by Wilson, Mark
Gory, covered in her blood and coated in waxy vernix, her son took his first breaths and screamed his arrival into the horror her life had become. Michelle’s face was streaked with tears of pain and joy as she took in every detail of her baby’s miraculous face.
The moaning grew louder again. The Ringed were coming.
A scuff on stone above drew her attention. She lifted her eyes to the balcony and saw Padre Jock leaning over the stone railing, eyes wide, face filled with fear. The dead closed in, too many to fight, no escape for either her or for her son whose body, fresh from the womb, let loose warm steam that swirled cheerfully into the cold night, forming a tendril between her and the former Padre on the balcony above.
Her eyes met his. A silent promise passed between them.
One-armed, Michelle clutched her new-born son whilst she wriggled from her overcoat. Making a bed of the woollen garment in the stone doorway, she laid the love of her life in its folds and kissed him tenderly on his sticky, warm lips. She told him to be strong, to be brave. To be good.
Leaning close for a final smell of him, her spirit soared with the love and the connection she felt. Whether it was their souls recognising each other or simply the chemistry of pheromones, the scent of her son surged her body with raw, primal courage and resolve. Lifting the umbilical cord that still connected mother and son she told him softly, “I love you, my Joseph. I love you so much, my beautiful son.”
Biting through the spongey blood vessels, she separated her soulmate from herself, took one last look and ran screaming loudly into the cobbled street, umbilical cord trailing a macabre path of bloody breadcrumbs for The Ringed to follow. One stooped to lap at the fresh blood on the snowy cobbles, tongue slurping lizard-like the primal sustenance that had once nourished her son. Most of them followed her and closed in on her tortured body.
Twenty metres away, she exhausted the surge of power her love had given her and fell to the stone. Swearing loudly, Michelle defied the limitations of her broken body and rose again. She threw the rubbery flash-drive into the darkness where her new-born son lay before running for ten metres, only to fall to the cobbles one last time. She lifted her face from the ancient stones and stole a look into the dark doorway where she’d laid her baby son. Watching Padre Jock slip form the shadows, her child cradled gently but firmly in his arms, she yelled to him, “Joseph MacLeod. My Joseph.”
Jock acknowledged her with a nod as twenty of The Ringed closed in around her and tooth and nail tore the sound of her son’s name from her throat.
Bracha
Part One
Chapter 1
Edinburgh
Hogmanay
2014
11:50 pm
“I’m not interested, Jimmy. You fire in.”
He throws me a smile that’s not really a smile at all. It’s laced with sarcasm and judgement. Letting his raised eyebrows mock me for a few seconds, he finally turns his attention to the young lass.
“I will,” he says, leering at her legs.
Leaving our booth, Lieutenant James Kelly staggers on strong but wobbly legs across the carpet to unload his spiel on the unsuspecting girl in the red dress, completely oblivious to the wedding ring on her finger or the husband in the toilets. Jim’s had a few drinks, but he’s entitled. Besides, I’m designated babysitter tonight, subsequently limited to two drinks.
Harry, who’s in better shape but approaching tipsy, reaches across the table and drops a note.
“Fifty quid he earns himself a generous kick in the testicles.”
“Fuck off, Spike,” I tell him. He snatches the strangely-coloured note back.
“Right. For fuck sake.”
Despite myself I laugh. I always do. It’s his voice. It always makes me laugh when he swears using that clipped, so very proper accent of his. So at odds with who and what he actually is.
I throw a twenty of my own on top of his purple twenty, both bearing his grandmother’s likeness, and give him my thickest Lanarkshire accent.
“Right then, fanny-baws. Twenty sheets it is.”
He laughs loudly at me.
“Nice,” he says. “Don’t often let the…” He pauses for a few seconds, searching for the phrase. “Schemey. You don’t often let your schemey origins show, Cameron.” He laughs at his own use of the colloquialism.
“Aye, well. You’re being an especially excellent example of your kith and kin tonight, Harry,” I tell him. I hardly ever call him by name. All the lads call him Spike. Always have.
