Knife Edge (2004)

by Reeman, Douglas

  It was Steve Blackwood, now a sergeant-major, a W.O.2 and explosives expert. Fate or coincidence, it was good to know he had won his own battle. One doctor had insisted that the bullet would have killed most men on impact.

  He wondered what Hamlyn thought about it, if he thought at all. Two Blackwoods in one small team. But he had served long enough to know the full story; it was hard to keep a secret in this regiment.

  More scattered bricks and then some scaffolding, a ladder leading nowhere, pointing at the sky.

  Friday night, Saturday morning. If the facts were accurate, it would be tomorrow. Sunday, like that moment in the market when the thieves had blown the safe. And then the screams and the guns and the terrified children. And Sharon . . .

  “Stop here.” The scraping sound of a heavy curtain, canvas, he thought; the tiny blink of a torch. And more steps.

  He felt Hamlyn close behind him.

  “Are you O.K., Peter?”

  Hamlyn thought about it. First names. No bullshit. He said softly, “I could use a pint!”

  This had been a pub. He remembered hearing the details. Rooms, stairways, doors. His foot found another step. It must be the cellar. The heavy curtain was down and he heard some one fastening it, or poking it into place.

  The voice said, “Now.”

  The lights were small and hand-held, but after the total darkness it was like Earls Court.

  Crouching and standing, there were no more than a dozen figures here. But as he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the light, Ross thought the old cellar was packed, shoulder to shoulder.

  Like all those other times, the same feeling, almost the same faces, the tension and uncertainty melting away. Hamlyn was speaking in the same matter-of-fact voice, while the figures, now individuals under the hard light, crowded closer, eyes on Ross, who was a total stranger to most of them.

  One of them strode out of the shadows, face split in a grin.

  “The old firm again!”

  Ross gripped him by the shoulders and shook him gently. “Steve, you old bugger! I feel better already!”

  “Yeah. The bad penny will always be ready to pop up.”

  Everybody seemed to be talking at once. Hamlyn stood slightly apart, and Ross thought he saw him smile with relief or satisfaction.

  His cousin looked much the same, he thought. The lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper, and his hair showed streaks of grey beneath the beret; hardly surprising for one who had at least twice nearly died in combat. In two or three years, he would be forty. In the Corps they said that after that it was time to roll over, or be promoted.

  Ross said, “Sit down if you can find a place.” He looked around, taking his time, trying to see each face and assess the man behind it. He could see the remains of the pub cellar. Circular stains on the walls where barrels had been hoisted on racks for the beer to settle before being tapped, or connected to the bars on the next floor; a few crushed Guinness tins. Some sort of toilet, too; the door was hanging open and he could see the scribbled graffiti even from where he was standing. Like pubs everywhere. It’s useless standing on this seat/ ’Cause Chatham crabs jump sixteen feet! Or the ubiquitous You would think by all this wit/ that Shakespeare once came here to shit.

  He cleared his throat. A handful of marines, all volunteers. Trained, chased, and tested to the hilt. And for what? Others made the decisions. But they were left to carry out the actual deeds, whatever the final outcome.

  Like all those who had gone over the top in Flanders in that other war, or the individual sniper in Burma and Malaysia crouching in some rice paddy or jungle; choice did not enter into it.

  “You’ve all seen the local map and sketch-plan?” Some nodded; a couple smiled. Wondering perhaps about the man, the officer, in whose hands they were placing their lives. Most of them would know the surname, but he had seen the surprise when he and Steve had hugged each other. They might bear the same name, but rank was usually an unbreachable barrier in the Corps.

  “Information tells us that explosives will be brought ashore from the river early Sunday morning. Mines, detonators, and very likely some weapons, mortars and that type of thing. Not a big cargo,” he looked around at the intent faces, “but deadly in the wrong hands.”

  He had said enough. These men had trained, lived and worked together long enough to act as a team or as individuals. No ranks or badges.

