Lessons In Blood

by Quentin Black

  The alcohol abuse provided him with its blissful dullness, numbing him to the unfairness of life. He finally lost his house, and without the support of his friends ended up on the streets. He had remained there for months.

  Out of the darkness had come a lifeline.

  Patrick Jaegar was a French climber with whom Ryan had often been compared. They had in the past taken various snipes at one another through multiple climbing publications and online over the years. Despite this, Jaegar had settled in London and sought out Ryan. He had a proposition for him.

  ‘Connect bionics’ was one of the world’s most advanced prosthetic limb companies. They wanted Ryan to be the face of their new trans-radial climbing arm and to promote it all over the world. When Ryan explained that he was homeless, Jaegar had provided him with a key to his flat until the Connect Bionics came through.

  Ryan had wept at the lifeline offered to him by his one-time rival.

  Although still in the dark forest of depression, the trees were sparser now, and he could see a clearing in the distance. They’d pay him to climb again. He wasn’t sure why he was sitting by the canal now? As a goodbye maybe. He knew he’d never return to the gambling or alcoholism again.

  Bruce sat across from the formidable looking MI6 Head Miles Parker.

  Parker towered over Bruce, himself a tall man, and even the rimless glasses didn’t prevent the bald, still physically solid intelligence chief being intimidating to some, especially with a manner that could be frequently abrupt . The Scotsman knew that Parker’s bearing towards him was significantly more mellow, and had been for a couple of years now. Their relationship hadn’t always been cordial, after an explosive meeting years before between the two men in addition to two others.

  They were meeting in the fortification that was Vauxhall Cross. The SIS Headquarters had always reminded Bruce of the modern day carnation of a castle. The Thames bathed the front and left side of it like a moat.

  Parker’s office contrasted with most of the other offices in the HQ, in its traditionalism. Over Parker’s oak desk hung a portrait of Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius with a quote inscribed in Latin. Bruce knew the translation to be, ‘The art of living is more like wrestling than dancing’.

  Indeed Bruce, in his new advisory role, had visited Vauxhall Cross many more times in the past year than in the previous fifteen as head of The Chameleon Project.

  “I wanted to thank you,” Parker began. “Nathan Callaghan has been found dead in his shower and disaster had been averted.”

  Bruce nodded. “Any suspicion of foul-play?”

  “I don’t think so. The PSNI are blaming it on ill-fitted electrics in the shower unit. Besides, the new Northern Irish Assembly convenes tonight so essentially the window is closed for now.”

  There was a few moments of silence, before Parker spoke again, “You know, I am not sure how much time I have in this position, and I wonder if a man like you, with your background and dedication would be willing to take up this position in the future.”

  Bruce’s lips barely parted for a split second. This was one of the few times Parker had surprised him.

  “Being in the position I am in now allows me to accomplish my goals in a way that being in your position wouldn’t.”

  Parker squinted. “And what goals are they?”

  “Protecting good people who cannot protect themselves.”

  “I am puzzled. This is MI6, our existence revolves around protecting national security?”

  “Miles, the security services allegiance is to the crown not necessarily the people. I value the freedom of movement I have.”

  “I understand,” said Parker, “but the thought must of occurred to you that my replacement might not be as accommodating to your overseeing a black operations unit almost entirely off the books. Leaders like control.”

  Bruce had thought of this. He knew Kevin O’Hara would be in line for the post, and the Scotsman had already began the process of both making that a certainty and securing the younger man’s allegiance.

  “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  “Well I am surprised. There’s many men for whom this position would be the ultimate, and here you are expressing no interest. Have you always been a crusader?”

  Bruce’s smiled at the man’s probing, “I know what it’s like to be helpless as a good person is taken away. If I can prevent that happening to others, I will.”

  The two men stared at one another before Parker rose and held out a gorilla-like palm. As Bruce shook it, the Englishman said, “Godspeed Bruce.”

  A lot of thoughts jockeyed for position in Ryan Matthews mind as he watched the gentle flow of the canal. The ones that came to the forefront were the ones centred on how he would pay everyone that he had hurt and let down over these past few years. Friends and family; his poor sister Catherine had always been there for him. Eventually he had resented her attempts to aid him, and he now felt a cringing shame when recalling the screaming fits he would throw inside her own house. He eventually left and completely withdrew from her. He’d make the drive in the morning to see her and apologise.

  Then there were his friends—mostly through the climbing world—some of whom had loved him, and some of whom had looked up to him. He had lost all that through his borrowing and subsequent inability to pay them back. The thing that really shamed him, was that most hadn’t even wanted their money back; it was the pity in their eyes that he couldn’t stand. He’d make amends both financially and personally to those people. ‘Connect Bionics’ were to give him an advance and Ryan would gladly use it to pay everyone back at least a substantial part of what he owed them.

  He then stared in bewilderment as to why he thought coming back to the canal to drink would be a good idea—you say goodbye to lost relatives, not a damn canal.

