“And I meant it,” said Tom. “As soon as we can.”
They said their goodbyes; Mags and Cheryl each gave John a hug and Simon, in an uncharacteristic show of humour, pretended he was about to do the same. John stepped back in mock horror and the two men exchanged a smiling handshake. They climbed into the Bell 430 again, taking the same seats they had occupied two days ago, and lifted off for their flight to the remotest part of the British mainland.
*
“Firstly, let me thank Alan – I can call him that now, along with lots of other names I’ve only been able to use behind his back …”
The huge frame of David Gerrard dominated the familiar room, with its collection of work stations and its floor to ceiling white panels along the length of one wall. At a fraction under six-and-a-half feet and with a muscular frame to match, he stood half a head taller and seemed to be about a foot wider than anyone else present. He paused for the laughter to subside, as Chief Superintendent Alan Pickford wagged an admonishing finger at him.
“Let me thank him,” he continued, “for waiting until I retired before banishing this young lady to another destination. As you know, she was one of only two officers nominated by Heather Rayburn, our Chief Constable, as a candidate for the new Flexible Response Teams.
“Quite honestly, I don’t think I could have faced the prospect of losing her as a colleague – and my best friend – whilst I was still working here. I am, of course, delighted that she now has the chance to enhance her career with this prestigious move to Guildford, but I’ll always remember her as the Marlburgh lass here at Parkside who brightened my days in the final few years of my career. And I’ll never forget the contribution she made to my own modest success during that time.
“It’s a privilege to be asked to be the one to say, on behalf of everybody here, au revoir and good luck to you, and to present these gifts from all your friends. It’s been a pleasure to know and work with you, Joannita Cottrell, and if you don’t keep in touch, I’ll report you missing to the police – and how embarrassing would that be?”
Jo rushed, tearfully, into his arms and they hugged for a long time. She was just above average height, with the natural curls and colouration of someone of mixed Caribbean and White British ancestry, and a pretty, friendly face, currently streaked with mascara. Detective Sergeant Omar Shakhir eventually tapped David on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, mate, there’s a queue here, you know.”
Jo turned and embraced Omar, and the queue duly moved forward, each with the same genuine expressions of affection.
“And now,” said David to the room in general, “I suggest we all adjourn to the Wagon and Horses, and provide Alan with the platform to demonstrate the limitless spending power of a Chief Superintendent.”
Laughter and the wagging finger again.
*
“How did you find this place, Maggie?” asked Cheryl as the Bell approached.
The FarCuillin Lodge on Knoydart was arguably the most isolated dwelling in the UK. Situated on the western slopes of Glen Guseran, it would normally be reached via a barely-passable trail off the narrow single-track road from Inverie, the only village on the peninsula, which was the normal stepping-off point for visitors to this remote area, and could only be accessed by boat – usually from Mallaig. The other means of reaching the region was by a sixteen mile walk through and over some very challenging terrain. That’s if you didn’t have the use of a helicopter, and didn’t know the owner of the lodge itself.
“Well, I didn’t actually find it, as such,” said Mags. “I just knew it was here. It belongs to Sir Iain Ballard-McGregor. He was a close friend of my father when they were at Oxford together. Sir Iain went on to be big in the Arts and my dad in international property development, but they’ve remained life-long friends.”
“But why would he want a place this far out?”
“Well I think he just loves Scotland, and the wilder the better.”
“And it doesn’t come any wilder than this,” added Tom. “And that’s official – you can check the guidebooks.”
The Bell dropped slowly down towards the helipad, a hundred yards from the Lodge. The landing place itself had been chiselled out of the rock to create a horizontal area in the side of the Glen. The overall effect was of a natural looking, if unusual, small plateau in otherwise uneven terrain. The rugged beauty of the surroundings remained uncompromised. All seven people alighted from the aircraft, and the pilot quickly unloaded Tom and Mags’s holdalls and cases. After saying their goodbyes, the rest of the party boarded the Bell again, which lifted off to take them to Inverie.
