Hy Brasil

by Margaret Elphinstone

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘More than anybody in the world.’ Lucy stood up, and I knew she was going to put the kettle on. Our habits were becoming one another’s. As if she knew what I was thinking, she said, ‘You’ve quite a temper, haven’t you? I’ll miss you when you go back to England. Very much.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  THE PRIVATE LOUNGE at the Red Herring is permanently booked on Mondays for Whist Drives, on Wednesdays by the Dorrado Poems and Pints Meeting and on Thursdays for practice by the West Coast Madrigal Singers. On Fridays and Saturdays it accommodates customers who want quieter surroundings than the live music and crowds downstairs. On Tuesdays and Sundays the room is available for private functions. Its popularity might seem unaccountable, since the furnishings are Spartan, and the decor given over exclusively to British Railways and Steamship Company posters. Combined with a cracked brown linoleum floor, an institutional wall clock with a loud tick, uncomfortable benches, small round stained tables at just the wrong height, and a lingering smell of ancient cigarettes, you’d think the posters would create an unsettlingly transient effect, suggesting as they do that customers are there to catch something that might be leaving at any minute. But in Hy Brasil a British Railways waiting room is a novelty and a joke, and when Ernest’s grandfather opened up the room in 1910 he knew exactly what he was doing. Its popularity has never waned.

  No one had booked the lounge tonight. Colombo’s sister Natalia helped in the bar on Sunday evenings, and the landlord was using his private room himself. He had three companions. They sat with their heads together at the table nearest the window, their backs to the empty hearth. On the table was a jug of cider and three pint mugs, and a glass of orange juice.

  ‘The point is,’ Colombo was saying, ‘that the prison’s in a dangerous condition and it’s been evacuated. All that end of the industrial estate between Port o’ Frisland and St Brandons’ Dock is damaged, though I heard they’re allowing the cider factory to open again tomorrow. Today the whole area was deserted except for the surveyors, the earth sciences people, Tommy Zakis who won’t move out of his bus and police patrols on the lookout for looters. Apparently the epicentre was on a direct line between Mount Brasil and Port o’ Frisland. Five point six on the Richter scale. There’ve been two more minor tremors, and the road to the Point is still cordoned off. I was down there this morning, strictly unofficially. I got my photos and I even got an interview out of Tommy in exchange for a bag of groceries. I looked at the prison, and the concrete’s cracked all the way down from the roof. You can see daylight up above if you look in at the main door. Thank God it didn’t happen in the town. They’ve moved all the prisoners into the old British fort at the Point, right on the far side of the damaged area. What I’m saying is, the fort’s cut off from everywhere else, with the road still more or less impassable.’

  ‘Great,’ said Ishmael. ‘Just like Alcatraz.’

  ‘God help the poor souls,’ said Per. ‘They’ll all get bronchitis in that place. Is it the dungeons they’ve put them in? I don’t think our Jed will do very well underground.’

  ‘No, but the point I’m trying to make is that there’s no modern security system in the fort. I’m saying there might be a possibility of going round by sea without anyone knowing.’

  ‘What were you thinking to do when you got there?’ asked Ishmael. ‘Disguise yourself as a minstrel and sing outside his window? If he has a window, that is. Or dress up as his mistress and carry in a basket of freshly baked bread with a file in it, and then take his place?’

  ‘Oh, all right. But you can’t just ignore the earthquake. It seems providential to me.’

  ‘So what isn’t?’ said Ishmael. ‘Anyway, Providence has given St Brandons a nasty shock, when everyone’s been assuming for the last two hundred years that the fault was only on the west side.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ said Colombo. ‘Tidesman could use that. You wouldn’t mind?’

  ‘Use what?’ said Ishmael, but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘My guess is that security is as tight as it ever was, if not more so. They knew how to build a jail in 1812. It’s probably more secure than the new one. Even if there were a way to get him out, what would be the good of that? Where would he go? Would you ship him out of the country? How? Through customs at the airport? On the ferry? Or would you hide him in Hy Brasil? Where? Under Ravnscar? Or maroon him permanently on Tegid Voel? Do you think that’s what he wants? No, he has to go free. Free to live his own life in his own place. It’s not getting him out of there, it’s getting him his rights that’ll free him. That’s why my plan is better.’