The ever-so-posh demeanour and bumbling, upper-class moron act he uses, which we call his Bruce Wayne persona, couldn’t be further from the man I’ve known for a third of my life. The soldier, the professional killer, the assassin who sits opposite me is not the man his public buys into. The jovial, ruddy-faced, red-haired buffoon he plays for the public and the media. Captain Wales, Apache-pilot. An officer and the poshest of gentlemen. This image carefully crafted and maintained by the ministry, so often useful as a mask and diversion, betrays not a sliver of who Spike really is.
Jim Kelly and I have been his shadows since Sandhurst. Employed to protect a killing machine. The thought is laughably ironic, as though Spike had ever feared anything or anyone. We trained and bled and laughed and drank and killed alongside him during his rigorous training in the Army Air Corps and then Special Division and on every Black-Ops mission since.
Captain Wales, according to official records, completed two heroic tours in Afghanistan based at Camp Bastion, Helmand province. His presence there was kept secret for the months of his tour, to both protect the men serving beside him and allow the young soldier the privacy to perform his duty. To be one of the troops.
Of course, cameras followed from a distance, filming him. Showing him mucking in like any other man of his rank and duty. A promise from the media, a gentlemen’s agreement, to not break the story until his unit were safely home was respected. A year later an admiring public watched with admiration as the news crews showed footage of the young captain doing his duty.
A substantial morale boost to the troops, his presence lingered for months following his departure, motivating the men who remained or replaced.
Ask any of the soldiers stationed there during that time, and they’ll tell you, “Great patriot. One of the lads. True professional.”
And they wouldn’t be lying: the man they served with was all of those things. He just wasn’t actually Captain Wales.
The genuine article, Spike we call him, long story, was in Syria, doing his real job.
I cut him a look, marvelling as I always do at how effectively this man masks who he really is beneath a veneer of joviality and haphazard clumsiness.
“I might be a schemey,” I smile at him, “but that lassie over there is all class. He’s getting sent packing.”
I jab a thumb at Jimmy who, one hand on her knee the other trying to get the attention of the barman, is laying it on thick for the lady in red.
“Watch this,” I say.
Harry flashes his best smile, the one we call his camera smile. All perfect teeth and carefree attitude, a mask for the iron-veined soldier underneath. The Batman persona.
“Yes, all right then, Cameron. Let’s see, shall we?”
His confidence, borne of generations of status, wealth and breeding, but also from hundreds of hours of Black-Op missions and killing, oozes from every pore.
We watch as the girl accepts the drink – a single-malt, no ice – and gently removes James’ hand from her thigh where it’s crept. She talks politely for a few short minutes then firmly ushers him back to our table. He walks slowly back to us, arms spread like Jesus, all attrition and mock repentance.
“She’s gay,” he tells us, sheepishly, despite his demeanour.
Spike’s laugh fills the booth.
“Of course she is, my boy. What rotten luck.” His affection is genuine.
I pick up my winnings from the table as Jim plonks himself back into the comfortable leath
er bench of the booth.
Spike juts his chin towards the bar.
“My round, I believe, chaps. Same again?”
Jim burps loudly, exaggerating the noise. “I’ll have a pint this time, Spike,” he says, Edinburgh accent thickening as his sobriety thins.
I take the fifty from Spike’s hand. “I’ll go,” I say.
His lips thin but he doesn’t argue with me. He knows we could do with some peace and quiet. It’s almost midnight and people are busy getting excited about seeing another year end and one begin, but as soon as he leaves the relative privacy of the booth, cap pulled down over his eyes and bushy red hair or not, someone will clock that famous face of his and our night will be over.
The lady in red catches my eye as I approach the bar and waves me over.
“Your pal. He all right?” Her husband’s back at her side and giving us a puzzled look.
“Aye,” I say, “he’ll cope.” I smile at them both. He looks relaxed, but you never know with some blokes, especially on the drink.
