Knife Edge (2004)

by Reeman, Douglas

  The canoe swung against the scarred timber, pivoting hard over until the grapnel brought it under control. There was water everywhere, sluicing over the camouflage netting, and around his legs.

  Piggott was clambering past him, shouting, his mouth like a hole in his smeared face.

  It was like fighting something. Holding on. Telling yourself that it was not enough.

  He realized that Piggott was above him, climbing straight up, toward the sky and the sun-painted span, still shouting but not looking back.

  Blackwood pulled himself on to the lowest span, his mind reeling as the pain drove into him like the tip of a furnace bar.

  He held the pack in position, and sensed that Laker was reaching up to help him. But he was not an expert. It would be unfair. Dangerous . . . He shook himself again, and the pain helped clear his mind. The timer was in his hand; he stared at it. So slippery, although he had kept it in his special pocket until this final moment. It was blood.

  Shots came from somewhere; he knew they were hitting the woodwork only a few feet away. At any second now . . .

  Laker was somehow pressed against him, their faces nearly touching. He was shouting or sobbing; it was all blurred. But where the hell was Piggott?

  The canoe seemed to be moving again, but he was staring up at the sky. There was a solitary bang, loud and very near, followed by complete silence. Even the sporadic small arms fire had ceased.

  Misfire. I failed.

  The canoe was being held steady, and he knew that Laker was covering him, shielding him.

  Soon he would stand away and leave him. Like those others. Houston.

  His arm was bare, one hand dragging in the water. He tried to pull away as something pricked the skin. There was no pain now. Nothing.

  It was impossible, but he could hear men’s voices. They were cheering. The sudden crash of the explosion went unheard.

  Lieutenant-Colonel Leslie De Lisle crossed to one of the wide office windows and pried the slats of the sun blind apart with his fingers. He winced as reflected light lanced up from the harbour; he could feel the heat of the sun through the glass. And it was still only March. Back in England you could see your breath as you walked. Greatcoat and gloves weather.

  He seemed to have been constantly climbing in and out of aircraft. Here in Hong Kong, then Singapore. Meetings, some familiar faces, some strangers. Decisions.

  He looked at the big fleet destroyer below, awnings spread, ensign lifting lazily in an offshore breeze. Busy police boats cruising nearby to keep the sightseers at a distance. Beyond her, a wisp of oily smoke drifting around her bridge, was the old Singapore patrol vessel, the Vigilant, which had played her part in Operation Ratcatcher. Getting ready to sail. Another mission, perhaps?

  He turned his back on the window and looked around the office, the maps and plans folded away, so quiet now without Houston’s larger than life presence. Irwin would stay on in Hong Kong until . . . He would never fill Houston’s shoes, no matter what might have been suggested.

  He paused and rubbed his spine. Too many flights, too little sleep. He was feeling it now.

  Only March. He glanced at the squash racquet which was still propped in a corner. He could see it all in his mind, as if he had been there.

  He looked at the clock. Why had he come? Some one else could have done it.

  He strode to the window again and opened the blinds fully. Taunton and Yelverton were moored side by side. They had made a fine sight when they had entered harbour, flags flying, some cheers from old ships greeting friends. No ambulances this time; the casualties had been put ashore at Singapore. Mercifully few, as if that made any difference. Two officers and three marines killed. Twelve wounded.

  Just a flea bite, as the old sweats would say. He turned, hearing the door before it opened. It was a lieutenant he did not recognize.

  “Yes?”

  The lieutenant cleared his throat. He was frightened of De Lisle, and De Lisle knew it.

  “Mr. Blackwood is here, sir.”

  “Well, don’t keep him waiting, man!”

  He fled.

  It was unfair. But . . . It was only two months ago. Stonehouse Barracks . . . He strode to meet him and thrust out his hand.

  “Good to see you, Ross!” And he meant it.

  Ross sat in the offered chair and looked around the office, acutely aware of Houston’s absence.

