by James Blatch
“Mary.” He said it as if he was expecting her. “Come in.” He glanced up and down the road as he ushered her over the threshold.
“Has there been a crash?” she asked as she stepped into the kitchen, crowded with Rob’s colleagues.
“Have you heard from him?” asked Jock MacLeish.
“From Rob? What’s happened, Jock?”
Red stepped forward. “Have a seat, Mary. Jock, get this woman a glass of scotch.”
Jock stood up and offered Mary his chair.
She looked around the grave faces. “What’s happened?”
“We assumed you knew.”
“Knew what? What’s going on, Jock?”
“The details are sketchy, but Rob has commandeered an Anson, flown it god knows where and back, and has been promptly arrested.”
Around her, the men ran through their theories.
Mary listened, bewildered. Something radical had changed. These men, usually so concealed and secretive, were talking freely in front of her and Sarah Brunson.
The room filled with smoke, and Sarah opened some windows.
It dawned on Mary that a secret war had been taking place around them.
First between Millie and Kilton, and then Rob and Kilton.
No-one had discussed it with anyone else.
The men had ignored the signs, but they reserved some blame for Rob. Why had he not enlisted their support? Why had he acted alone?
Her heart ached at the thought of her husband languishing alone in a cell.
She spoke up. “I think the time for keeping secrets is over.”
The voices in the room stopped. All eyes turned toward her.
“Rob found something at Millie’s. After he died. I don’t know the details, of course. But he was frightened. Secret details of a project. He protected Georgina by removing the evidence from the house, but I don’t think he knew what to do next. Then, matters were taken out of our hands, literally.”
“What do you mean?” Red asked.
“The box was stolen. By a young woman. She was in our house when we returned from the dinner party.”
“The night Rob got drunk?”
“He sobered up pretty quickly, I can tell you. He chased her over the fields. But lost her.”
“A young woman?” said Jock. “Are you sure?”
Mary nodded. “He said he recognised her. She was from the peace camp.” She suddenly put her hand to her forehead.
“Oh, bloody hell. Christ, I’ve been an idiot. That’s who it was! I’ve been so stupid not to see it.” She looked around the room. “Some silly woman from the village spotted Rob and a young woman in a pub and she convinced me he was having an affair. But it must have been her. They must have been working on something together. Rob told me it wasn’t what it looked like. A likely story I thought, but now… now I believe him.”
“So who is she?”
“All I know is she goes by the name Susie.”
Mary suddenly felt hot and faint.
“I need some air.”
Sarah rushed to her side, scooped her up, and led her out of the room.
She opened the front door, and Mary stepped into the garden.
“I’ll put some tea on,” Sarah said, and disappeared back into the house.
Mary walked to the small wooden fence, unsteady. Her eyes ran down the uniform row of married quarters. Even in the street light, the grass looked yellowed and thin after the heatwave.
Each lawn had the same dimensions and the same borders cut, with the only variation being the choice of flowers.
Was this outward impression of uniformity and order just an illusion?
Her eyes settled on a car a few doors down.
A red Rover she knew well.
A car she’d last seen outside the bungalow in Totton.
“What on earth?”
She looked up and down the street, searching for Georgina.
A figure stepped out of the shadows.
Mary clutched her chest.
“You scared the life out of me.”
The young woman looked directly at her.
“Mrs May?”
Mary stared back.
“Susie, I presume?”
Susie followed Mary to the kitchen.
“Gentlemen, we have a visitor.”
Mary stepped aside.
Susie took her cue and walked into the small, smoke filled space. The men in uniform parted, their mouths open.
A woman at the sink let a tap overflow into her kettle, apparently unable to take her eyes off her.
“Well, well,” said a man in an American accent.
“You must be Red Brunson?” Susie said.
“And you, my dear, must be the mysterious Susie.”
She surveyed the room: a short, plump man with red cheeks; another who looked a couple of years older than Rob; another who was closer to Millie’s age; three more younger men, one with a classic handlebar moustache.
“Gentlemen, ladies. Mrs May tells me there is discontentment in the TFU ranks? Just so I know, can we all agree that we have a friend in need and a senior officer of dubious method, out of control?”
“I think that about sums it up,” Red said.
“Good. My name is Susie Attenborough. I work for a department of Her Majesty’s government. I can’t tell you any more, so you’ll have to take my word for it. If it helps engender your trust, you might like to know that I was due to meet your colleague Christopher Milford on Saturday 25th June. A meeting he requested to pass on certain information. Subsequently, I have been assisting Robert May to uncover what it was Milford found. Because of his diligence and commitment to his late friend, he is now under arrest, with little prospect of being believed. Unfortunately, we don’t have hard evidence, because Millie ensured it was destroyed to protect others. But we know the results. Under normal circumstances, that would be enough. But in Kilton we’re up against an operator who has been one step ahead throughout this process.
