by Les Haswell
“Ask Sheila, ask Sheila. I wish to God I could ask Sheila. Sheila’s dead Robbie. You killed her!”
HeRobbie watched in horror as his dad fled the room and turned to look at his mother as she sat, her body racked with sobs as she stared at him in disbelief.
How could you, it’s bad enough to get drunk and kill a wee girl, but to try and blame poor Bruce! I can’t believe any son of mine would do that,” she said angrily as she rose, and walked out of the room.
That was the last time he’d spoken to her.
5
Rob’s memories were interrupted by Peter. “We’re almost there Mr MacLaine,” he said, glancing over.
Rob had chosen to sit in the second crew seat rather than the separate passenger cabin.
“The co-ordinates you gave me—”
“Sorry Pete, I was miles away. What did you say?”
“We’re pretty close to your co-ordinates. I take it you’ve never been here before?”
“No, but we’re being met by an old army buddy of mine. He gave me the co-ordinates … said it was the easiest way. He runs one of these survival boot camps for corporate team-building and homemade Rambos with too much money. The site has a marked helipad, so we should be okay.”
“Fine. A couple more minutes, Mr MacLaine.”
Presently the helicopter banked to the left and started its descent toward a large white H painted on the tarmac at the end of a large car park. In close proximity was a long, low stone building with a new grey tiled roof. As they approached the helipad, he could see a number of cars and a black 20-seater Mercedes Sprinter minibus parked by the building. In the middle of the carpark, well away from the building and the helipad, sat a black five-door Land Rover Defender 110. A huge man stood beside it, obviously waiting for the Agusta to land.
“Looks like we’ve got a welcoming committee. Friendly, I hope,” said Pete casually as he eased the Agusta to the ground. “From the size of him, I’d rather have him as friend rather than an enemy,” he chuckled.
“Trust me, you definitely wouldn’t want Big Mac as an enemy. Fortunately, he’s a very good friend.” Rob jumped from the Agusta and, shoulders hunched against the downdraft from the rotors, strode hurriedly across the tarmac.
The two men stood regarding each other a few seconds, then shook hands quickly. Peter winced as this six-foot-seven giant of a man enveloped Rob in a tight bear-hug, which Rob returned with the same gusto. Slowly, Pete ambled over to the two men, carrying Rob’s bag, giving them time to greet each other.
When he arrived, Rob made introductions. “Pete, this is Iain MacDonald, my old buddy from my days in the forces. His friends call him Big Mac, for obvious reasons. I don’t know what his enemies call him; he killed most of them.” Rob laughed at the expression on Pete’s face as Iain “Big Mac” MacDonald stuck out a huge paw of a hand.
“Joking.” Rob slapped Pete’s back. “Mac, this is Pete Hall. I let Pete drive today,” he winked.
“Good to meet you.” His voice was unexpectedly soft and almost lyrical with a West Highland accent. The man’s handshake was firm but not crushing, much to Pete’s relief. “Let’s get inside.” He swung Rob’s bag into the back of the Land Rover, the trio climbed in, and Big Mac drove off.
He drove passed the building at the end of the car park and turned onto a well-maintained tarmac road, and accelerated quickly. Pete noticed that the engine sounded unexpectedly throaty and the vehicle felt very responsive to the throttle, but he said nothing. Their driver, however, noticed his expression.
“It’s a 6.2 Litre V8, 430BHP is the answer to the question your face’s asking.” Big Mac smiled in the rear-view mirror.
“Jeez, it must fly,” Pete responded with a wry smile.
“I’ll leave the flying to you. But it does motor along fairly rapidly,” Big Mac advised with pride in his voice.
The two men laughed.
“What the hell do you want with a beast like this, Mac?” asked Rob.
“For towing my caravan up Ben Nevis,” Big Mac explained with a shrug.
“A caravan up the highest mountain in Scotland?” Pete frowned. “Surely that’s against the law?”
The men in the front of the Land Rover exploded with laughter at Pete’s obvious concern.
