Nia attempted to console herself in the knowledge that even though she had overreacted, as all her relationships crashed into bitter ends, that it was better to end this one sooner rather than the inevitable later. She would convince herself that she was right, that she was okay, and then she’d be overwhelmed. Nia felt herself spiralling into a depression but didn’t have the strength nor the will to stop and pull herself out.
The MI5 deputy director was true to her word and requested Nia’s presence for a debrief at Thames House. Nia was significantly intimidated to receive a summons to the shadowy security service’s headquarters, although she wouldn’t have admitted her apprehension to anyone but Tom. Tom. Even his name, his face in her mind’s eye, made the pain a blunt and bitter reality. She questioned herself again about her actions; why had she impetuously walked away? He had lied to her, she thought, but she had lied, by omission, to him. Her thinking got stuck in a mobius ring of recriminations and second guessing. Tom had made her happy, yes, but she didn’t deserve happiness. He was a nice person and she wasn’t. She hadn’t answered Tom’s phone calls and responded to his texts with a curt “Not ready to talk yet.”
At Thames House, Nia sat in a spartan private waiting room deep in the building’s bowels. She was wearing a stylish navy suit, and a pearl silk blouse, the kind of outfit someone would wear for a middle management job interview at a corporate headquarters. A visitor’s badge on a lanyard hung around her neck. She wasn’t sure why she had dressed as she had but wanted to project a sense of her own authority. It wasn’t working. She had already been intimidated by the establishment types that had stepped into the affray on the aqueduct and who had then controlled the aftermath. She knew they moved people, including Tom and herself, around as if they had infinite power and authority. She had already signed a copy of the Official Secrets Act at the Wrexham hospital, but an officious receptionist reminded her that she wouldn’t be able to discuss the events with anyone, ever.
An establishment type, and a young south Asian woman entered the room. Nia recognised the establishment woman who sat at the plain table across from Nia as the woman who was clearly in charge in North Wales. The south Asian woman, who didn’t introduce herself, took a seat against the wall and appeared to make notes in a file.
“Ms Williams,” the rather posh voice said. “I’m Deputy Director Davies. We met briefly at the hospital in Wrexham but I’m sure that was probably a blur for you. I’m hoping that you’re feeling better about things now.”
Nia looked at the DD and saw a hint of genuine concern in the older woman’s eyes.
“I’d like to thank you for coming in today,” the DD continued. “I know this isn’t easy but it won’t take long, just a few clarifying questions to ask.”
Nia nodded.
“Obviously, everything we discuss is covered by the Official Secrets Act and you may have realised that we issued a ‘D Notice’ denying the press the option of reporting on the events. As far as the public is concerned, some Russian tourists had perished in a terrible barge mishap. Such things are rare on our canals, but they do happen.”
“Narrowboat, not barge,” Nia corrected reflexively.
“Quite,” the DD responded.
Nia simply stared at the DD. The DD waited for Nia to say something else then proceeded to go through what seemed to Nia a perfunctory set of questions around dates and times, trip details, whats and wheres. Nia answered seemingly satisfactorily. The DD smiled and nodded to the south Asian woman who closed the file, both collected themselves as if to leave.
“How’s Major Price doing?” the DD asked.
Nia’s stomach churned. She knew that her expression couldn’t disguise her pain, which was palpable.
“I don’t know. I haven’t been in contact with him,’ Nia answered. She noticed the DD’s expression show a little surprise.
“He wasn’t the man I thought he was. He lied to me. He brought violence and death into my life,” she added defiantly.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” the DD said with a sly smile and looking Nia straight in the eye. “Actually, Ms Williams, when you think about it, it could be said that it was the other way around. Wasn’t Zalkind/Kamenev made aware of Major Price at one of your events? We believe it was a press photo of the two of you, Major Price and you together at the BFI that led to Kamenev operationalising his vendetta. And then, it was you who Kamenev followed to the Llangollen canal. Quite frankly, he used you to get to Major Price.”
Nia felt shaken.