  ‘Can it be done soon?’ said Per. ‘If he’s locked up alone, the way you describe it, it must be bad. And in an earthquake too. That would be an upsetting thing to happen to anyone. I’m afraid that if he gets rattled he’ll fight, and then they’ll have a real charge to fasten on him. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘No,’ said Ishmael. ‘I don’t think he will. He wasn’t rattled when I saw him. And maybe he’s not alone now. They won’t have the same accommodation in the fort.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ said Ernest, ‘that Jared must look after himself just now. Ishmael has a plan, or he wouldn’t have asked us to meet. I’m intrigued; you seem to have picked an interesting set of conspirators. Isn’t it time to tell us what you want?’

  ‘Yes.’ Ishmael looked round at them. ‘For a start, I picked you because you’re Jared’s friends. I’m hoping you may be willing to take a small risk on his behalf. I also chose you because this isn’t just about Jed. He’s been framed on a drugs charge: you know that. It’s a lie, but the drugs themselves are real. They’re here. Make no mistake about that. I don’t think any of you, wherever your loyalties may also lie, believe that our economy should be maintained by illegal traffic in drugs. I know Colombo doesn’t. He’s written about it; he’s even tried to drown himself in his attempt to find out what’s going on. Well, I guess I can offer you the best scoop you’re ever likely to get. That’s why I picked you. I picked Ernest because I know he agrees with me on the drugs issue, and also because he’s bound by an oath to Nicky Hawkins. I picked Per because he was Jack Honeyman’s friend, and since Jack disappeared he’s been as good a friend to Jared. I picked all of you because I think you’re capable of carrying out what I have to suggest. Am I right? Do you want me to tell you my idea?

  ‘Very well, then. We have to act fast. The earthquake was providential, but not in the way Colombo thinks. An earthquake was the one thing that could have given us enough time. Now, listen.’

  Colombo stood in the dark, listening. It was a clear night, and the sky was full of stars. There were more stars in the sky in Hy Brasil than anywhere else he’d been on earth. The Milky Way arched over him like a broad road, until it disappeared behind the looming blackness of Mount Prosper. The trees below were hushed and silent, without a breath of wind. He could hear the faint beat of the waves along the shore.

  There were small sounds in the building behind him, and a faint rectangle of light along the edges of the blacked-out window. He felt again for the gun inside the holster at the back of his belt. He didn’t like having it. That moment when Ishmael had opened the safe in his office, and brought out those sleek black weapons, small enough to be children’s toys, Colombo had felt cold inside. But he’d had to admit he did know how to use a hand-gun; his brother-in-law, who was in the coastguards, had taught him when he was sixteen. So now he was in temporary possession of a nine millimetre Glock semiautomatic, with instructions to fire if necessary, on guard outside the Pele Centre, now deserted for the first time since Saturday’s earthquake. If Ishmael was right, it probably wouldn’t be left unattended for very long.

  They’d waited in the cover of the wood until Olly West finally drove away in his rusted Ford. In the dark of the wood they’d been invisible even to each other, dressed in black from head to foot, three of them with their faces smeared in black. Just before they’d gone in Ishmael had said softly, but
they could hear the smile in his voice, ‘In we go, then. Four black brothers.’ It seemed to Colombo an extraordinary moment for anyone to feel amused; he’d never seen Ishmael like this before.

  The break-in had been easy. Ishmael had been to visit Allardyce, and he’d had a quiet word with a friend who worked in Ogg’s Cove police station. He’d opened the door with two keys, one for the yale and one for the mortice lock, and as soon as they were in he’d keyed in the code number for the alarm system and switched it off. ‘No point being complicated when you can be simple,’ he’d said. They’d brought rolls of blackout material borrowed from the cellar at Ravnscar, and it had taken less than five minutes to tape up the windows that faced on to the road.

  Ishmael had ordered Colombo out to his post. Ernest had already found the safe in the small office, and was examining the combination lock. ‘I hope to God you’re right, and Olly didn’t change it after Allardyce left.’