“One thing I should have told you about Big Mac,” said Rob with a wide grin. ”When he comes away with something as ridiculous as taking a caravan up Ben Nevis, nine times out of ten, he’s extracting the urine. Problem is, on the tenth occasion, he’s serious!”
They laughed again and, this time, Pete joined in.
Big Mac had turned off the main road onto a narrower drive, which led up to a long, low stone house—a professional barn conversion that provided an open-plan living/dining/kitchen area, three bedrooms, and two bathrooms.
Homemade beef broth preceded a lamb stew Big Mac had had cooking in a slow cooker. Once sated, they assembled on a long leather sofa situated before a large fireplace. Although highlanders were expected to sit with a “wee dram”, the three men shared an excellent bottle of Argentinian Malbec before Pete announced he wanted to get an early start; he excused himself and went to bed.
“Let’s go for a wee stroll,” suggested Big Mac, and he and Rob walked through a small garden to a gazebo at the far end.
When the two friends sat down, Big Mac eyed Rob keenly. “So, what brings you to see me in such a hurry? Sounded serious.”
“I got a panic phone call from someone at home to say there was something seriously wrong and Fraser McEwan needed me urgently. That’s all I’ve got, but I know the caller, or did many years ago; we were close at that time. She wouldn’t call if it was a wind-up.”
Mac already new about that episode in Rob’s life. Rob had told him as they waited for orders during a long night in the Iraqi desert. As he recounted the conversation, the man’s brow furrowed.
“Could be anything Rob, but yer right to be prepared for all eventualities. The lass sounds genuinely scared. What do you need from me, other than transport? I’ve a fair stash of firepower if you think you might need something.”
Rob sat upright and smiled. “You never fail to surprise me. What the hell do you need with ‘a fair stash of firepower’ in the Scottish Highlands? Surely the nationalists aren’t that scary?”
“Man never knows what he might need and when,” said Mac bluntly. “I do a wee bit of supply from time to time. Only reputable clients, mind. Guys like yourself, in security, working abroad.”
Rob shook his head. “I might have known the centre didn’t pay for this lot.” He gestured the cottage and the two Land Rovers in the drive. “I think I just need wheels, if you can take care of that. I have a handgun and a big scary knife in my bag. I won’t need any more than that.”
“Yer heading for Achravie Rob, not Basra. With any luck, you’ll not need any o’ that. Bang a few heads together then back to being a big southern softie again.”
Rob rose and stretched. “Aye, right, as we Scots would say. I’m off to bed—busy day tomorrow.”
“‘We Scots’ he says with a southern softie’s accent. You sound no more Scottish than Lulu on the Graham Norton Show.” Big Mac laughed and slapped Rob’s shoulder as they walked back to the cottage.
6
Achravie - January 1999
Robbie’s side door burst open and there stood Fraser McEwan with an angry look on his weathered face and a rucksack hanging from his shoulder. He tossed a carrier bag onto Robbie’s bed. “Right lad, get dressed and make it quick, I’ll be outside”.
That was the start of the rest of Robbie’s life—the start of a journey which would take an eighteen-year-old Robbie MacLaine from privileged and naïve gangly lad who wanted for nothing, to that of muscular and confident, worldly-wise Rob MacLaine. Ex-army, ex Special Forces covert operative, trained in close-quarter battle and sniper techniques. Managing Director of Harper MacLaine Security, financially independent and secure. Now barely recognisable as the young inexperienc
ed Robbie that Fraser had spirited away from Achravie that cold morning in January 1999.
The journey started in a Glasgow Army Recruiting office with Fraser McEwan. A few strings were pulled and favours called in by Fraser; shortly after, Robbie entered Fraser’s old regiment and his father’s, the Black Watch.
Fraser had stayed with Robbie for a few weeks and guided a very confused and frightened young man through a period where he believed he held no control. Robbie had tried to talk to Fraser about the accident, Bruce, his father and poor Sheila Stewart. What about the police? What about Sheila’s family? What about the truth—that he wasn’t driving the car? Fraser wouldn’t be drawn in. All he’d said was that Robbie should forget that it had ever happened.