  “Sunday or not, there may be civilians in the area.” He touched his own holster. “They are not the enemy.”

  Hamlyn took over, calling out a few names, adding a detail here and there about vantage points and concealment. He saw Steve Blackwood watching him, perhaps remembering that other time when a young officer had overcome his fear to take the lead, and die.

  Now, all they had to do was wait.

  Steve Blackwood switched off the battery-powered razor and rubbed his hand around his chin. It would never match a proper blade and hot water, but it was better than starting the day like a scruff. Starting the day. He did not need to peer at his watch. It was four in the morning. He eased his legs to take away the stiffness, and put his mind in order.

  Saturday had been endless, taking turns on watch, peering through the camouflaged hides, keeping out of sight in case somebody was poking around, or walking his dog, being suspicious of everything. He listened to rain dripping from one of the canvas awnings. It had poured for most of the previous day, and much of the night. Rain was the best policeman, they said. They could have it.

  When people saw the marines on parade or walking in the street, they probably thought that the green beret went with the uniform. He moved again to ease the pain in his back: the reminder. If you wore the green beret, you had bloody well earned it.

  It was still quiet in the pub cellar, and he wondered if there was any tea left in the thermos flasks. His mouth was dry; too many cigarettes, although he had tried to ration them.

  He heard somebody move, the sound of metal, a voice lowered to a whisper. Two of them chatting to pass the time.

  Waiting . . . He had known this same mixture of impatience and uncertainty so many times that he had lost count.

  But you could never show it. The sergeant-major, a warrant officer as in all three services, stood firmly between the brass and the other ranks. Looking back, he was surprised that he had become used to his promotion so quickly. Some of his friends in the sergeants’ mess had made a point of shouting, “Sir!” just to catch him out. It seemed a long time ago.

  Now there was another sound. The snip, snip, snip of somebody checking the cocking lever on his semi-automatic rifle. He did not need to; it had already been tested. Just to make certain . . . That must be Jock Marsh, a crack shot. He had even competed for the Blackwood Trophy. He felt his mouth crease in a smile. You could never get away from that name in the Corps.

  He turned his thoughts back to the job at hand. Why he and the others were in this partially demolished pub, at the back of nowhere. Maybe the rain had put paid to the operation. Or some informer had talked too loudly.

  The plans, the photographs, might be hot air. It happened often enough.

  He heard some one flushing the toilet; it was about the only thing that still worked here, but not for much longer, by the look and stench of it.

  And after this? Another year, two at the most, and he would be out of the Corps. On the beach. He was lucky to have made it this far. But for his service, and the coveted D.C.M., what might he have done? And now there was Mary. During that last explosives course at Portland he had met her, working in a chemist’s shop in Weymouth. He had been in uniform and they had started to talk. Her husband had been a Royal, but had deserted her for another woman. It was surprising that she had even wanted to speak to another of the Globe and Laurel mob.

  He had not told her about his work with explosives.

  But I will. Next time I see her.

  “Want some char, sir?” A hunched shape came out of the shadows.

  He took the mu
g, lukewarm.

  “Magic,” he said, and then, “Time, is it?”

  The marine slithered down beside down. “Be light soon.” His teeth were white in the gloom, and faintly chattering. “Glad to be doin’ somethin’.”

  Twenty-one years old. What kind of future could he expect? Cut, cut, cut, all the bloody politicians could think about. If there was another war, who would carry the can?

  He pushed it to the back of his mind. Today was important. He thought about the photographs, the mug shots they had all been shown. Hamlyn had made sure that everybody got a good description, too. Barry Fallon from Sligo. An old hand at the game, who had done time in England, but got off with a short sentence on some technical point in the defence. It had still been a murder, whatever they said. And Jack McGee from Armagh, who had begun life right here in Derry.

  But how good was the information?

  He said, “I’d better call the Major.” He thought, not that he’ll need it.

  He recalled their meeting in this stinking cellar. No pretence, no airs and graces. Probably surprised the hell out of some of the others. Especially the ones who knew it all.