“As it stands, he’s won. Rob will be dealt with harshly. Any credibility will be stripped away. And to make matters worse, I’ve been told by my own superiors to back off.” She gave a grim smile. “I can’t say I’m keen on that idea. So I’ve decided to stay.”
“And do what?” one of the men asked.
“Well, that’s why I’m here.” She looked around, taking in her new partners. “I’m hoping we have the brains and ability in this room to come up with something.”
The men stayed silent for a moment.
“So, who’s with me?”
32
Friday 8th July
Susie groaned. It felt like she’d only dropped onto the bed a few minutes ago.
With an effort, she pulled herself upright and allowed her mind to wake up.
Snatches of conversations came back to her, along with sketchy details of the plan.
Her doubts also returned
It was too complex. There was too much that could go wrong. The outcome was uncertain.
It was 8.05AM. She needed to go shopping.
An hour later, Susie was the first customer of the day at Turner’s department store in Salisbury.
She strode past the sofas and mahogany desks until she reached Ladies’ Wear.
Briefly distracted by the new stock from Mary Quant, she pulled a miniskirt from the rack and held it to her waist.
An elegant, middle-aged woman appeared.
“I can see madam has the figure for the skirt.”
Susie smiled and placed it back on the hangar.
“Thank you, but I don’t think it’s what I need today.”
She turned to look at an area of more conventional clothes, spying a David Windsmoor dress her mother might well have worn.
The assistant followed her gaze. “Is madam shopping for a particular occasion?”
“Yes. A funeral.”
The full length mirror in the hall was cracked, and the dim light from the single bulb above made it barely usab
le. But Georgina managed to draw on a thin layer of eye-liner and a thicker layer of bright red lipstick.
She pulled on her wide brimmed navy hat with a cream trim to match her dress.
Standing back, she noticed how pale her skin looked, accentuated by the lipstick. Or maybe it was the low wattage bulb.
A low wattage bulb in a low wattage house on the edge of nowhere.
How had it come to this so quickly? How could Millie have let her down so badly?
Carrying on with something, gambling with their future.
And losing.
It was such a pleasant Friday afternoon, when Mark Kilton had arrived to take her life away.
A movement behind her. She turned to see Charlie hunting for a piece of mirror to help fit his tie.
She turned and took over the task.
“You look so handsome, darling.”
He grimaced, and didn’t reply.
“Come on, the car will be here in a minute. Let’s be brave together.”
Most of the men arrived into the planning room in their full service dress.
The chat around the tea bar was subdued.
Red Brunson stood on one side of the room and watched Kilton emerge from his office, medals in place.
He looked the picture of authority; a steady rock in the uncertain world of the test pilot.
Red should have known from his time at Edwards that appearances can be deceptive.
Jock MacLeish was hunched over a chart; one of only two pilots in working clothes. They were drawing a line, not on an air chart but on an Ordnance Survey map; the sort of detailed map a walker might use. Red peered at the initial point MacLeish had selected: a crossroads on the A345 three miles south of Amesbury. He nodded his approval and patted Jock on the back, confident he would do Millie proud.
Red felt the men next to him stiffen as Kilton looked over.
“It’s odd now, isn’t it?” MacLeish said quietly to the others. “Looking at him now?”
Red didn’t reply, but he followed Kilton’s progress out of the door.
For good measure, he moved into the entrance area to TFU and watched as the boss got into the back of a black staff car complete with flag.
The car pulled away and turned right, not left toward the main gate.
Puzzled, Red checked his watch. Still two hours until the funeral.
Rob rolled himself off the camp bed and struggled to his feet.
The walls glistened with moisture; the room clearly wasn’t designed to hold a sleeping man. The unventilated, moist air clung to his skin.
A plate of breakfast sat on the table; he had barely moved when the corporal brought it in.
He’d heard nothing following his interrogation.
By the early hours, alone in the silence, any lingering hope vanished.
They’d given him a set of exercise clothes to wear as pyjamas.
They even had his watch; he had no idea what time it was.
They were going to bury Millie without him.
The cell door pushed open; Rob stood up.
“Corporal, please let me go to—” He cut his question short when the corporal stepped aside and ushered in Mary.
He ran forward, like a toddler to his mother. The guard looked startled.
“It’s all right,” said Mary. “I’m here to take you to the church,” she whispered into his ear.
The corporal ushered them both out of the temporary cell.
“There are showers in the gymnasium if you want to use them,” he said. “But you haven’t got long.”
The guard picked up a pile of clothes from a trestle table next to the entrance to the building.
Next to the clothes was a document with a fountain pen on top.
The corporal handed him his dress uniform, and his spirits rose at the thought of Mary retrieving his clothes, back in their home.
There was so much he wanted to say to her. But she backed away, apparently unwilling to have a conversation.
“I’ll wait for you.”