  ‘You can bet Olly never guessed Allardyce knew. It wouldn’t have occurred to him that the man would watch him through the back window with a telescope. And all Allardyce ever took was Olly’s so-called confidential report on himself, and even then he returned the original as soon as he’d copied it. Go on, try it.’

  Two turns to the right. Twenty-three. Three turns to the left. Nine. Two turns to the right. Forty-eight. The lock had clicked, and the metal door swung open. Colombo had caught a glimpse of a chaotic jumble of heaped-up paper, and then Ishmael had looked round and seen him still standing there. ‘Man, what are you doing? They’d court-martial you for this! Out!’ Colombo had been startled, as he hurried back to his post, by the speed and efficiency with which Per was already at work on the filing cabinets in the main office. Per just glanced at Colombo as he passed, but Colombo read in that quick look that his own dereliction from duty had been noted. He’d always seen Per as a gentle, methodical man, but maybe there was a streak of ruthlessness in more people than he’d realised. He was aware of being found wanting in this unexpected atmosphere of military discipline. Possibly an education in English Literature and Journalism had not covered everything. But he knew his reactions were quick, and he could keep watch. His hand closed again on the grip of the gun, and he walked quietly across the turning circle so he was standing directly above the silent trees, listening intently.

  There was a rustling down in the wood: a night bird perhaps. A tiny breeze came in from the sea and riffled through the summer leaves. Over to the east he could see the yellow glow from the lights of Lyonsness. He looked back to the closed door. He longed to look inside again but he’d got the message now very clearly. For the tenth time he looked at the luminous dial on his watch. Fifty minutes. When the door did finally open, the light had been carefully switched out first.

  Someone whispered, ‘Colombo?’

  He could tell from Per’s voice that they’d done it, even before he went on: ‘Got it. Time for photos. I’ll take over here.’

  As soon as the door clicked to, the light flooded on again, so Colombo stood blinking, momentarily dazed. The work counter with the printer on it was dragged out into the middle of the room. In the space where it had stood the carpet was rolled back, and a section of loose chipboard had been lifted away. In the gaps between the joists below there were swathes of plastic covering. A section had been torn away, and inside there were – Colombo’s heart jumped – small plastic packages, identical to the one Jed had picked up on Despair.

  ‘My God!’

  ‘Camera,’ said Ishmael, and thrust it into his hands. ‘We may not have long.’

  While he took his photos, Ishmael and Ernest went through into Olly’s private office. Colombo glanced in once, after he’d taken a photo from the main office doorway. He saw the safe gaping open. There were papers inside, and more papers piled up on the floor.

  Ishmael looked up and saw him watching them. ‘Are you done?’

  ‘Not quite. I’ll get a couple with the whole room in. So there’s absolutely no mistaking it.’

  ‘Get on with it, then.’ Ishmael bent over the safe again, hiding its open door from view. Five minutes passed.

  ‘I’m done.’

  ‘OK.’ Ishmael stood up. ‘Samples. As many as we can get in those bags. Then we put everything back.’

  But it was Colombo and Ernest who replaced everything. Ishmael was back in Olly’s office, crouching in front of the safe, sorting rapidly through piles of paper, tossing some into a big black holdall, and piling up the rest on the floor. He came through when they’d finished. The office looked vacant and orderly as if it had never been touched. ‘That’s that, then. Ernest, get this stuff out of here, and the camera. Cache it where we said. You and Per keep watch. If we’re interrupted, give the signal, but don’t wait. The evidence is more important. You know what to do if I can’t follow.’

  They turned out the light and stripped off the blackout. The door stood open. Ernest and Per slipped away with their burdens into the edge of the wood. Ishmael waited until he heard the low whistle that meant Per was back at his post, and then he touched Colombo’s arm and led the way back into Olly’s private office. The blackout was still up in here. Colombo closed the door and switched on the light. Ishmael jerked his thumb towards the piled-up papers. ‘We got the current stuff. All there, in Olly’s writing. It’s the other connection we still want. The desk’s not locked. You try there.’

