‘I went back to LA, gave up the place I was rentin’, plus what was in it. Told the landlord he could keep the stuff or sell it. I decided I was startin’ again from scratch. I flew in yesterday with just the clothes on my back and some spare Ys in my bag. Spent the night in a hotel at Heathrow, then this mornin’ I took the shuttle up to Glasgow and hired a car. I figured if there was such a thing as second chances, then this thing tonight was as good a place as any to look for them. Hasnae quite gone to plan so far, but some parts have been no’ bad.’
He gave her hand a squeeze. The platonic, near-fraternal gesture felt like an affection between some old married couple who’d been through it all together; their earlier kisses now a mere memory of distant, frivolous youth.
‘I was going to start again tonight too,’ Simone said, Matthew’s silence having denoted that his own confession was over. ‘I was going to tell Gavin I’m leaving him. I wanted a second chance: a chance to find something better than the life I’ve got with him. I felt I deserved it. I felt my daughters deserved it too. Oh God. Rachel and Patricia. Oh Jesus Christ.’
At last the brutal reality that Matthew had found in another man’s blood struck Simone, right to the heart, the womb, the once-suckling breast. Maybe it was the sheer impossibility of what was unfolding, maybe it was a psychological self-defence mechanism, but either way, the danger to her own life had so far seemed at a remove, almost theoretical. Now she saw Rachel and Patricia bereft: their tears, their pain, their clouded future. That was the moment when the threat became immediate, tangible. That was the moment when the guns in front of her were transformed from mere objects to instruments of murder. But the weirdest part was, it was also the moment when she ceased to feel fear. The need to protect her daughters became paramount, and the desire for all of them to have that second chance became something she was prepared to fight for.
To the death.
Simone took hold of the shotgun and got to her feet. The weapon was very similar to the one Timothy Vale had taught her to use at some hellish outdoor event where there was a clay-pigeon range. She’d been abandoned by Gavin, as usual, and had put her respectable score that day down less to beginner’s luck than to imagining his face on the flying targets.
‘What you doin’?’ Matthew asked.
‘I’m not prepared to let my twins grow up without a mother. I’ve been outside that sweet-shop myself, Matthew, being a good wee girl, behaving myself, lying down and taking all the shit. But now I want the key, and I’d rather die trying to get it than cowering in this bedroom. You say the bad guys don’t know we’re here, right? They think this Booth person’s guarding the place?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, if they don’t know we’re here, they’re not gonna miss us if we leave. Let’s see if we can’t get off of this thing, get to shore, raise the alarm.’
‘How?’
‘These guys must have come here on boats, and if so they’ll be moored on the central jetty. We can get down there through the sub-levels.’
‘You’re right,’ Matthew said. He pulled his jacket on over his naked shoulders and reached down for the machine gun. ‘Better than waitin’ in here like Vladimir and Estragon. Your gory bed or to victory. Live forever or die in the attempt.’
Simone knelt on one knee and began slotting shells into the breech, picking them from a scattered pile on the carpet in front of her. The barrel rested on her thigh, cool through the fine material of her dress. The physical sensation of it was dulled by more than lycra and nylons, however: there was a numbness blunting all feelings, all emotions. She was way past fear and into a place of cold resolution beyond, where she was already dead but her life was there to be won back if she battled hard enough.
The shotgun had been almost full, only accepting three more cartridges. Simone gathered the spares into a disposable drawstring bag for ‘feminine hygiene items’ that she’d found in the bathroom. She slung the bag around her wrist and stood up again, pumping the shotgun to chamber the first shell.
Matthew slipped a finger around the Uzi’s trigger-guard, spare mags bulging his jacket pockets. With his chest bare underneath, he looked like some underdeveloped Chippendale.
‘You all right with this, morally, Mr Pacifist?’ she asked him.
‘Oh, I think all normal morality has been suspended for at least the next hour and a half.’
‘Good. Shall we?’
