North Star

by Hammond Innes

  Walking back to my hotel, my mind was on tomorrow and the court, wanting to get it over now. Tomorrow – one day in my life. And, once that was behind me, it would be finished. The past, everything … I could forget about politics, the tortuous, twisted minds that had shattered so many of my ideals. I could concentrate then on simple material things. I was thinking of the Duchess, still riding out there beside the rig, and Gertrude, down-to-earth, matter-of-fact, with not a political thought in her head. How much simpler life would be if one were not involved.

  That evening I had an early meal and went out to the cinema. A man followed me, but not anyone I had ever seen before. And when he sat a few seats away I knew I hadn’t imagined it and that it must be the police keeping an eye on me. The film was an old Charlie Chaplin and to laugh at the eccentricities of human behaviour did me a lot of good.

  Back at my hotel, I had a quick drink at the bar, then got my key and went up to my room. I hadn’t been there more than a few minutes when the phone rang and a man’s voice said there was a woman in the lobby asking for me. I thought for a moment it must be a reporter, but he said, no, she wasn’t anyone from the local press and she wouldn’t give her name.

  I think I had a premonition then, tension gripping me as I asked him to describe her. I knew who it was before he had even finished. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘tell her to come up.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would be wise, sir. She seems a bit disturbed. Better if you see her down here.’

  ‘It’s my wife,’ I said.

  There was a pause, and then he said, ‘Very well, I’ll send her up.’ There was a click and the phone went dead, leaving me standing there, my nerves taut. So this was why they had laid off me. They were relying on Fiona. It was so typical, getting at me through her. Why didn’t they come themselves? Did they think, after all these years, she still meant something to me? There was a knock on the door, a light, almost hesitant tap. I opened it and she was there in the passage, facing me, her eyes enormous. She smiled. It was a tentative flicker of a smile that betrayed her nervousness. ‘Come in,’ I said and the tone of my voice was not exactly welcoming.

  She came in, moving slowly as though uncertain of her reception. Her face looked very white. The pageboy cut was gone, her jet-black hair swept back from her forehead and falling to her shoulders. It made her look more feminine. It also accentuated the pallor of her skin – that and the little black coat she was wearing, the long sensitive fingers poking out of the sleeves, white with blue veins showing.

  I closed the door and for a moment we stood looking at each other in silence. Finally I said, ‘What do you want?’

  She tossed back her hair, a new gesture to go with the new cut. ‘That’s a fine way to greet me.’ The smile was suddenly easier, her nervousness receding. ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’ And when I didn’t move she laughed. It was a brazen, excited sound. She was enjoying the drama of the moment and I knew she had taken whatever it was she took. I could see it in her eyes, in the sudden changes of mood, the loss of control. ‘I used to be able to turn you on, just like that.’ She clicked her fingers, her mouth wide open, laughing at me.

  ‘We’re both older,’ I said.

  ‘You may be,’ she said tartly. ‘I’m just the same.’ She slipped the coat off and threw it carelessly on the bed, her movements as sensual as they had always been, and the little pale blue dress very effective in revealing the slim boyish shape of her body, the small firm breasts.

  ‘What do you want, Fiona?’

  She turned, her voice low as she said, ‘What do you think?’ And she came slowly towards me, her lips parted, the white teeth showing and her hands held out to me. ‘We can talk later.’ I saw it in her face then. She really did want me and I was shocked. After almost six years. She came close, her body touching mine, her hands moving.

  ‘Stop it,’ I said.

  ‘Why should I?’ Her face was lifted to mine, her eyes staring up at me, irises and pupils merged to form dark pools, and she whispered, ‘My poor Mike. You’re starved.’

  I took hold of her arms, pulling them away, and pushed her down on to the only chair. ‘Now stop it,’ I said. ‘Just sit there and control yourself and tell me why you’re here.’