  Colombo sat down in Olly’s revolving chair. His hands were shaking, he noticed vaguely. They’d done what they came to do, nearly, and Ishmael was right. It was unlikely the place would be left unguarded for long. The word was almost certainly out by now that Ishmael had bribed his way into the prison and seen Jared. They should have been here two days ago, but the earthquake had kept the Pele Centre continually in operation ever since it happened. Olly had had to accept assistance from the University Geophysics Department, or rather, he’d been ordered to place his resources at their disposal. The place had been full of academics all weekend, day and night. Ishmael wouldn’t have been the only one waiting for them to go away. Colombo leaned back, and felt the gun pressing against him, inside his jacket. He wished he were somewhere else.

  While fear flittered at the back of his mind his hands were busy, and part of his mind was concentrated on the task in hand. The papers he was looking for would be fifteen to twenty years old. He flipped quickly through the laser-printed white sheets that filled the drawers. Nothing typewritten in the first drawer. The second held stationery and a bag of boiled sweets. The third was a mess of old invoices and handwritten accounts. The bottom drawer was a random mass of typewritten and hand written paperwork. Colombo knelt down, and began to leaf through the sheets one by one. They all related to a controversy at a scientific institution in London back in the seventies, and didn’t seem to be relevant at all.

  ‘Ah!’

  Colombo looked up. ‘Got something?’

  Ishmael held up a thin sheaf of papers. ‘I think we’re there. Take a look at this.’

  Colombo stood up. There was a knock on the window. They both stopped dead. Per knocked again, and they heard him through the opening, ‘Lights! Lights on the back road!’

  Four minutes, Ishmael had said, if they sighted a light at the turn. Time for plan one. Get everything back. Papers in the drawer. Colombo stuffed the wodge he’d set aside in his jacket pocket. Drawers closed. Chair in place. Waiting for Ishmael. Ishmael piling up the papers. Deliberate, slow motion, almost. Colombo longed to hurry him. Papers in the safe. Door closed. A twist to the lock. ‘Get the light off.’ Click of the switch. Blackout ripped from the window. Material tumbling into his hands, covering his face, all over the place. Then he heard it. The gear change at the turn. Fifty yards away. He was shaking, couldn’t get the stuff bundled through the window. Ishmael seized it from him and shoved it into Per’s waiting arms. ‘Out the door, man! Go!’

  Through the hallway. The open door. Into the night. Lights on the hairpin bend. Turning his way. He’d be transfixed if th
ey caught him. The light swinging slowly round. Himself running, feet pounding on the gravel. Into the dark. Off the edge of the road and into the forest. The safe dark. Uneven ground, knots of roots and branches snapping under his feet. The path suddenly vanishing. A shock of ground hitting him in the back. His hands scrabbling for purchase among prickling pine needles. Something hard pressing into the small of his back. Sweet Jesus, that gun! The safety catch was on, but even so … He rolled over fast and sat up. Lights and the sound of the car behind him. Slamming doors. Lights. Then voices on the road above him. A flood more light.

  Colombo wriggled further into the shelter of the trees. Where was Ishmael? Had they left any traces? Any minute the search might start. He’d be caught here like a grounded duck. There was a sapling right by his head. Holding on to it, he pulled himself shakily to his feet. Like an idiot he looked once towards the lights behind him. The Pele Centre was lit from end to end. When he looked back into the wood again all he could see was green spots dancing in front of his eyes. Feeling his way with his hands, he part-ran part-slithered down the hill. Pine trees kept coming up to meet him. Barbed branches leaned across and swiped his face. The ground got steeper, gave way under him. He shot down a bank and fell feet-first on to the road, at the edge of the second hairpin.

  Ernest ran out of the trees and grabbed his arm. ‘Where were you? Come on!’

  They were under the trees, moving downhill fast. Ernest lit the way ahead with cautious flashes of his pocket torch. ‘Ishmael?’ gasped Colombo.

  ‘Yes, yes. Come on, man!’

  And then they were out of the trees, on the bare hillside. The night was cool and smelled of salt. Stars blazed. They stopped, and over his own shuddering breaths Colombo heard the soft beat of the waves. Below the arch of the Milky Way came the regular flash of a brighter light. Two long, two short. The lighthouse was keeping its watch over the empty dark space on which it stood, the abandoned island of Despair.