“So,” the DD continued, smiling falsely again. “In some way, it was you who brought pain and death back into Major Price’s life. And God knows that poor man has had enough of that.”
Nia looked down, her eyes welled, and tears began to fall onto her shoes and the floor.
“What have I done?” Nia asked herself. She looked into the DD’s eyes searching for an answer, for something that would make the regret and hurt go away, something to give her hope.
“Additionally,” the DD continued. “The Russian agent we arrested in Kamenev’s narrowboat, the one Major Price wounded, was rather forthcoming during our… interrogation. His information has been vital for our national security. So, you see, Ms Williams, although this whole bloody mess has been one monumental cock-up, we actually have some positive results. You and Major Price actually helped us save the life of an innocent young woman, an incredibly brave Russian journalist, and we appear to have broken up, would you believe it, an international assassination ring.”
Nia moaned audibly. She looked over to the south Asian woman, who immediately looked down to her tablet and typed in some notes, and then to the DD. Nia thought the DD smiled matronly back at her.
“Ms Williams, perhaps, you should talk to Major Price,” the DD said softly. “You have both shared a terrible experience. It would be helpful, for you both, to talk through it. Instead of pushing you apart, it should bring you together. So, maybe, you should give him a chance Ms Williams, I know he’s a good man.”
The DD nodded to Patel and they left the small room with Nia still seated inside sobbing gently to herself. The DD asked an assistant seated outside of the room to get Nia a coffee but to first give her a few minutes to cry it out and compose herself.
The DD turned with Patel and they moved up the corridor and on to a lift.
“You didn’t mention that this all started out as Gagnon and Price’s muddleheaded revenge scheme,” Patel said after the lift doors closed.
“Well yes, but I chose not to. Why complicate things when there’s really no need for her to know more than she already does. She really was pivotal in all this you see. If Ms Williams hadn’t gone to the BFI event, Price and Kamenev wouldn’t have come into contact, Jacques Gagnon wouldn’t have gone all Rambo in the streets of London, and three Russians wouldn’t be in the morgue, and I wouldn’t have a ton of difficult paperwork on my desk to deal with. But that journalist, Kirov, may have been disappeared or found dead under some mysterious circumstances. As far as Ms Williams and Major Price are concerned, their part in this clusterfuck is all over. It’s best that they move on, together I think.”
Patel faced the DD with questioning eyes, “And that last piece of advice to Ms Williams?”
“Ahh, that was just part of the service,” the DD answered. “The things we do for love.”
“Really, ma’am?” Patel couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice.
The DD faced Patel, “You ever been in love Patel, real love?”
“I-I don’t know,” Patel stammered a little embarrassed.
“Then you haven’t,” the DD said. “I have friends who have been married twenty years or more who don’t have half the connection I saw Price and Williams have. I hope she stops being silly about it.”
The lift stopped and the DD nodded a goodbye to Patel as she got out of the elevator. The DD crossed the busy floor, cubicles buzzing with activity, and closed the door to her office quietly. She stood for a moment in front
of her office window that overlooked the hive of activity across the analysts and communications officers’ section. They were always busy and getting busier. The DD felt the fatigue of her responsibility. The domestic threat web continued to expand almost exponentially; jihadists sneaking home after the fall of the Caliphate, the SVR, FSB and the GRU treating London as if it were a St Petersburg Saturday night, the Real IRA sharpening swords, all along with the usual suspects of home-grown threats.
The DD flipped a wall switch that turned her office glass opaque then sat in silence for a moment. She booted up her computer and Tom’s file appeared on one of her monitors while Nia’s appeared on another. The DD liked these two people. In a different time, a different life, she thought, she could have imagined meeting them at a dinner party. She so very much wanted them to be happy, to be happy together. But, she thought, I have a man of action, bruised and battered, but someone who can still operate to the highest level of professionalism and someone adept at assuming the roles and personas of others. Together, they’d be a great team, a great MI5 asset. The DD clicked her mouse and saved the files to a desktop folder she had labelled ‘future prospects’. She sighed. “Done… done for now Ms Williams,” she whispered to herself. The DD moved her mouse and brought up a minute-by-minute review of how her team was doing in a Europa League match. She smiled; they were winning.