“Another admirer, eh?” he smiles at his wife and then throws a big genuine grin at me. “Poor wee bastard.” He laughs, sharing a private joke with his wife.
I acknowledge his joke with a nod, “Have a good night, folks. Happy New Year when it comes.”
The couple return their best wishes and I turn back to the bar to shout the barman over.
Whilst he’s away pouring the drinks, I scan around the pub. It’s packed, so we did well to get the booth during Hogmanay in Edinburgh. It’s a minor miracle we got a seat at all, but we have been in here for most of the afternoon and evening, leaving the table only to relieve our bladders. Hell, we’ve earned some downtime: it’s been a bad year.
There’s a band setting up through in the stage area. All low cavernous ceilings, reminiscent of the Edinburgh vaults, the venue slash pub holds a great little crowd and an atmosphere that belies its size. Down on the Cowgate, Bannerman’s has long been a favourite of ours. Whenever we are in town, which is often, this is our second home. After Holyrood Palace, of course.
The bar owner has known us for years and is one of that rare type who couldn’t care less who a person is, so long as they behave themselves and send their wages over his counter-top. Travelling and working alongside Spike, you tend to put people into types based on their reaction to His Royal Majesty: gawpers, agitators, creeps and indifferent. Jackie was the last of these. The working classes, more in common with the toffs than either group realise, tend to be relaxed around Spike.
An hour later and the bells have come and gone. A slow trickle of drunk and happy people begin to spill out onto the Cowgate. Parents who’ve managed to get babysitters begin to remember that early start the next day and grimace at the thought of their little ones bounding cheerfully into their rooms at first light. Young kids couldn’t care less about hangovers or days off.
Twenty-somethings – the three of us have recently left that particular club-dance – are out looking for their next party or nightclub. Tourists, singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and staggering on the cobbles, trying to remember which direction their hotel was in.
The barman, Jackie Naismith, gives the regulars a nod and yells, “Time, please.”
We stay put. Jackie’s a good bloke, he’ll see us right. I watch the big barman slide the upper and lower bolts into place on the heavy doors and light a cigarette. Lock-ins, the sanctuary of the blessed man. Late night drinking behind closed doors at the invitation of the landlord. And you don’t have to step outside into the shredding Edinburgh wind when you want a fag.
Jackie slams a few heavy, old-fashioned ashtrays onto the bar followed by a bottle of Glenmorangie Pride 1978 Spike gave him as a thank-you gift three years ago. Jackie places the thirty-four-year aged single-malt gently onto the counter, yanks at the cork and takes a deep nose-full of the escaping vapours. He pours four singles and replaces the cork, returning the bottle to its locked case behind the bar.
“Here ye go, Cammy,” he says, pushing three tumblers towards me. “Don’t drink it too fast. That deserves to be enjoyed.” He glares at me but the malice he directs towards me is meant affectionately.
“Thanks, Jack.”
He gives me a quick nod then focuses his attention on the shot of whiskey he’s waited all year to enjoy.
As I gather our drinks a wee guy I don’t know nods at me as I walk past. I laugh as I hear him get told to “Get tae fuck, Johnny,” by Jackie.
Never interrupt a man with a rare whiskey in his hand.
Spike notices me coming with the drinks. A silent exchange passes between us confirming Jackie’s generosity with his prized whiskey. Spike takes his glass from me and strolls over to the bar for a chat with Jackie. Flopping into the leather booth, I cut a look at James who’s sprawled over the beer-soaked table, face resting on an arm.
I don’t try too hard to wake him and carefully I make my whiskey a double.
“Thanks, Jim. That’s good of ye,” I tell the back of his head. He grunts something unintelligible.
Sipping at the whiskey I let the off-amber fire soak in my mouth, under my tongue and slosh to the roof of my mouth for a bit, enjoying the intensity of the burn which continues along my gullet and into my stomach after I swallow. Feeling the warmth spread, seemingly to my bones, I close my eyes and enjoy the sensation. The noise of a siren nearby threatens to break the moment, but I find my whiskey-Zen again and submerge myself in the sensations.