  He had often wondered how Ross Blackwood had felt about the loss of the old house, all because of some bloody new motorway that had to go through, demolishing history. He thought of the solicitor’s letter, the money which had been sent to him, without strings; his rightful share, it had been explained. Not the lawyers’ doing, he was sure of that, but the man’s, the officer who had become his friend, and who had raised the roof until his medal had come through. Not a fortune, but if Mary agreed to marry him they would not have to exist on a warrant officer’s pension.

  He knew Ross was wide awake, watching him in the faint glow of a solitary police lamp.

  “All set?”

  “Yeah. It’s a wonder this place isn’t flooded out!”

  “Have a sip of this.” It was a hip flask. “Officers’ perks!”

  Brandy, Scotch; it went down so well he could not be sure which it had been. But he was aware of the warning. Ross was not so calm as the face he showed to others.

  These same men had listened to his quiet words when he had arrived. Even the hard cases had been impressed. And the lieutenant, Hamlyn. A good enough officer from what he had seen and heard, but a man who would come down on you like a ton of bricks if you failed to measure up.

  He wondered if Ross still thought about that other young lieutenant. Mister follow-my-example. Blondie.

  Obeying orders. And dying in terror. The greatest kind of courage.

  “Good stuff.”

  Ross was on his feet, checking his pockets, his watch, his holster and ammunition, automatically. Like the drill.

  “It’ll take a while to occupy positions, Steve. We’ll stand-to in fifteen minutes.” He half turned as the toilet cistern rattled again, and grinned. “Not before time, by the sound of it!”

  Steve watched him. Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore. He could remember the woman in Hong Kong, older than Ross in more ways than one. The pompous husband who played golf whenever he could. And I’m still here. The lucky one.

  The lights were coming on. Time to move, let the eyes adjust to the dawn, when it came.

  He followed Ross out of the canvas shelter, feeling the way. Accepting it.

  It was now.

  Lieutenant Peter Hamlyn raised himself on his toes to peer over yet another stack of new, plastic-wrapped bricks. Everything was wet, and there were puddles like lakes in the open sites where buildings had once stood. He wore grubby white overalls over his combat rig, and his beret was wedged through his belt. Just in case there were other eyes on the move. There were two night watchmen, sealed in a little hut with the telephone. And the undercover policeman. A weekend they would all remember, no matter what happened.

  He moved on, using some fallen planks to cross over another muddy pool. It was deeper than he thought, but he made himself stand still as water soaked over his boot and into his sock. He looked at a wedge of concrete, pale in the dawn. New foundations. He pictured the map in his mind, noting distances and bearings, moved again, and saw the gleam of the river. Like a sliver of metal.

  It was still cold, but the sky seemed clearer, offering a jagged horizon for the first time. Buildings, windows like empty eyes, shapeless lumps of timber and metal: a hive of activity on any working day, but now still, dead, only the river making it a lie.

  He heard a soft footstep over his left shoulder. Sergeant Ken Norris, known behind his back as ‘Smiler’, because he very rarely did.

  He had only been made up from corporal a few months ago. He was good at his work, but not an easy man to know.

  He climbed carefully on to some ballast and stared toward the river. No bends here; it was almost like a canal.

  And it was brighter, pale smudges of cloud where there had been total darkness. He imagined his marines in their various hides, waiting and on edge, cursing the brains who had got them into this godforsaken place. Grubby, unshaven, except for the W.O.2, the other Blackwood.

  He thought of the man in command of this unlikely operation. Part of the legend. Several well-known families had made their mark in the Royal Marines. Unlike himself: he was a first-generation marine. Both his parents were teachers at a local school. They had accepted his decision to enlist, but no more than that . . .

  A tiny movement. He froze, his hand on steel. Ready.

  But it was the last lookout. Their crack shot, Jock Marsh, from Glasgow, with an accent like a chainsaw. Narrow dark features and very bright eyes, like black stones, as he had heard one of the others comment. He was chewing gum. On parade it was entirely different. Today, he looked like something from a gangster movie.