***
Llangollen Canal, Two Days Later
Engine compartment checked, Tom gingerly lowered the cover, difficult with only one good arm. He pressed the start button and the engine coughed into life. Tom went back into the cabin to let the engine warm up. The shoulder ached as he took his arm out of the sling. The physical pain that shot through his body was a welcome relief from the deep, emotional pain that gnawed away at his core.
He removed the sling and threw it on the little cabinet that stood at the foot of the bed. The sling landed next to two small framed pictures. There was a framed photo of Nia, laughing in the snow, on the morning after their first night together. Next to it was the photo of him as a young platoon leader in Afghanistan surrounded by twenty-five servicemen and women. All were smiling. His air pods lay on the cabinet unused; there was no playlist to assuage this pain. The oft-read letter Nia had written from the inn in Brecon, which professed undying love, lay under the air pods.
“Okay Jack,” Tom shouted. “Morning piddle.”
***
The black Porsche Carrera snaked through the narrow country lanes as smoothly as if it was a slot car racer. The driver changed gears effortlessly and well. The engine responded to the subtle press on the accelerator, the large disc brakes slowing the car down when the driver’s phone beeped with a speed camera alert. The Porsche pulled into the scenic overlook and stopped abruptly, skidding ever so slightly on some loose grit. The valley spread out below like a quilt. Frost glittered. To the right, across the valley and up on the hill, a castle’s sandstone walls reflected the morning sun back across the valley. The silence could almost be felt. The Porsche’s driver stepped out and observed the canal below through small binoculars. The watcher was patient and, eventually, patience was rewarded as a narrowboat emerged from the woods that shielded the canal down to the watcher’s right. The watcher changed the binocular’s optics and zoomed in onto the narrowboat. There, on the bow, a happy dog wagged its tail, barking at something in the water or on the unseen towpath. The watcher then moved the gaze down the boat’s polished green paintwork to the man at the tiller. It was Tom. The watcher smiled involuntarily.
“Gotcha!” she said as she lowered the binoculars. Nia let out a sigh. “Oh, thank God,” she said out loud as her heart pounded in her chest. She raised her binoculars again and watched Tom. Nia thought he looked older and fatigued and her stomach hollowed. He was pale, had dark circles under his eyes, and wore a scruffy beard and she noticed that he occasionally grimaced as he pushed or pulled the tiller. She observed him until the Periwinkle moved behind a canal-side copse of trees and she could see the boat and Tom no more.
Nia was relieved she had found him. Earlier that morning, she had stopped at Periwinkle’s home marina and the staff were reticent in sharing any information with her until one of the grounds’ crew recognised her. He thought Tom was heading for a slow trip to Ellesmere and an overnight at the wharf there. Nia had followed the road that ran roughly parallel to the canal’s meandering path, stopping at overlooks and the occasional bridge to see if she could find the Periwinkle. Now that she knew where the boat was and where it was heading, she returned to the Porsche and settled back into the deep, leather bucket seat. She pushed the start button and the three-litre, flat-six inter-cooled engine fired into throaty life. The car’s media centre blinked on. She used the on-screen commands to move to playlists and found the playlist she had labelled ‘Boat Songs’. Elvis Costello’s ‘Shipbuilding’ began to play. Ironic she thought. Nia gunned the motor and whipped the car around the overlook’s lay-by. The Porsche’s nineteen-inch wheels sent arcs of gravel flying, and then the car headed back out on to the main road.
On the canal, Tom positioned the Periwinkle to go under another bridge. Although scores of bridges traversed the canal, he never tired of them. They were obvious and gentle reminders of the history of the changing nature of canal life and landforms. Tom slowed the elegant narrowboat, the engine so quiet that the boat appeared to almost glide along the canal, slightly faster than the ducks and geese who occasionally swam alongside. The brick bridge approached and Tom felt the connection with the bargees of another era who would have gone through the same routine umpteen times a day. He gently leant on the tiller and looked to the towpath to his left. On such a quiet day he could imagine a boy guiding the boat horse along the towpath and hear the hooves click and clap as the horse walked on the brick pathway under the bridge. He wondered whether his Victorian narrowboat kin ever took the time to stop and behold each tree and field that was presented for viewing.