  He emptied the bottle on the grass beside him, and began to prepare himself to leave when he heard the clicking footsteps before looking at the black shoes and trousers coming his way. Three tall, faceless policemen stopped in front of him.

  “Sir, you have been suspected of violating the 1824 Vagrancy Act, and of theft under the section seven act. You do not have to say anything. But, it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

  Ryan was stunned for a few moments.

  “Come on Sir,” said one of the officers reaching down for him.

  “Is this a joke? This is outrageous.” And when the policeman attempted to grasp him as he began to stand, he snapped, “ I am perfectly capable of getting up.”

  “Please come with us, sir.”

  “What have I meant to have stolen?”

  “Food from Magee’s restaurant.”

  “I have never set foot in a restaurant named Magees, and even if I had, I have never stolen in my life.”

  “In that case, you have nothing to worry about then. This way please sir.”

  He felt a surrealism but began to follow one of the officers. The others followed behind.

  Ryan felt a twin dose of confusion and outrage as the officers shadowed him.

  “It takes three police officers to investigate a vagrant stealing food, if that’s what you believe I am and have done?”

  “You can tell us your story down at the station Mr Matthews.”

  “I will. I can’t wait to see what apparent ‘evidence’ you have and for my solicitor to tear it to pieces. I haven’t stolen anything in my life.”

  “A man who spends his days drinking beside a canal is unlikely to have a solicitor. Be that as it may, we will provide you one down at the station.”

  Ryan fought the urge to educate them on his climbing achievements—he wouldn’t lower himself.

  “I was homeless for a while, but I am not anymore.”

  “Yes,” replied one of the officers in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “I prefer a cheap vodka by the canal on a Friday night.”

  Ryan f
ound himself at a loss for words.

  “I have not stolen any food,” said Ryan now exasperated, “and how far are we fucking walking?”

  The question went unanswered as the officers rounded the corner into a dimly lit car park. A large, tall blond haired man in jeans and a jacket, came off the white van he was leaning against and walked over. The van was the only vehicle parked.

  The man spoke, “Welcome Mr Matthews.”

  Matthews shook his head in confusion. The man’s accent sounded Australian—no, South African. Then it dawned on him.

  “Wait, you’re not the poli—”

  The heavy truncheon to the back of the head took Ryan Matthews consciousness mid-sentence.

  The cavernous applause of three-hundred students doused Janet Quigley.

  She stood on the podium with a painted on smile. This was her twenty-first University guest lecture—her smile had been genuine in her first handful of speeches. There was only so many variations she could put on the same theme, in this case, that of organ donation. She had greater admiration for stand-up comedians now. Knowing what lines would elicit what responses, had caused her interest to wane, she admonished herself—the objective is to raise awareness, not to be tickled by the approval of strangers.

  However, she knew most of the people that listened to her lecture wouldn’t even give it a second thought by the end of the day, let alone donate or volunteer.

  She inwardly groaned as the ruddy-faced, tweed-jacketed Professor Morby bounded onto the stage. He turned and addressed her and the audience. He stood next to her placing his hand on her back.

  “Doctor Quigley—Ms Quigley rather, we are not American,”—he paused as the students chortled, “I would like to thank you on behalf of the University for gracing us with your presence, and your lecture was as rousing, and it was enlightening.”

  “Thank you all for having me,” her smile still holding up. She stood a couple of inches taller than him.

  His hand gave her back a subtle window cleaning rub before removing it and setting off another applause. After a polite period, the students began to file out.

  “Truly marvellous Ms Quigely, splendid.”

  “Thank you again for inviting me,” she replied.

  “Nonsense, no need to thank me. Dinner tonight will suffice,” his smile stretching his face. She winced inwardly.

  “I am afraid I can’t, I have—”

  “Nonsense,” he interrupted, “I won’t take no for an answer.”

  Her smile dropped, and she looked into his eyes, “Oh yes you will Mr Morby.”

  The disappearance of his smile mirrored hers. His reply came out spluttering, “Well, it was merely a friendly invite. I am a happily—”

  “Good day to you sir,” and she brushed past his reddening face.

  14

  Bruce made the long drive to his apartment back from the latest meeting with Miles Parker.

  Parker had been the only person in MI6 history to hold the position of chief twice. The Scotsman’s relationship with the MI6 head had a chequered history, to say the least.

  Bruce first met Parker in 2003, when he was a year into his first stint as chief. Bruce had reported to Parker, Walter Morris—the then MI5 chief—and Henry Costner. At first, he needed them for funding, intelligence and to provide him with some semblance of an umbrella, given The Chameleon Project’s deniability.

  He knew the writing was on the wall since the unit’s inception. Despite all the care and attention to the way it went about its business, The Project would eventually turn itself into a political liability for one, two or all three men he answered to. It would not have been long until E-Squadron, (the UKSF handpicked operatives that worked for MI6)—back then known as ‘The Increment’—would have come knocking.

  A similar type of unit to The Chameleon Project would eventually be generated, and so the cycle would continue. However, the next group would have to begin from scratch which was inefficient at best.