‘Lodge’ had seemed a rather grand title for what appeared to them at first sight to be an exact replica of an old traditional single storey croft, sporting a thatched roof and small slits of windows. It looked, from a distance, as if it had been there for hundreds of years. It was only close up that the illusion became evident. Although it resembled a typical croft in shape, it was a very much larger, two storey building. Perched on the glen side, and seen from a distance, as it usually was, with no common objects close by to measure its proportions against, there was no reason to assume it was anything other than what it was designed to look like.
The upper floor of the Lodge comprised a gallery at the back and each side of the property with bedrooms and bathrooms off it, leaving the ground floor completely open plan with a kitchen-dining area at one end and an enormous fireplace at the other, in front of which were three leather sofas in a u-formation and a large sheepskin rug. They looked appreciatively at this last item, and then at each other, with smiles as wide as the limits of their faces would allow.
“Right, let’s do a recce,” said Mags. “I want to see what the view’s like across to Skye.” They changed into their walking gear and boots before climbing the rocks behind the Lodge and picking out the jagged teeth of the Cuillin Ridge which had inspired its name from the Scottish folk song, The Tangle o’ the Isles.
“Beautiful they may be,” Mags said, “but the far Cuillin isn’t pulling me away right now. This is exactly where I want to be.”
They scrambled back down again. Tom fired up the oil-fuelled generator and the radiators which served the gallery area soon heated the upstairs. Mags lit the fire and stoked it up for a long burn from the pile of logs stacked at the edge of the hearth. Together they cooked themselves a simple meal, accompanied by a bottle of Australian Chardonnay and followed by a Talisker or two. After making love, with almost desperate passion, on Mags’s sheepskin rug, they lay peacefully in front of the roaring fire. They were both naked except for Tom’s boxer shorts and Mags’s small pair of briefs.
Tom had been quiet for a long time.
“What if we just gave everything up and moved here permanently?” he said. “I don’t mean right here, to this place, but somewhere way out. We could keep the apartment in SW1, and even something smaller near Etherington Place. We could concentrate on developing the business, but at arm’s length. Perhaps Jack would be interested …”
Mags placed her hand gently on his lips to slow him down.
“Hey, whoa there,” she said, with a chuckle. “That’s a wonderful idea, darling, really it is, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I would just love to do that, but we can’t abandon Katey and Jack right now.”
“Well we wouldn’t be abandoning them, as such. Anyway, I don’t want to think about the reality; I just want to enjoy the dream.”
“But I suppose it doesn’t have to be a dream,” said Mags, pushing herself up on one elbow. “We could do it; we really could. That’s if you really want it, and you’re not just living this moment. Why couldn’t we? I mean we could live here half the time, during the summer – or perhaps the winter when there are no midges – and …”
This time it was Tom’s restraining hand.
“Hey, whoa there.”
Mags pretended to bite his fingers.
“Spoil sport,” she said.
“No I’m
not,” he replied. “Let’s agree right now that we will do it! We’ll do it in … five years’ time. Katey will be through Uni, and independent. Jack will be okay. Look, it’s a plan. We don’t have to think any more about it right now. But let’s agree we’ll do it – and mean it!”
They lay together in silence with their separate thoughts on the adventure until Tom drifted off to sleep. Some time later Mags nudged him.
“Hey, Rip Van Winkle! Where’s your stamina?”
She got slowly to her feet and pulled him to his.
“Come on, Tom-Tom, best get to bed. Got to bag a Munro tomorrow.”
“We are not going anywhere near Ladhar Bheinn,” he said. “It’s too far away, too difficult and I don’t want you getting over-tired for the serious stuff later. Anyway, from what Cheryl tells me, you’ve already bagged a few Munro-baggers.”
“That girl cannot be trusted with a secret. I’m going to pick up guys on my own next time.”
“Which will sort of put her at a loose end, I guess,” said Tom, studying his fingernails.