The Periwinkle nosed under the brick bridge. The bridge had remained relatively unchanged since the day it was completed one hundred and fifty years before apart from where the generations of ropes that once connected horses to canal boats had worn smooth and deep grooves into the masonry. Once these bridges connected neighbours’ farms, provided paths to church on Sunday, or eased the shipment of goods to the nearest village for market day. Tom felt a sense of melancholy knowing most of the bridges, were now bridges to nowhere. As the Periwinkle emerged from under the bridge, Tom noticed that no footpaths remained leading up to or down from either side of the bridge, that it was no longer walked or ridden over. Yet, it still stood, a testament to its simple design and quality craftsmanship. He thought about pulling to the canal side, mooring up temporarily, and taking Jack for a walk up and over the bridge but it would be a pointless and futile gesture. He thought of Nia and whether more attempts to call and text her would be as futile.
Tom pushed the engine control forward increasing the revs and the Periwinkle responded by moving a bit faster. Tom checked the stern of the boat to make sure he wasn’t causing too much of a wake. He rounded a long and gentle bend as the Cheshire countryside gently sloped upwards to his left. An hour later, he approached the entrance of the wharf. Tom pushed the tiller to the left and steered the Periwinkle into the right-hand side of the canal. He then swung the tiller far right to bring the forty-eight-foot narrowboat around to make the sharp left turn. He normally liked the meandering nature of the canal as it cut its way gently following the imperceptible contours of the Cheshire and Shropshire countryside. His heart ached at the memory of the last time he had travelled on this part of the canal with Nia in the boat, with Nia in his life.
Tom was nauseated at the emptiness he felt knowing that, without Nia, his life would never be as vital, as bright, and as fun as he once, prematurely, thought it was going to be. He would be like the brick bridges he frequently passed; sturdy, resilient, fit-for-purpose, but forgotten, lost and unloved. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he said to himsel
f trying to snap himself out of his unhealthy reverie. Tom squared his shoulders, he would just have to get on with it. He knew he would love Nia always and he knew that the pain he felt at her leaving would now follow him forever. He would be as emotionally broken as his right leg was physically. Yet he wasn’t sorry that he had met her, for the last few months burned with a light and an energy and a fervour that he would savour always. It was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Yeah, he told himself, not really a comfort at the moment.
Jack’s barking from the bow brought Tom back to the present. He stretched to see over the boat’s length as to what had caught Jack’s attention. There, up ahead, on the wrought iron bridge that spanned the canal was a solitary figure. The Periwinkle nosed into the marina’s channel and Tom brought the revs down and the boat slowed to walking pace. He looked at the figure as the bridge inexorably approached. Jack ran through the boat’s cabin and joined Tom on the stern deck. Tom could see that the figure was female and leaning with her arms on the bridge’s balustrade. His pulse quickened. He was sure it was Nia, but he swallowed that thought in fear of disappointment. The woman wore a green, waxed coat, tight jeans, red bobble hat and a blue and white scarf. A small overnight bag lay at her feet. She removed her hat and her thick hair whipped in the wind just as the boat nosed under the bridge. She waved down at Jack and Tom. It was Nia. Jack barked in recognition; Tom sat on the deck fence staring up at Nia. She stared down, cupped her hands around her mouth. “I love you,” she shouted as the Periwinkle’s stern went under the bridge.
Tom steered the narrowboat towards the canal’s side. He put the engine into reverse to quickly stop the boat’s forward momentum. He stepped off and quickly tied the boat to a mooring ring only by the centre line. Nia had walked off the bridge and down to the towpath. She dropped her overnight grip and ran towards Tom and into his arms. She was cold and she was crying.
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