The corporal ushered him out of the building and marched alongside as they walked the short distance to the station gym.
“Is it strictly necessary to guard me to the showers, Corporal?”
“Just my orders, sir. You no longer have a pass to West Porton. You’re a visitor and must be escorted.”
He undressed in the changing room and stood under one of the silver heads in the empty communal showers. He closed his eyes, letting the water flood over him.
He screwed the tap shut. The water became a dribble and then a series of drips. He leaned with one hand on the cold tiled wall. The shower had felt like an oasis, a haven.
He wrenched himself away and stepped out to see Mark Kilton standing in the centre of the room.
Medals gleaming, RAF hat tucked under his arm.
Rob was naked, with water pooling around his feet. Kilton stood between him and his towel and clothes.
“You have a choice, May. Put your signature to the completed project today and I will not prosecute you. We will record nothing that occurred yesterday or in the previous week on your file. You will be transferred to Transport Command and posted to Hong Kong, with Mary. It’s a staff job, but you will retain your General Duties branch status and be available for a flying position in the future. I shall see that you receive a favourable evaluation from your time here.
“You’ll be sipping G&Ts on the veranda in the Far East with all this behind you. And you’ll be free to attend Millie’s funeral, under escort of course.”
“Or?”
“You’ll face a court martial. Your views on the project will be inadmissible under the Official Secrets Act. You will have no defence to a series of detailed charges that include insubordination, unauthorised and unsafe operation of both Royal Air Force and Ministry of Aviation aircraft, and breach of the Official Secrets Act. We are also considering a charge of treason. Either way, the sentence for your inevitable conviction will be around twenty-five years in prison. Oh, and by the way, Guiding Light will be in full service regardless of your choice, of course.”
“Then why do you need my signature?”
“I don’t.”
Rob stood in silence. The only power he had over Kilton was to make him wait for an answer.
He walked past the boss to his towel and wrapped it around his waist.
“8.75.”
“What?” said Kilton, irritated.
“8.75. That was the conclusion Millie reached after the analysis. 8.75 aircrew every year.”
Kilton’s expression didn’t change.
“I’m interested. What was your figure? After all, you had a lot more data to go on than we did.”
“May, either sign the document and attend Millie’s funeral, or refuse, and you’ll be back in your cell while we arrange the charges. The choice is yours.”
Rob stared at Kilton, impassive.
Kilton turned on his heels. “I’m not playing your games. The papers are at the police station. The corporal will escort you.”
A polished boot rose into the air and came down with a crunch on the gravelled church path. Sergeant Nigel Woodward’s steps moved in unison with those of his fellow pallbearers.
Like many of the TFU NCO’s, he had volunteered immediately to carry Squadron Leader Milford’s coffin. With shining buttons and medals in place, he did his duty with as much precision as he could muster.
Ahead, the vicar waited, white surplice flowing in the gentle breeze.
They reached the door and paused.
Following some unseen communication, the organist began to play ‘Abide With Me’.
They marched into the church with slow, measured steps.
Every pew was full. Uniformed men, and women with large hats stood, facing forward as the pallbearers turned into the aisle and continued to the side of the pulpit.
Two wooden stands, ready for them.
After reaching the front, they began their choreographed routine to lower t
he coffin from their shoulders to its temporary resting place.
Woodward glanced at the others and, with a barely perceived nod, they turned in unison to face back down the aisle.
The pallbearers marched to the back of the church and joined the mourners who had arrived too late for a seat.
An elderly gentleman appeared and pressed an order of service into the vicar’s hands.
They had not allowed Rob time alone with Mary. She sat alongside him in the back of a plain RAF car, accompanied by a police sergeant in the passenger seat.
The slow draw of his signature on the papers had felt like the final betrayal.
Everything that followed was demeaning.
Stripped of his security papers, Rob was officially not welcome at RAF West Porton. The only exception was that he could attend the wake in the officers’ mess as a guest. But they would escort him on and off the station.
They arrived late at the church, but a space had been saved in the second pew, directly behind Georgina and Charlie.
As they walked down the aisle, Rob gazed at the ground, unable to make eye contact with anyone else.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he hissed at Mary. “What will they think of me?”
The only face he caught as he shuffled into the pew was Kilton’s. Two rows back, eyes staring straight ahead.
The victor picking over the bones of the vanquished.
He took his seat. Mary bowed her head and appeared to be praying.
He thought of Millie. An image came into his mind: Millie with Belkin, poring over statistics.
All that work he had completed alone.
How different would it have been if they’d collaborated?
He imagined the two of them meeting with Susie, explaining what they had found and planning the gathering of further evidence.
That is not what happened.
There had been no meeting with Susie.
There was no usable evidence.
There would be no cavalry charge from MI5. He was certain of that now.
She would be back in London; on to her next task.
He studied the order of service.