  To pre-empt this from happening, Bruce began to collate information on a few people who had the power to threaten his unit, not least the trio that he had reported to.

  No one gets to be Chief of SIS without being involved in events that would at least cause embarrassment and perhaps even imprisonment if they became public.

  Jamie managed to uncover evidence of some dirty secrets. Miles Parker had been heavily involved in ensuring Dr Hastings Banda remained the president-for-life of British friendly Malawi. Some of the acts he committed in order to make the President’s tenure certain would ensure his vilification if reported to certain media outlets—especially social media.

  Bruce had presented Parker with his findings during a highly charged meeting at Vauxhall Cross. In the same forum, he had also presented Henry Costner evidence against him of shenanigans that, although more embarrassing than criminal, would have still led him losing his lofty position within the English political elite.

  It had been the first time Bruce had met Roger Stanton, Walter Morris’s replacement as head of MI5.

  After an extended stand-off period, Miles Parker became Bruce’s most powerful ally. Although they may never be friends, Bruce felt they respected one another.

  Today, Parker had thanked him for guiding O’Hara towards the best course of action.

  Bruce lamented how well he had taken to his new advisory role. In truth, it had been long overdue, and the bullet to the kneecap had possibly been a blessing.

  Now that Bruce was in a more hands-off role, he could think about a more settled life; travelling for leisure, hobbies, visiting his nieces more. Maybe a settled relationship that lasted more than a few dates.

  His phone rang. It caused a kick of surprise and pleasure when he saw Janet Quigley’s name flash over the display.

  Ciara sat across from Connor in the warm atmosphere. She felt herself looking at him differently. Watching the visceral ruthlessness mixed with a clinical efficiency of his fighting had sparked something within her.

  At the time, she saw the paralysing of his victim as an act of gratuitous spite—until he explained his reasoning. She saw the affection that Jan had shown him, and his warmth towards the old lady.

  He had an unvarnished way of speaking, which could have been mistaken for uncouth, temporarily hiding the sharpness of mind.

  She’d had never given him a second look in a bar. His height fell an inch or so short of her minimum requirement of six feet, and his hair being a light brown near blond rather than her preferred black.

  There was something about him though.

  “So, our cover story?” asked Ciara.

  “OK. You can’t play the ‘kept in the dark’ girlfriend. It would be a waste of your talents.”

  “What are my talents?”

  He said, “You handled the only dangerous situation we have been in together well. Although, that could have gone horribly wrong.”

  “In what way?”

  “I’d just left a session where I’d been rolling around with a load of able-bodied men.“

  “I am not above criticism, but choosing a perfect place for your own ambush wasn’t smart.”

  “I’ll take that. Still.”

  “You were worried you’d lose?”

  He shrugged, “Then what would you have done?”

  “I’d have shot them all. Can’t be having live witnesses to a murder can we.”

  She knew she would have had to.

  When his enquiring eyes met hers, he said, “I believe you. I know you’re not shy about killing baddies.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “The gaffer told me.”

  “He told you what exactly?”

  “He told me that you were attempting to come on to your mum’s boyfriend. He calmly explained that he loved your mother, that you were being hormonal and saw you as a daughter. That’s when you then killed him in a fit of rage for spurning your advances—a woman scorned eh.”

  She felt a jolt of incomprehension before rea
lising he was teasing.

  “Possibly not something to joke about with a woman you barely know.”

  “I took a risk,” he said. “Note to self: attack on mother and the subsequent slaying of her attempted rapist is not a source of humour.”

  “Wow, just wow,” she said, unsure how to feel about his flippancy towards it. She was surprised that a smile was threatening to break out on her lips.

  “I jest of course,” he said. “You prevented a bad person doing a bad thing.”

  “And I’d do it again.”

  “I know you would. All jokes aside, the day I heard the story of your mother’s potential rape and the subsequent bloodletting, I thought about it that very same night. And to be honest, even I found it difficult to masturbate to,” he said, with his face impassive.

  Ciara was stunned for a moment. She hadn’t encountered such a ‘sense of humour’ before, not even in the Thai Boxing gyms she had frequented. The University graduate guessed it could only really thrive in an all-male environment like the Marines. She was almost as surprised by her not being offended at the comment—must be the way he delivered it.

  “What sort of reaction do you normally get when you say things like that?”

  “It can be mixed,” he said, tilting his head for a second.

  “I hear the Marines have opened their doors to women joining?”

  Connor simply shrugged. “Nothing to do with me. I left a while ago.”

  “Do you think it’s a good thing or bad?”

  “Depends.”

  “Come on then, it’s like pulling teeth here.”

  “In theory, I don’t have a problem with it, if a bird—a girl rather—can pass the eight-month course then good on her, but there won’t be many that can. And when there’s so few being passed out, then some politician is going to make it an issue, and then the officers are going to put pressure on the training teams to lower the standards, or least have the Corps accused of sexism and risk having its funding cut as a result. It might not matter, we might never fight a conventional war again, but our special forces will always be busy, and they rely heavily on the Corps for its recruitment. You have me ranting now.”