  ‘You fool!’ she said softly. ‘You stupid fool!’ And suddenly she burst into tears. ‘They’ll get you. You know they’ll get you.’

  ‘Who will?’

  ‘They – they. You don’t expect names, do you?’

  ‘How long since you were in Ireland?’

  ‘I’ve never been involved with the IRA.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘CFJ.’ And she spelt it out for me – Community for Freedom and Justice.

  ‘What is it – Leninist, Trotskyist, Maoist? Another of those splinter groups operating under the IS umbrella?’

  She shook her head, tears in her eyes as she stared up at me. ‘I came to warn you.’

  ‘About what? Who sent you?’

  ‘Nobody. You know I went all the way up to those islands, the Shetlands, looking for you.’

  ‘So I gathered.’

  ‘She wrote to you, did she? She said she would.’ The tears were drying on her cheeks and I sensed another change of mood coming. She smiled. ‘What’s she like, that woman?’ She stared at me, then burst out laughing. ‘Don’t tell me you’re running her trawler on the basis of pure altruism.’

  ‘It’s a business arrangement,’ I said. ‘Now please explain –’

  ‘A business arrangement!’ She giggled. ‘And me thinking it’s in love with her you are because why else should a man spend weeks at sea if not to build up enough steam to close his eyes and make an image of beauty out of a big, blonde, blowsy lump of a girl, her fat buttocks strapped into patched denims, her big bosom encased in Shetland wool –’

  I slapped her then, not hard, but enough to stop the spate of words. She gazed at me, wide-eyed. ‘You are in love with her.’

  ‘Would it matter to you, after all this time?’

  ‘It might.’

  I shook my head. ‘We’re finished. You knew that, so why did you go to Shetland? Who sent you?’ She didn’t answer and I reached down to her bag, which was lying on the bed beside her coat. She tried to take it from me, but I pushed her away, shaking the contents out on to the coverlet.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Her voice was high, a little wild.

  There were no instructions, nothing in writing. But she had money. Five ten pound notes and some ones. ‘Where did you get these?’

  ‘My job.’

  ‘What is your job?’

  She turned away. ‘None of your business.’

  I caught her by the shoulder and swung her round so that we were face to face. ‘Somebody paid your fare to Shetland. Paid you to come down here. Who?’ She stared at me, wooden-faced. ‘Was it a man called Stevens?’

  ‘I don’t know any Stevens.’

  I described him to her and I saw the flicker of recognition in her eyes. But she wouldn’t admit it. ‘Let me go. You’re hurting.’

  ‘How long were you in Ireland?’

  ‘It’s my own country.’

  ‘Were you in Ulster?’ I caught hold of both her shoulders, shaking her. ‘Is that where you met him?’

  But she only shook her head.

  ‘What’s his real name?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t know who you mean. I came because you were in trouble and behaving stupidly. What’s it matter that a man’s house was burned down. The insurance company pays. It had to be burned. A warning. Men like that, men who stand in the way of progress – you can’t reason with them. You have to force them to see sense.’ She pulled my hands from her shoulders, holding them tightly. ‘You must understand, Mike. It’s like Ireland. Nobody listens to reason until you make them. Stormont, the “B” Specials, all the everlasting persecution of Catholics … Nobody likes bombs, but without bombs nothing would have changed.’

  ‘And a lot of innocent people would still
be alive.’ All the old arguments that had bust up our marriage. Then it had been wildcat strikes and pickets using force; now it was bombs.

  ‘If the Cause is right –’

  ‘Oh yes, I know – the end justifies the means. Even if the whole fabric of society is destroyed, and the people with it.’

  She began to cry again. ‘Can’t I make you understand? Don’t I mean anything to you any more?’ Her grip on my hands tightened, her fingers interlaced with mine. ‘Please, Mike – don’t do it. For your sake. For mine.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Don’t shop those boys. They did their duty. That’s all. You’re a witness for the prosecution tomorrow. All you have to say is that it was too dark to be certain who did it. It doesn’t matter what you told that lawyer man this afternoon. Tomorrow, when you’re in the witness box –’

  ‘How do you know I saw Hall?’