  De Lisle was saying, “I’ll get us a drink in a minute. It’s all dead around here.” He spread his hands. “Sorry, not a good choice of words.”

  Ross rubbed his eyes, but the fatigue was still more mental than physical. For days he had still seen it, the white mission building, the darting figures, gun flashes in the jungle’s dimness. Men bleeding, wounded. Calling out.

  And the final image; awake or asleep, it was always waiting. The crudely camouflaged canoe, breaking cover and striking out for the bridge. Bullets splashing nearby, return fire from Brannigan’s gunners, and his own below the bridge.

  He had not seen who had been hit, but instinct told him it was Steve Blackwood. He had watched helplessly with Ted Boyes, Irwin and the others while the canoe had lurched amongst the wooden piles, and while shots had slammed around them Steve had somehow managed to secure the charges.

  And then the solitary figure had appeared on the bridge, firing into the defenders, falling but struggling up again to ram another clip into his gun, firing again until that, too, was empty. He was hit several times; they could see the blood even without binoculars. Dying even as his attackers had started to push forward.

  Voices had yelled, “They’ve done it!”

  The canoe had reappeared, only one paddle being used. But all eyes were on the lone, bloodied figure on the bridge. Rolling on to his side, teeth bared in agony or determination, his uninjured arm curving back, a live grenade in his hand. Even at that distance the sound was lethal. Then, only the canoe was moving.

  Ross had managed to see Steve at the hospital before he had been taken elsewhere. The bullet had passed through his body. He would live. They had clasped hands, like that other time, oblivious to the nurses and orderly confusion around them.

  All Steve could say was, “Piggott, of all people! The bravest thing I’ve ever seen! Without him . . .”

  He did not need to spell it out.

  Ross was suddenly on his feet, the response instant and automatic as the screech of a ship’s siren filled the room.

  De Lisle said, “It’s all right, Ross. It’s Vigilant getting under way.”

  Ross sank down again. The same sound he had heard when the old landing craft had suddenly appeared, filling the river, its ancient howitzer lobbing a shell directly into the mission. It was done, the ‘combined operation’ Major Keith Houston had always wanted.

  The door was open, and in the other room a marine was putting some glasses on the desk. Through the windows beyond, he could see the Mandarin, as he had seen it when he had stepped ashore from the destroyer’s motor boat. Where he had last spoken to her.

  A messenger had been waiting for him, determined that he and no one else should receive the note.

  Dearest Ross. I thank God you are safe and out of danger. I am on my way to England as you read this. My husband Jock was taken ill unexpectedly. And I am a nurse. Take care, dear Ross.

  She did not finish it, but signed only her name.

  De Lisle said, “Here, get this down you.”

  They touched glasses, and De Lisle asked with studied casualness, “So. What do you think you got out of all this, eh?”

  Ross walked to the windows and saw a junk moving past, slowly, through the haze.

  “I think I grew up.”

  He imagined he could hear her laugh.

  1980

  LEADING

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ross Blackwood felt the seat belt tighten across his chest as the car braked hard behind a large builder’s lorry, but only for a few seconds before they were swinging out and overhauling it, even as an
other car came speeding toward them.

  He looked over at his sister as she blew some hair out of her eyes, gauging the next stretch of road. She was driving too fast, and enjoying it.

  He loosened the seat belt and tried to unwind a little, put his thoughts in order. He felt like a complete outsider.

  Sue had met him at the station, right on time, as she had promised. He glanced around yet again. A sleek, cream-coloured convertible, brand new by the look of it, and by the smell of the leather upholstery. A Mercedes, and expensive. She was doing well. But a stranger to him.

  He shaded his eyes as the sun lanced off the gleaming bonnet and said, “What happened to old Follett’s garden centre? Have they pulled that down as well?”

  She took one hand off the wheel and rubbed finger and thumb together.

  “Money, Ross. Don’t they teach you about these things in the Corps?”

