.

  See feature page 7

  Page seven reiterated the events leading up to the kidnapping, which had been spelled out in the paper the day before. It also expanded on the front-page story, included a photograph of a bewildered Ian Thome on his doorstep and contained comments from human rights groups, church leaders and pro-life campaigners, all peddling their own particular perspectives but all, uniquely, united in their unequivocal condemnation of the kidnapper’s actions.

  The feature concluded with an open letter to the kidnapper from John Kerr offering a full page of the next day’s paper to express his beliefs and defend his actions in writing in exchange for the safe return of the hostage.

  I summoned my courage, as always, took a deep breath and squeezed into the crowded lift to the first floor and, unable to resist the temptation, before I even removed my coat and hat, stopped and glanced at the purple paperweight pinning down the pile of letters on my desk.

  ‘Morning,’ sighed Kirsty Baird, teacup in hand, on her way to the kitchen.

  ‘Morning,’ I obliged.

  ‘How’s the missus?’ she asked.

  ‘Fine,’ I smiled. ‘She’s fine.’

  An unmarked padded envelope, identical to the one received the previous morning, sat atop the letter pile. I opened it. Inside was a small, square blue velvet jewellery box, also identical to the one received the previous morning. In the midst of prising it open, I was interrupted by an explosion, triggering an instinctive attempt to shield my ears from the deafening detonation and my head from falling masonry. I fell to the floor and rolled under my desk to lessen the chances of impalement by the many and varied jagged lumps of hot metal or shards of glass rocketing around my immediate vicinity. It was from this cramped and lowly vantage point — with a fire alarm ringing inside my head — that I looked out upon a shattered office with a hailstorm cascading from its ceiling.

  As I lay waiting for the hailstorm to abate, I took in the scene of devastation; an office whose ambience had been painstakingly designed by a team of consultants to maximise efficiency through space utilisation and staff productivity via the deployment of carefully co-ordinated complementary colour schemes and contemporary, German-designed ergonomic furniture and furnishings, reduced in a moment to a rubble of fractured workstations and shattered PCs. Remembering that I still held the jewellery box in my hand, I opened it to find a molar resting on a bed of white satin with a note attached to the underside of the box lid reading ‘Actions speak louder than words’ on one side and ‘Eye for eye, tooth for tooth’ on the other.

  The alarm bell ringing inside my head shifted from being a tired cliché for the severe tinnitus from which I was suffering into an all-too-real fire alarm ringing by the fire escape. This was soon joined by a swelling cacophony of fire engine, ambulance and police car sirens, each clamouring for immediate attention. At the very moment I realised that the hailstones were fragments of glass — probably, I speculated, originating from Kerr’s smoke aquarium — I was able to discern yet another ringing tone, this time from directly above my head. I listened to it for some time before feeling sufficiently secure to release one hand from protecting my fragile cranium to reach above and retrieve my phone.

  ‘Intolerance will not be tolerated,’ intoned a familiar electronically altered voice. ‘Meet me at the flagpole at noon and I’ll set free the hostage. Fail to appear and you’ll read about his murder on tomorrow’s front page. Come alone.’

  chapter eighteen

  letter bomb

  A number of journalists were ferried to hospital suffering from injuries sustained by flying debris. The rumour circulating amongst staff as they evacuated the building in the immediate aftermath of the blast was that a letter bomb had been sent to John Kerr, who had chosen, fortuitously, to pay a visit to the gents immediately prior to its detonation.

  As Dick and Hill pestered members of the emergency services for quotable information regarding the precise location of the detonation, the weight, size and design of the explosive device, the nature of injuries inflicted on people and damage caused to property, a traumatised Kerr and myself were summoned to our third board meeting in three days which, this time, had been convened in a conference room of the Holiday Inn. I immediately decided to keep the kidnapper’s instruction to meet him at noon to myself for the time being.

  The decor of the room may have differed from the paper’s boardroom, but its atmosphere of intimidation was familiar, if intensified. Its occupants were the same as on the previous two occasions although, unusually, White Whiskers was already seated at the head of the table. I was pondering the significance of his uncharacteristically prompt attendance when he pounced on me.

  ‘Is there any evidence linking the letter bomb to the kidnapper?’ he growled.

  I understood that the reason he was already seated was to catch me off guard before I had the chance to prepare a defence to his inquisition. I sensed that my survival depended upon my ability to respond to the forthright questions in the manner in which they were posed; with the conviction and confidence that are the hallmarks of honesty (no matter how dishonest my responses would be) rather than the obsequious yea-saying of his cardboard cut-out, pinstriped board of directors afraid to take any initiative for fear of the possible detrimental implications on the security of their pension plans.

  ‘I believe so,’ I said, tossing the jewellery box along the table.

  ‘What’s this?’ he barked, regarding it with ill-disguised disdain.

  ‘It’s from the kidnapper,’ I said. ‘Open it.’

  ‘Why is it that you receive gifts when your editor receives letter bombs?’

  ‘It’s not a gift. It’s evidence. Open it up and read what it says.’

  ‘Actions speak louder than words,’ he read aloud, for the benefit of his board. ‘And how does such a trite cliché constitute evidence?’

  ‘Because it explains the motive,’ I replied. ‘The feature on page seven of this morning’s paper concludes with a challenge to the kidnapper to defend his actions through words. The letter bomb was his response.’

  ‘And the tooth?’

  ‘Another sign to show he means business.’

  The old man snapped the box shut and tossed it back to me.

  ‘We followed your advice and look where it got us,’ he said. ‘It was your idea to reproduce the kidnapper’s letter on the front page and seek to exploit the situation. It was your idea to print his second letter, to ridicule him and challenge him to respond. The result? We’re lucky to be alive. As it is, the damage to our property will cost a fortune to repair. Will you foot the bill?’

  ‘Not on the wages you pay me. No, I suspect your insurance will cover the cost. What’s happened to circulation over the past two days? (I had overheard anecdotal evidence while people were milling around after the evacuation that sales had risen by a significant percentage.) What level of response have you had to your hotline? (I had also heard that the switchboard had already been inundated with calls.) You asked for my advice and I gave it — that’s more than anybody else in this room was prepared to do. If you want to make me out to be the scapegoat — fine — but remember: nobody forced you to take my advice — you chose to take it yourself.’

  White Whiskers’ expression suggested that he hadn’t anticipated such a combative response. Certainly, the pinstripes looked united in their desire to fire me with immediate effect. This was the unanimous decision they rapidly arrived at and proposed to Whiskers, who, his surprise having already started to subside, dismissed their bleating with a tired wave of a liver-spotted hand.

  ‘You’ve got balls, kid,’ he said, sounding for all the world like a capo in an American made-for-TV gangst
er movie. ‘They’re on the line.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have them anywhere else,’ I said, surveying the room and rising to leave.

  Pardos was waiting for me outside.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said.

  part four

  mine oath

  chapter nineteen

  spell it out

  We returned to the Space Bar. It was as bereft of customers as it had been the day before, so that there was no hiding from the tension that I found had sprung up between us. I interpreted this awkwardness as a sign that we’d arrived at a crucial juncture in our relationship. Neither of us seemed willing to attempt to ease the strain and cautiously chose our words before uttering them, trying to anticipate all the implications of each and every word and weighing up the most advantageous, or least disadvantageous, option open to us.

  ‘I’ve got a present for you,’ I said, handing her the jewellery box. She took it, opened it, closed it and deposited it in her pocket in a single motion.

  ‘I’m going to ask you this one last time,’ she said. ‘D’you have something you want to tell me?’