‘You askin’?’
‘I’m askin’.’
‘Then I’m dancin’.’
Whistling in the dark, laughter in the trenches.
Simone opened the door and out they went.
22:18 laguna ballroom plan d
It was a few moments before Connor could speak. He stood facing the gaping expanse of the room, outraged and incredulous at the bare-faced, impudent emptiness of it. He gasped. He spluttered. He snorted. He blinked. He shut his eyes for a few seconds to see whether the disappearance of upwards of fifty people was perhaps merely a trick of the light. He opened them again. It wasn’t. The desertedness proved chronic.
‘—’
‘I mea—’
‘Bu—’
‘Kkk—’
He dropped to his knees, feeling the closest he had been to tears since he was twelve. It just wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fucking fair. All his work, all his strategy, his precision, his resolution. It had been going fine, it had been going absolutely bloody fine. Incursion undetected, communication links controlled, hostages taken. All bloody fine. Then he turns his back to sort out one other thing, and, and—
‘Oh, fuck,’ he moaned, deflatedly, remembering that Dawson would be back any moment, and would be expecting to find him in possession of all the hostages, including Gavin Hutchison. That he was now in control of none whatsoever was something Dawson was unlikely to let by without comment.
Maybe he could just shoot him, Connor thought. Yes. That would be the simplest thing. Blow him away before he could open that smug fucking mouth of his. Or even wait until he’d come out with whatever withering indictment he chose to pass upon poor, pathetic William’s latest failure, then unload a full clip into his face to finally shut him up and, for once, have the last word.
Raising his head, he noticed from his lowered perspective that the bodies of two of his men were lying motionless under the buffet table. They still had their ski-masks on, but he didn’t need to see their faces to know who they were – or rather who they weren’t.
Jackson.
All that shit on the boat, and then his hesitancy downstairs in Hotel B when they were spotted by that kid. It all added up. The treacherous swine had turned fifth column on him. Connor looked at the holes expertly drilled in the centre of the two corpses’ foreheads. It was well seeing the bastard’s gun hadn’t ‘jammed’ that time. The fucking overgrown boy-scout had decided to be a hero, had he? Well, in that case, there was a full clip with his name on it too.
‘Unit Leader, come in Unit Leader,’ came a voice from Connor’s radio. He grabbed it hurriedly from his belt, desperate for information.
‘This is Connor,’ he responded. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Harris, sir. Look-out team one. I’ve got a vessel leaving the rig, heading south-east away from us.’
‘One of ours?’
‘Well, the boat isn’t, but I think the driver is. It’s the small motor launch that was moored below, and I’m pretty sure the occupant is Mr Dawson. He’s in fatigues but no mask. I’ve had a decent look at his face through the binoculars and I’m fairly certain it’s him. Is everything still on-track, sir?’
Connor stared into space, digesting the news. How very Dawson, he thought, miserably. How bloody quintessentially Dawson. The one time he decides to shoot the bugger rather than listen to his sneering disgust, the self-satisfied tosspot communicates it all the more humiliatingly by walking out without a word. He’d even taken the spare boat rather than one of their own dinghies, a gesture that he wanted nothing more to do with them.
/>
Connor looked at his watch, which told him he’d wasted the best part of an hour chasing around upstairs. Dawson had returned to find the embarrassment of the empty ballroom and – again, typical of the pompous prick – decided that retrieving the situation was less worthwhile than taking the opportunity to convey his total disdain for Connor and his set-up.
Well, fuck him and fuck Jackson too. Connor still had the bank codes, he still had control of communications, and he still had several hours of darkness. The situation was eminently retrievable, he’d show Dawson. It’s not only about plans and contingencies: it’s about adapting and improvising, and it’s the end result that matters. They’d still get their money and they’d still get away clean to spend it. Then he’d see how superior that stuck-up bastard was feeling after being told he could whistle for his share.