  She had nice hands, well-shaped and strong. She wore no rings of any sort. The last time they had been in touch . . . Stop right there. It had not worked out.

  She had not changed. Still confident, quick-minded, perhaps a little harder. Unsettled. He felt the brakes again.

  “Are we there already?”

  Her mouth softened slightly in a smile. The Sue he remembered.

  “The cops keep watch on this piece of road. Just past the garage.”

  Sure enough, he saw the aerial and blue light showing above a clump of ragged bushes.

  She added, “I’ve already got one endorsement. No sense in spoiling things!”

  He consciously relaxed his hands in his lap. The skin was very tanned. All those miles. Faces. Challenges. And now he was back in a world he had almost forgotten. Like the bus they had just overtaken: packed with children, balloons trailing from the windows, grinning faces, an adult trying to pour drinks, others waving to this car as it flashed past.

  She had said, “School holidays. Glad when they’re over!”

  It was July, nearly August, 1980. A week or so ago he had been in Hong Kong yet again, with the Raiding Squadron for duties against illegal immigrants. Before that, in the New Hebrides. Then Cyprus, and of course Plymouth. His life seemed like a film in motion, playing at different speeds.

  He glanced over at his sister once more. Unbelievably, she was thirty years old.

  “Get ready, Ross. We turn off in a few minutes.”

  He asked suddenly, “What made Mother come back to Hawks Hill, after everything that happened? The memories . . .”

  She shrugged. “Because of the memories, I guess.”

  She flashed a thumbs-up to another car which was giving way to her as she turned. “Still got a lot of friends in this area, you know. A lot of women have to sit around and put up with things!”

  He watched the road, a little anxiously. All concrete and high-slung lighting. “Not you, Sue.”

  She blew another piece of hair from her eyes. “Too right. Not me!”

  A modern-looking pub with a large, empty car park. Where the hell had that come from? The familiar lines of trees were all gone. On one side of the road was a white-painted motel. The Blackwood Arms. How had they managed that?

  She braked again and steered toward a pair of opened gates. The old farm, at least, had been by-passed by progress.

  Another set of gates, and a painted sign that read, Hawks Hill Livery Stables. Accommodation Available.

  The car had stopped. She was looking at him, one hand on the key in the ignition.

  “Stop thinking ‘it’s not how it used to be’. It’s ten years since you made your decision and went off to be a hero.” She reached out and seized his hand, the first time they had touched since the station. “Since I took that job with Focus, remember?”

  Two girls in riding kit were crossing a cobbled yard, leading horses. One of the girls waved.

  She said, “Yes, this place is different, but it’s alive. What Joanna needs, don’t you see?”

  Ross nodded, but turned as if to look at the old house, which had been a beginning and sometimes an end. There was only the road now, and the steady flow of traffic.

  His sister was taking out the one case he had brought with him. Until the next time.

  “Here she comes now. Don’t forget what I said.”

  He heard his mother’s step on the cobbles, the catch in her voice as she called his name.

  She was in his arms, hugging him, laughing as he always remembered, close to tears. The same old straw hat hanging from one shoulder, like those other visits. A week, a few days, in some one else’s flat or house. This, at least, was her own.

  Her hair was darker, where it had been grey the last time. It suited her.

  She dabbed her eyes with her knuckles.

  “You’re early. I must look a mess.” She leaned back in his arms. “I was expecting to see you in uniform!” She pulled away. “I have to deal with somebody.”

  Ross watched her hurry into the shadow of the house, glad she could not see his face. You were never ready when it happened. I was expecting to see you in uniform. When he had gone to visit Glynis, and they had become lovers. He had never forgotten. How could he?

  He had even gone back to that same street in Hong Kong. Pointless, painful, but he had gone. Even more like a dream. The apartment building, Java House, had vanished. In its place was yet another tower block, hiding the harbour . . . I was expecting to see you in uniform.

  Everything had been different. Like the Raiding Squadron. No longer a casual, hit-or-miss operation. Every marine was armed and ready. Us or them.