“Not on your life, mate!” said Mags, dragging him towards the staircase. “Time for one more?”
Tom swept her up in his arms and crouched down in front of the fire, rolling her back onto the rug.
“Right, you’ve asked for this!” he said.
“Help, help, get off me, you beast,” she whispered.
*
Week 2; Friday, 3 April…
Tom knew he had to get them down. In spite of what had been said about the new normality of the situation, he had put them there and he needed to act. Not only that, but the previous night, as he and Mags had drifted off to sleep, the nagging apprehension about Katey and Jack’s party had returned. The unsettling thoughts about his children were, in his tired mind, somehow inextricably linked with the Exiles trapped on the wire,
Even so, it was good to be going into action again. He glanced down with affection at his uniform with its random four-colour design. DPM – Disruptive Pattern Material – the camouflage worn by just about every land-based or land-bound member of the UK and Commonwealth Armed Forces. He reached up to feel the lovat-green beret and traced his finger around the cap-badge with its upward-pointing sword insignia of the Special Boat Service. Whatever the seriousness of this mission, his spirits were lifted by a feeling of being back where he belonged.
The men wearing the same battledress waiting for him near the rumbling Super Lynx helicopter were all familiar to him; the group he would have chosen for every mission given the chance to make his own selection. They all had nicknames, of course; it was almost unthinkable that someone should be known by their given name. In fact, the use of nicknames was actively encouraged. It helped preserve the anonymity of personnel in the Special Forces, whose real names were never officially released into the public domain.
“Hey, Blisters! How’s the feet?” shouted Tom, embracing the smiling, stocky soldier who almost crushed him with his powerful arms. Anthony ‘Blisters’ McNaughton, at the end of the most brutal day, with bits of him held in place by straps and bandages, would only ever complain about the soles of his feet and how they could never provide him with boots which properly fitted him.
A shadow engulfed both men as the massive figure of Idobu Bondi, a native-born Nigerian, loomed over them. He slapped Tom on the back, almost knocking him down, his face shining with pleasure.
“Chalky!” said Tom. “Christ, are you still growing?”
The big man stepped forward and hugged him. Someone had once pointed out that every unit had to have a ‘Chalky’, and as there was no-one in theirs called White, Idobu would have to do. Chalky eventually released him and Tom, gasping for breath looked wide-eyed at the next man stepping forward to greet him.
“I don’t believe it,” said Tom. “I thought you’d have been shot dead by a jealous husband by now!” The two men embraced. Gary ‘Anything’ Henderson – known as ‘A.T.’ for short – had been named for his legendary reputation when it came to targeting someone to sleep with.
“They tried, Tuber, but they missed. Big advantage being not much of a target.” He was no more than average height, slim and wiry, and by far the smallest of the group.
Standing next in line was the baby of the team; the last one to join the group and the wildest of them all. A fiery, red-haired young Scot with the physique of a champion body-builder. Even so, Terry ‘Big Mac’ McQueen had earned his nickname through his addiction to burgers rather than his size and ancestry.
“See you, Jimmy!” said Tom, with the widest of grins, prodding him in the chest.
“That’s the worst fucking Scottish accent I’ve heard since I watched Brigadoon, Major … sir.”
They all laughed, happy to be together again. Then, behind them, Tom spotted another figure, this one in the sand-coloured beret of the SAS with its inverted sword insignia.
Tom gasped. “Sweet! Sweet Deverall! What the hell …? You look great. What happened – miracle cure?”
Jad laughed.
“Nothing was going to stop me,” he said. “Not from the chance of one more mission with you.”
They embraced, and then the whole six-man team boarded the Lynx. Blisters and Big Mac seated themselves at the controls; the rotors engaged. The others settled comfortably and naturally into their seats and after two minutes of intensifying noise the two 1120-shp Rolls-Royce engines seemed to throw them into the sky. The nose dipped and the helicopter raced away, quickly reaching its maximum speed of around 180 mph.