‘Sir? Is everything still on-track?’ the voice on the radio repeated.
‘Yes, Harris. Everything is still on-track. But if you see any more vessels leaving this place, blow them the fuck out of the water.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The situation was retrievable, but the game had changed, and tactics were now crucial. Despite talking the rest of them up, Connor knew that, apart from himself, there had been only three soldiers here tonight worthy of the name. Now one had fled, one was dead and the other had become the enemy.
Jackson was only one man, but the threat he posed could not be underestimated, and it went beyond the disruption he could cause here and now. He could name everybody, and he would, unquestionably: between that and his selfless heroics, it would probably earn him a cosy little immunity when the investigations and recriminations began. And even if they took Jackson out, there was no way of knowing how much he might have already told the hostages. In that case, Connor was looking at either life in prison or no life in non-extradition shitholes for the rest of his days. He wasn’t even sure the latter was achievable: if they destroyed all communications and pulled out right away, he’d still have to make it to Glasgow and on to an international flight before the alarm was raised. Left unguarded, Jackson and the hostages were bound to find some way of doing that long before morning.
‘All units, all units, this is Connor,’ he stated grimly, that last thought still in mind. ‘Booth, I want you to proceed immediately to the comms pen. Acknowledge. Booth? Booth? Acknowledge.’
‘Acknowledged.’
‘Pettifer and Dobson, both of you join Booth. Acknowledge.’
‘Acknowledged.’
‘Acknowledged. Have you found Hutchison then, sir?’
‘Shut up. Repeat: join Booth at the comms pen. Kill anybody who attempts to approach it. And I mean anybody.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Restoring comms would be Jackson’s first possible strategy. Connor knew he’d be listening, so he was letting him know who still held all the cards. His second would be getting ashore.
‘Look-out teams, remain in place. Destroy any vessels leaving or approaching the rig. Do not wait for authorisation from me. Shoot first and ask questions later.’
Connor then told everyone else to drop what they were doing and head for the ballroom, where he could debrief them without Jackson listening in.
There was no option now but to finish what they had started. If they played this right, Connor was confident they could still neutralise Jackson, recover the hostages and get what they had come for. But whether or not they managed that, the primary objective now was to ensure that when he and his men evacuated, no-one else was left alive.
22:27 cromarty firth merrily merrily merrily
Molly’s prescription of a large dram and an early night sounded just grand. McGregor sipped the measure sitting up in his bed, his wife reading the paper alongside. She was absolutely right. After the day he’d had, the only sensible strategy was to get the head down and put everything behind him. Unwind and forget about all of it. Relax with a generous glass of Speyside malt (he couldn’t drink Islay whiskies any more – too many painful memories) and chase from his mind all the torments and frustrations he’d been forced to endure on this, his first official day of retirement.
Such as being knocked unconscious by an independently airborne limb. Such as trudging ankle-deep into a pool of blood, cowshite and God knew what else trying to discover what had happened to the rest of the arm’s erstwhile owner. Such as attempting to flag down a lift looking like Dennis Nilsen. Such as nearly running himself over with an abandoned Renault. Such as getting chased by a helicopter and demolishing a police roadblock with the aid of a bouncing sheep. Such as getting shot at and arrested by an Armed Response Unit. Such as being interrogated by hapless dunderheids and then patronised by some suit-full-of-fuck-all who was treating him like he’d advanced-stage senile dementia just because he’d been off the job a fucking fortnight.
‘It’s not unusual for men like yourself, Mr McGregor, who’ve been in the force for so many years, to undergo certain difficulties during that initial transitional period, as they begin adjusting to everyday civilian life. You may feel a little left out of things for a while, and you may tend to overreact to what incidents you do find yourself at the centre of, for which there will always turn out to be a perfectly reasonable explanation. It’s not unknown for former officers’ imaginations to run away with themselves a wee bit, perhaps to compensate for the sudden lack of excitement and responsibility.