I feel a buzz that has nothing to do with the evening, the company or the whiskey and snap my eyes open, searching for Spike. His eyes are already on me, alerted by his own device. Even James is up from his seat looking significantly more alert. A decade of training takes control of us.
Jim secures the doors and windows, Harry takes his cap off and shows our fellow drinkers his face. He uses their shock at seeing his familiar coupon to usher the remaining revellers, along with Jackie, to the rear of the pub, smiling genially and muttering apologies as he shepherds the mostly drunk crowd.
I’m on weapons detail. On sober duty, I’m the only one who’s supposed to be carrying a firearm. I pull my Sig Sauer P230 from the horizontal holster at the base of my spine. Performing an automatic check, I ready the sidearm and check with the lads.
Spike has three knives, his favoured weapons, of various size and type on his person. I know this without asking, but he also pulls out a handgun I didn’t know he had, another Sig P230. That’s fourteen rounds between us.
James, a little slower thanks to the alcohol but mostly alert, pulls out a P226 with fifteen rounds. Neither of them should be carrying. We share a sardonic smile as we assess each other from across the room.
Several other sirens have joined the first I heard in the ten seconds since our personal comm-devices issued the level 1 alert and I can hear sounds of a crowd gathering on the Cowgate. I sweep my eyes around the room one more time and pull my phone from my back pocket. As I move my thumb to speed dial our control centre, it buzzes in my hand. I answer in less than a second and bark my clearance code into the receiver.
“Confirmed,” a woman’s voice says, “please hold for Lt Colonel Melville.”
The line clicks and the calm voice of our CO speaks.
“Situation report please, Captain Shephard.”
“Unit is in lockdown in a level 2 secure building. No immediate threat present. High defensive capability.”
“Affirmative. Hold.”
I listen as Melville leans away from the phone, someone whispering updates in his ear. Spike and James, both calmly standing their zones and smoothing things out with the other occupants of the pub, look to me with questioning eyes.
I break eye contact as Melville coughs and returns to the phone.
“We’re at full-alert, Captain. Escort Captain Wales to…” Another pause for updates. “Escort the captain to Beta Location. Acknowledge.”
“Acknowledged, sir. Timescale?”
Melville, a man with a stoic reputation, u
nimpressed by pomp or status, sounds genuinely ruffled.
“Immediately, Captain. Expect resistance.”
In Edinburgh?
A trickle of cold sweat tracks its way down my butt crack as the significance hits me.
“Sir. Civilian or military?”
He answers and I wish I hadn’t asked.
“Anyone who gets in your way, Captain. Direct route, no detours. No other directives.”
Melville clicks off, leaving my next words stillborn in my mouth. Despite the insistence on urgency, I take a second to compose myself. From outside a choir of sirens races past up on South Bridge. The crash of twisted metal vibrates down to the Cowgate and rattles the windows. Something explodes, the pub’s frosted windows light up as a fireball warms the night sky. People outside, minutes ago laughing and dancing, are now screaming loudly. Jim and Spike both look to me once again.
“Direct evac,” I tell them. “No distractions. Level one.”
Spike waves me off and returns to calming the punters in the bar.
“Spike, I’ll force you if I have to.”
He raises an eyebrow in amusement. We both know that if he chooses to assert himself, I’ll come off worst. We also both know that he’ll have to hurt me badly to deter me. Neither of us wishes this.
“Not until these people are safe,” he says, pulling at a cellar door behind the bar.
The last level one alert issued to our team was when the plane hit floors 93-99 of the World Trade Centre’s north tower. We were in London at the time and had Spike to his safe location in under five minutes.
None of us know exactly what’s going on outside in the gothic city, but the status of the command leaves us in little doubt that something dreadful is happening to the city. Invading army, bombing, nuclear aggression, bioweapons? We can’t know. We have our orders. Go directly to Beta Location, secure Harry. Do not pass go, do not collect a hundred pounds. Do not stop to help anyone, only engage enemies if progress is barred.