  ‘They had the offices watched. Hall came back from lunch sharp at two. You were there a little before. You left about three-thirty. They’re convinced –’

  ‘Who’s they?’

  She stared at me. ‘The Community, the organization, the militants if you like. What’s it matter who they are? They’re organized. They know what they want and how to get it. I don’t have to tell you that, surely. And they stick by their own people. You shop those boys tomorrow and they’ll nail you.’

  ‘Scunton and his crowd?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m just warning you, that’s all. They thought it was your doing when those boys were arrested, that you’d shopped them. That’s why I went to the Shetlands. Oh yes, you’re right – my fare was paid, all expenses. I was to talk you into a more sensible view of things. It never occurred to me you wouldn’t be coming ashore, that the Petersen girl …’ She let go my hands, turning quickly away and starting to gather up the contents of her bag. When she had put them all back, she got into her coat. ‘Well, that’s it, Mike. I’ve done what I promised. I’ve warned you.’

  ‘Who did you promise?’

  ‘Myself.’ She smiled a little sadly. ‘Chiefly myself … I know we argued a lot, and fought. But it was good while it lasted. At least it was for me. Wasn’t it for you?’ She stared up at me, a wistful look. ‘Wasn’t it, Mike?’ And when I didn’t say anything, she gave a snort. ‘You’ve changed. A sea change, my God! And I loved you. I loved you, you fool.’ And with sudden violence she shouted at me, ‘Go on. Shop them. I’ll be there in court to see you do it. So will others. Shop them, you bastard, and see what happens.’ She turned so abruptly that the skirt of her coat swirled and I watched her storm out. The door banged behind her.

  I sat down on the bed, the room suddenly empty and nothing to do but think about tomorrow with the smell of her scent lingering and her words of warning still in my ears.

  3

  The Guildhall was in Alfred Gelder Street and when I arrived there a crowd of about a dozen had gathered around the entrance, mostly students by the look of them. Somebody called out ‘That’s him’ and they surged round me. I don’t recall what they said, only their hostility. It was an unpleasant experience and the uniformed constable on duty had to clear a way for me.

  The courts were on the ground floor and the witnesses in all the day’s cases waited in the corridor. Time passed slowly. Occasionally, as police went in and witnesses were called, the door to the crown court momentarily opened and we caught a fleeting glimpse of the dark-panelled interior.

  It was just short of eleven when the usher came out and called ‘Michael Randall’. I got up and followed him into the courtroom to take my place in the witness box. Standing there, the testament in my hand and repeating the oath, I had a clear view of everybody – the judge, Sayre, a tall, thin man looking dignified in black gown and wig, the massive bulk of counsel for the defence, the two men in the dock. Bucknall, his pallid, freckled face framed by long hair and wearing a suede jacket over a gaily-coloured shirt, constantly shifted his feet, his eyes downcast; Claxby, much tougher, an older, heavier face with a drooped moustache and long sideburns, stared back at me, sullen and watchful.

  The clerk finished administering the oath and there was a general stir as people settled themselves. I glanced up at the public gallery. Most of the seats were filled, the back of the court, too. I saw Scunton there, several others I recognized – and Fiona. I think she smiled at me, but I couldn’t be sure. It might have been a nervous fluttering of the mouth.

  ‘You are Michael Mouat Randall?’ Sayre was on his feet facing me across the court, his brief, all his papers, on the desk in front of him. Quietly, crisply, he took me through the events leading up to the moment when I had stood waiting outside No. 5 Washbrook Road. ‘And you walked from the Congregational Hall to Washbrook Road?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it a dark night?’

  ‘Yes, pretty dark. Raining, in fact – a light drizzle.’

  ‘When you left the hall the meeting was still in progress.’

  I nodded.