‘You were unfortunate enough to be witness to what appears to have been a tragic accident this morning, an accident we will be doing our utmost to get to the bottom of. But what you have to accept, having retired, Mr McGregor, is that investigating it is our job from now on. And though I’m very sure the force will miss you, it will manage without you. So please, trust us to get on with it ourselves. We know what we’re doing. We’re the police.’
‘Wee wank,’ McGregor muttered, placing his empty glass down on the bedside table
‘What was that, dear?’
Know what they’re doing my arse, he thought. An unfortunate accident? Where was the rest of the body, then? What about the bullet holes all over the place at the farm? What about the spent shell he had found? What about the blood inside the shed? Did the mystery dead punter go in there for a wee bleed before taking a walk outside and spontaneously combusting?
‘Fuckin’ idiots.’
‘Did you say something, Hector?’
‘Sheep-shaggin’, carrot-crunchin’, tumshie-munchin’, teuchter half-wits,’ he declared, getting out of bed.
‘Are you going for another whisky, dear? Hector?’
‘I’ll no’ be a minute,’ he told Molly, pulling his socks back on.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Just ootside for a wee look at somethin’.’
‘Oh, Hector, come back to bed. It’s after ten. Just leave it.’
‘Five minutes, Molly.’
He shuffled into his shoes at the front porch and lifted his raincoat from the hook, pulling it on over his pyjamas. Exploding teuchters. Pools of blood. Bullet holes. Thirty-odd years on the force, and if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that there’s no such thing as a ‘perfectly reasonable explanation’. Throughout his career, even in the explanations that made incontestable logical sense, reason had always been the last thing to factor into the equation.
The available evidence couldn’t tell him what had actually taken place at that farm earlier today, but what it did say to him, in big, bright, blood-red neon capitals, was ‘BAMPOTSAT WORK’.
He trudged out of his house and into the garden.
‘I don’t think we need lose too much sleep over mad bombers. I mean, what could terrorists find to interest themselves around here?’
From his front driveway he could see the moonlit silhouette of one corner of that holiday-resort place, the rest of it obscured by the spur of Kilbokie Brae. McGregor’s new cottage was less than a quarter of a mile from the water’s edge, and even in the half-light he could make out the shape of the rowing boa
t that came with the place, resting down on the shingle.
It wouldn’t hurt to take a wee look. Just get that bit closer, round the spur, see what he could see. The fresh air would do him good, help clear his head. And besides, he knew himself too well: he wouldn’t get any sleep until he’d at least had a wee nosy.
The night felt warm, like Edinburgh during the Festival, except he’d always put that down to the accumulated bodyheat combining with kebab grills, pizza ovens and self-immolating performance artists. Maybe this keech about ‘micro-climate’ was true. The weather had been un-Scottishly hot up here for a few days now, and even the breeze was warm. It was a night for moonlit walks, midnight swims and knee-tremblers in the woods.
He’d half a mind to go and get Molly and suggest she come for a wee boat trip under the stars: prove he wasn’t going to turn into some curmudgeonly old pensioner just because he’d retired. Ach, maybe tomorrow night. Or maybe later on, once he’d satisfied his own curiosity.
McGregor pushed the boat into the water and clambered in, inadvertently dooking one shoe while he did so. As his momentum carried him the first few yards out, he was relieved to find that there were oars inside, having failed to check this first. For a horrified moment, he had images of Jimmy Johnstone heading helplessly into the Irish Sea, one of the more imaginative ways a Scottish internationalist had attempted to flee the inevitable horror of a World Cup campaign.
He settled into a rhythm, ploughing the surface with his back to his destination and meeting little resistance in the way of wind or current. Now and again he’d glance over his shoulder at the approaching monstrosity. The place was silent, with no lights visible other than the glow that peeked between the structures on the platform’s ‘ground’ level. Apart from that it was simply a big, dark mass blocking out the stars.
One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night Page 27