  He looked at the last of the trees, where the developers and their machinery had come to a halt. A part of England still. That other, secret war only rarely hit the front pages. Nothing to do with us.

  Did people really forget so easily? Less than a year ago it had struck at the Corps and the whole country. Earl Mountbatten of Burma, the Colonel Commandant of the Royal Marines, had been brutally assassinated by the IRA while holidaying with his family in Ireland. It should never have happened. Poor security, over confidence, some called it arrogance; but the stark fact remained.

  Ross heard Joanna’s voice again. Just as her husband had been killed in Cyprus ten years before. War was still a fact of life, although now it was called terrorism.

  “How long this time, Ross?” Her hand was linked through his arm, their shadows joining across the cobbles.

  “I have to go to London – next week, I think. The M.o.D. or something.”

  “Are you worried about it?” She was looking at him; he could feel her eyes. “Things are so uncertain these days.”

  Tell her. Promotion is almost at a standstill. Cutting down. Always cutting down. And there was to be yet another government White Paper on the subject of the country’s defences. It could only get worse.

  In two months’ time he would be thirty-five years old. About the same age as Major Keith Houston when he had been killed on that Malaysian beach. Probably the same age as Captain John Irwin when he had been told at Hong Kong that he was no longer required for active duty. It had been his whole life, all he had ever wanted. Needed. They had found his body in one of the workshops at Tamar, a pistol still jammed between his teeth.

  De Lisle had retired as a full colonel. It did not seem as if he had been given much choice, either.

  Another training appointment, perhaps? Eager faces, commandos in the making. The drills, and the aches and pains of mock combat, at Lympstone, or one of those godforsaken camps in Scotland.

  Don’t wait to see who’s following you, lad! Move your bloody self! Stay in the lead if you want that green beret, my son!

  They stopped by the pond. It had once been near the edge of a moat dating from Tudor times. You could hear the traffic, in particular the heavy lorries, quite easily from here.

  She squeezed his arm. “You’ve never let them down. And I know what it cost you.” She looked at the sky. “We’ll ride tomorrow, and you can tell me all about Singapore.”

  He smiled, and f
elt the claws of tension easing their grip. “Hong Kong, love!”

  Welcome home.

  Ten days passed before the official letter arrived at Hawks Hill Livery Stables. They were the longest ten days Ross had ever known. It was impossible to get used to his surroundings. Hawks Hill was always a ghostly presence, something which even the dull murmur of traffic or the whine of lorries in the night could not dispel.

  Curiously enough, it was the same postman he remembered from past visits; good news and bad, he had known the Blackwood family for many years. He had brought the news of Ross’s promotion to captain, and the announcement of the Colonel’s death in Cyprus.

  He was here now, watching Ross sign his register.

  “Back to the Corps, then, Major. Don’t give you much rest, does they? Seems like only yesterday you was down at the pub, before they pulled that down!”

  Ross slit open the letter. He could sense Joanna loitering by the kitchen door, some cut flowers in one hand, an empty vase motionless in the other, as if she were holding her breath. Outside on the cobbles a solitary horse was being led to a loose box. The local milkman had just called, and was chatting up one of the girls.

  A sane, everyday world. And the end of the line.

  He reread the brief, almost matter-of-fact message a second time. One word stood out, the rank of full colonel, and the name of an office in a building of which he had never heard. Whitehall. The Ministry of Defence. You are requested . . . The rest seemed blurred.

  “What is it, Ross? Please tell me.”

  He walked over to her and put his arms around her waist.

  “A staff appointment. I’m not sure . . .” He did not continue.

  She had put down the vase and was hugging him, the flowers draped over his shoulder. “You thought it was the axe, didn’t you? After all you’ve done, whatever next!”

  “I never realized until this moment how much it mattered, how much I cared. It was always there, you see? Then suddenly . . .”

  “Staff job, eh? Not the cut an’ thrust you’ve bin used to!”

  They had both forgotten about the old postman.