His father had spoken to a few people. Difficult decisions and various arrangements had been made, pains had been eased, and Fraser had been instructed to get Robbie off the island as quickly as possible. Out of sight, out of mind, Fraser had said.
Fraser prepared to leave Robbie in Glasgow and drive back to Achravie, and Robbie packed to leave for Fort George in Inverness later that morning to start a new life. Before he left, however, Fraser stood in front of Robbie and put his hands on the young man’s shoulders. “It breaks my heart, the way things happened. I never expected to be telling you these things, lad. Your father said never to get in touch with the family or your friends on Achravie. He’s put some funds into a bank account to see you started, and I pulled strings to ease you into my old regiment.”
Robbie felt a lump in his throat. Basically, his father was disowning him, throwing him out of the family home and off the island, and pushing him away from his friends.
Fraser’s eyes filled with tears. “No matter what you may or may not have done—and if it’s any consolation, I don’t think you’ve done anything—their minds are made up and I can’t change that.” Fraser passed one of his estate business cards. “Here’s my mobile phone number. I’ve scored out the landline ‘cause it diverts to the office at the house if I don’t pick up. If you ever need me, you call me. I’ll always be there for you, as long as I have breath in my body.” He quickly and awkwardly embraced Robbie quickly, picked up his bag and walked from the room.
Behind a closed door, Robbie sat on the edge of the bed, the reality of it all hitting him; he burst into tears. His body racked with sobs, tears streaming down his youthful face. He looked up and saw himself in the dressing table mirror. A coldness suddenly descended over him and he felt a change in himself … determination and resolve. He wiped away the tears as he walked into the bathroom, blew his runny nose, then washed and dried his face. Simple acts … acts he’d remember as the time he left Robbie MacLaine behind and began a new life.
7
Rob woke early the next morning, not having slept well. Thinking about the events of the past and wondering what would face him today, had kept him tossing and turning before finally falling into restless sleep.
Climbing out of bed slowly, he wandered naked into the en suite and eyed himself in the full-length mirror. Obviously not designed for tall men, it cut off the top of his head. Critically, he eyed the broad shoulders, flat muscled stomach, and brawny, almost hairless chest. The long toned legs belonged to a man who could still run for miles up and down the Welsh mountains—something the SAS was partial to—regardless of the weather, wearing full kit.
While the memories of various trials would be permanently etched in his memory, the body also bore recollections of battles past—via the sundry of scars, times when things hadn’t gone to plan. Two bullet scars in his right arm and knife marks in his left shoulder and left thigh bore testament to the fact that Rob had seen much action during his time in the military. All too vividly, he remembered the events that had led to all of them.
He also had that noticeable white scar that ran diagonally from the centre of his left cheek to his jaw line. Leaning over the wash-hand basin, he touched the scar that was easy to forget as he went about his daily life. He’d hated it at first, was very self-conscious about it, even trying to conceal it with makeup until a colleague had asked, “Are you wearing makeup, you big Nancy?”
He’d never done that again and had slowly gotten used to it being there—and to the fact that most people let their gaze wander to it as they spoke.
That was one of the things he’d liked about Justine when they’d met that evening in the bar. She had reached over, fingered the scar, and casually enquired, “Cut yourself shaving?”
“The last girlfriend had a really sharp tongue,” he’d quipped. “I had to go before she did real damage.”
They’d laughed and the scar was out of the way.
He studied his deeply tanned, handsome face. There were small creases across the forehead, small lines around the eyes … young Robbie’s eyes. Anyone on Achravie who knew Robbie would recognise them. Time to do something about that.
He reached into the toilet bag and brought out two plastic contact-lens cases. After his first deployment in the Middle East, he recognized that locals, in general, had brown eyes. With his vivid blue eyes, he stood out a mile, no matter what he wore or how bushy his beard became. Simple answer: brown contact lenses. Bingo, instant Arab.