It seemed to Tom that he had never been away. None of them appeared to him to have changed at all; even Jad looked completely restored to his former self. The banter in the cabin was so familiar that Tom could almost speak the words before he heard them from his comrades. He had almost forgotten the grim purpose of their mission when he was suddenly snapped out of his nostalgia.
“Target dead ahead! Three miles! Positions!” shouted Big Mac.
Tom looked out of the side window but could see nothing except dense swirling mist.
Chalky and A.T. moved quickly on Big Mac’s command to the door on the left side of the aircraft, sliding it back and subjecting the cabin to the intense cold of the Atlantic weather. They unclipped the pintle-mounted heavy machine gun from its restraining brackets just forward of the door, and swung it round on its rotation arm through 180 degrees, securing it against the bulkhead in its attack position aiming outwards through the opening. Settling behind it, Chalky adjusted trajectory and sights.
“Check ATS!” Big Mac again.
“Missiles ready.” Blisters responded.
Tom looked anxiously around the cabin trying to understand what was happening, wondering why they would need machine guns and air-to-surface missiles. Before he could speak, Big Mac’s voice cut across his thoughts.
“Circling Alpha now. Port side.”
Tom, seated on the left-hand-side of the aircraft, looked out of his window. The mist had parted revealing the structure five hundred feet or so below them. Except it was not the structure. It was nothing like it. It was more like a house. A large house in extensive grounds. There were lawns and ponds and fountains, and people running and shouting. Rock music coming from somewhere. His house! He had never seen it this close from the air before, but it must be his house.
Then the mist took the image away, and a voice brought him out of his day-dream.
“Closing at same altitude as target. Circling first to confirm.”
Tom looked across from his window. There it was, the security fence. About twenty feet of it sticking up out of the dense mist below with the two figures impaled upon it. But this was not at all as he remembered the scene from less than two days ago. In fact, the figures were not impaled; they were clinging to the wire in desperation. One of them was actually waving at the Lynx. And as the helicopter moved closer to them in decreasing circles, Tom almost fainted with shock.
The people on the wire were known to him; very well known. On the smaller of
the two he saw the pale blue dress and white tights, torn and streaked red with blood from the wounds inflicted by the wire and the sea birds; the face turned towards him, the white-blonde hair blowing wildly above it. The eye sockets were not empty, and the eyes burned into him with a furious hatred. The waving figure, also ragged and bleeding, the pale clothing all but ripped completely away, gazed at him with a pleading expression. The gashed mouth formed the words in slow motion, inaudible above the roar of the engines, but unmistakable nonetheless.
“Please … help … me … Dad!”
Another barked order from the cockpit and then the deafening sound of the machine gun, just a couple of feet away from him. He watched the two figures jerking violently in their death throes as they were repeatedly hit, their screams loud enough to compete with the rotors and the gun.
“Noooooo!”
Tom was yelling in his agony of guilt and despair. He turned desperately to Jad for some sort of explanation, some rationale. But his friend was now lying on the floor of the Lynx. His beret had gone, he was covered by a sheet and his pallor and the thinness of his face had returned to how Tom remembered it just a few days ago.
“Better this way, Tom,” he said, tears in his eyes. “You said so yourself, or at least you thought it. They’re the lucky ones; just a few days of torment, and then death…”
“Noooooo!”
Tom shouted again, lurching forward. Restraining arms were round his shoulders, a voice was calling his name.
“Tom! Tom!”
A woman’s voice.
“Tom! Darling! What’s wrong? Please, please, wake up!”
He was sitting up staring at a blank wall. The bedclothes had been thrown off and he was soaking wet with sweat. Mags was hugging him tightly from behind, her arms vice-like round his chest, both controlling and comforting, and her head on his shoulder pressed against his cheek. He was shaking and breathing heavily, but after a couple of minutes he began to relax.
“Bad dream,” he said.
“No! Really?” said Mags.
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