  ‘How long did you have to wait before the bomb attack took place?’

  ‘Less than half an hour.’

  ‘You were standing in the shadow of some bushes at the entrance to an area of wasteground known as the Stonepit. You remained in that position all the time without moving?’

  ‘Until the light in the porch was broken, yes.’

  He reached down for a sheet, holding it and looking at the judge. ‘Milord. I have here a plan of this section of Washbrook Road, also copies for the jury. It shows the distance from the gate of No. 5 to the bushes where the witness was standing as forty-seven feet. It also shows the distance to the nearest street lamp. This is on the opposite side of the road twenty-two yards from No. 5 and thirty-five yards from the witness. All measurements taken by a member of the Surveyor’s Office, who also prepared the plan.’ He handed the sheet to the clerk, who passed it up to the judge, and copies were distributed to the jury. Sayre turned back to me. ‘Was there any light on in the house?’

  ‘Not in the house. There was a light on in the porch. It was the first thing they broke.’

  ‘But you were able to see who they were. You recognized them? ’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are they here in court?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The witness must answer so that we can all hear,’ the judge interposed.

  Sayre looked at me and I said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you point them out to us please.’

  I indicated the prisoners in the dock and he nodded. ‘We have already heard from another witness that they parked their car in neighbouring Ellsworth Terrace. Presumably they were on foot as they approached No. 5.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was it the street light that enabled you to identify them?’

  ‘No. They were on the opposite side of the road to the light, the same side as No. 5. They had their heads turned towards the houses. I think they were probably checking the numbers.’

  ‘So at that point their faces were in shadow. When did you positively identify them?’

  ‘When they opened the gate to No. 5.’

  ‘An earlier witness, who had picked them out at an identity parade, has admitted under cross-examination that she could have been mistaken. If she could be mistaken, how is it you are so positive?’

  ‘Because the light from the porch was full on them. They had their collars turned up, but from where I was standing –’

  ‘It’s a lie.’ Claxby was thumping the edge of the dock. ‘He’s lying. I was never there.’

  ‘Go on, please,’ Sayre said, ignoring the outburst. ‘From where you were standing …?’

  ‘From there I had a clear view of both their faces as they turned in at the gate.’

  ‘What were they wearing?’

  ‘Cloth caps and raincoats.’

  ‘Both of them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can you describe their clothes in greater detail?’

  ‘The raincoats were rather shapele
ss, and one of them had a muffler. No particular colour. I think it was Bucknall and his cap was in some dull check. ’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not that I recall.’

  ‘Who broke the light in the porch?’

  ‘Claxby.’

  ‘And who threw the petrol bomb?’

  ‘Claxby,’ I said again. And he yelled at me from the dock, ‘You bloody liar. I was never there, an’ you know it. You threw that bomb. You’re just trying to cover …’ A policeman grabbed him from behind. There was a scuffle and then quiet as Lawrence Mendip, moving with remarkable speed for such a heavy man, began whispering to him urgently.

  In an icy voice the judge said, ‘I must warn the prisoner that if he interrupts again I shall have him taken down to the cells.’ He leaned a little forward over the high desk, addressing himself directly to Claxby. ‘Outbursts such as you have just made tend to leave a bad impression on the jury. Proceed, Mr Sayre.’

  And so it went on, Sayre taking me step by step, and in great detail, through those few vivid, crowded minutes. And all the time, at the back of my mind, was the thought of Claxby’s outburst …

  ‘And by the time you got the child out the neighbours had already gathered.’

  ‘Yes – three of them, I think. Two women and a man.’

  ‘And you handed the child to Mrs Fenton?’

  ‘I’ didn’t know her name. But one of the women, yes.’

  ‘Did she say you must wait for the police?’

  ‘No, I think the man said that.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’

  ‘I was mate on a trawler. We were due to sail at first light, and my hand was cut by the broken glass. I wanted to get a dressing on it.’