  “Quiet?”

  Marsh shrugged. “Saw a police boat twenty minutes back.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Marsh tapped his waterproof cape, where his breast pocket would be.

  “Checked the number.” He smiled, chewing busily. One up on you, Jimmy!

  Hamlyn turned his cuff. His watch must have stopped, surely . . .

  Marsh said, “Early bird, sir.” Instantly alert, the unseen semi-automatic rifle taking shape under his stained cape.

  Very quiet, but steady. Put-put-put, a small engine, maybe only an outboard.

  There was to be a sailing regatta this morning. But not up as far as this. The police boat would have seen and checked, as a matter of course. Hamlyn calmed himself. There would be a tug, and some barges. The only time they had to shift some garbage, and more building material. It was all in the brief. Nothing must interfere with the regatta. He turned his head slightly. Not close, very faint, but strangely moving. Church bells.

  Marsh moved the gum to the other side of his mouth and scowled. “That’s all we need!”

  Hamlyn ignored him, watching the slow-moving boat, taking on shape and personality as it passed two overloaded barges moored nearby. No wonder they needed a tug; one of them was so filled with rubbish and debris that it might have been aground. He groped for his binoculars, which were wedged under the overalls. A quick glance at the sky, brightening slowly, the far side of the river still faceless and in darkness. Two gulls, cruising on motionless wings, no doubt searching for food. But holding the light like still-life.

  He pressed against the bricks and levelled his glasses. Somebody’s pride and joy, but not very beautiful. About thirty feet long, probably an old naval craft, like a cutter, sold off in their hundreds after the war. Conversions, they were termed by professional sailors. A low cabin roof, and two masts with half furled sails, a bright club burgee fluttering from the truck, a tattered ensign down aft. No headroom between decks. He focused on a solitary figure standing in the cockpit, presumably at the wheel. Bright red jersey, dark hair tied or plaited down her back. He almost smiled. Who cared about headroom with a companion like that? The smaller the better.

  He heard Marsh mutter, “All right for some!”

  Now there was somebody else.
A man, climbing into the cockpit from the cabin. It was funny to think that this boat had probably been used for teaching seamanship to new recruits in those far-off days. Double-banked oars pulling up and down, with an instructor marching between the new boys, calling the stroke, with a few harsh words to hurry things along.

  The man wore a sailing smock and was staring at the shore. Hamlyn did not move; it felt as if he was looking directly at him, which was impossible.

  He was saying something and he saw the girl reach out, and the immediate change in the engine sound. The boat was turning slightly, slowing down, and the man in the blue smock was moving across the deck, holding a backstay to steady himself.

  Marsh said dourly, “What’s he up to? There’s fu—” He checked himself. “There’s nothing here!”

  Hamlyn moved the glasses slightly. Another barge, half hidden by the partly demolished brickwork, filled with rubbish like the others. He remembered searching it in the darkness. It stank, too.

  What was he doing? Stepping off the boat to relieve himself? The local authorities were getting very pusser about boat owners using the river instead of their cramped chemical toilets as directed.

  Closer now, the boat still turning, making for the barge. He could see the girl more clearly too, leaning over slightly to gauge the distance. Her face was tanned. Used to boats. Her companion waved his arm, and he had picked up a rope fender, ready for the impact, if any.

  Why else would they stop here?

  “Tell the major.” Blackwood would think he was round the bend. What did it matter anyway? Suppose this boat was the means to the end? But the picture would not form. He repeated, “Move it!”

  He trained the glasses again. The girl was standing on something, peering across the bows. The engine had stopped, and he could see the bubbles in the water, catching a light which had not been there before. Another quick glance. Still no sun, but a window was shining somewhere. It would be soon now.

  The man jumped on to the barge’s side deck, using the fender to take the contact, hauling a line after him to make fast. He looked back and called something. The girl did not move, or smile.