Once again, brown contacts were deployed. He blinked as the lenses settled and smiled. To anyone who’d known Robbie, brown eyes were a better disguise than glasses and a moustache. He showered and went about darkening his hair, again a well-worn road to travel. Fair hair and blue eyes in Afghanistan were dead giveaways; fortunately, both were easily rectified.
He padded to the kitchen, following his nose to the fragrant smell of coffee, and found Big Mac sitting on a bar stool studying a laptop screen. “Mornin’ Mac. I heard Pete leave when I was in the shower.”
“Yeah, he said cheerio and had to fly.” Big Mac smiled at his pun, raised his head to look at his friend, and smiled. “Ah, I see my handsome brown-eyed man has reappeared.”
“I thought it might be a good idea,” Rob said with a hint of embarrassment. “Not many Afghans on Achravie, but plenty of people might remember blond hair and blue eyes like mine.”
“Good thinkin’, Batman,” the man said, waving Rob over to the laptop. “Have a look at these. One I lifted from my CCTV footage from yesterday; the other I Photoshopped from an old photo of us, taken a year into basic training, one night out in Perth.”
Rob stared at the photographs on the screen. During his early years in the regiment, most of his gear had gone AWOL when they were moving barracks. He’d lost most of his personal stuff, like photographs. The difference between the two faces was reassuring, particularly with the colour change in his hair and eyes; he looked totally different from the young Robbie MacLaine that stared back from the laptop screen. Robbie had had fashionably long, curly blond hair when he left Achravie, not the mid-brown crop he now sported. Mid-brown was his colour of choice because dark hair and blond eyebrows looked just as out of place, and the more natural his facial appearance, the better.
“Look at those.” Mac pointed. “Your own brother wouldn’t recognise you, man”
“I was kinda hopin’ that might be the case, Mac, being as I might actually run into him at some stage. Lorna Cameron said Bruce shouldn’t know I was on the island.” He slapped his friend lightly on the back. “Did you check the ferry times for me?”
“Sure did, wee man. There you go.” Mac clicked on an adjacent tab at the top of the screen and bringing up the Blackwaterfoot-Achravie ferry timetable.
“How long’s the drive to the ferry from here?”
“Unless you get stuck behind something agricultural or an armoured Warrior looking for IEDs,” he winked, “I’d give it twenty minutes or so. It’s a good road all the way down.”
“I’ll allow thirty minutes. What have you got for me in the way of wheels?”
“Take one of the Land Rovers. They go like stink, but don’t look that much different to the dozens of other black 110s you’ll pass on the road.” Big Mac pulled a pack of
twenty business cards out of a drawer and tossed them to Rob. “Printed these off for you last night. A few people know these vehicles, so it makes sense that you’re Bob Chapman, my new Senior Instructor. Bob, Rob. Not that different, you could equally react to either. You don’t start till next month, but thought you’d come up early and have a look around. I can’t do you a full legend with passport, drivers licence and so forth, but for a day or two, that should do you.”
“Well done. Hopefully, I won’t need these, but at least I know where to come for a job if I ever need one,” laughed Rob. “There’s a ferry at 10.35, so let’s aim for that one. It says here that it only takes fifteen minutes nowadays. I just need to make a couple of phone calls. Back in a couple of minutes.”
Rob called Joe to give and get updates on a few issues, and then called Justine.
“Justine Fellows,” she answered in a very business-like tone.
“Hi Tina, its Rob. You okay to talk?”
“Thank God you’re safe! I was getting worried.”
“Things got a bit hectic last night, trying to set things up for today, but things are fine. I’m heading down to get the ferry to Achravie in a few minutes, so thought I’d give you a quick ring now,” Rob explained nonchalantly.
“I’m glad you did. Pete said your friend was a really nice guy once he got over his size. Pete says his name is Big Mac … right?”
“Big Mac to his friends. Otherwise, Iain MacDonald. I served with him in Iraq and Afghanistan. We joined the Black Watch at the same time and went through basic training together. He bought the training centre on Arran when he left the military. It was dying on its feet apparently, but Mac worked his magic on it, and it seems to be thriving now.”