Then it was just the rocks, the narrow track down to the pebbles, and the dark sea. The pipe ran out to a raft, a simple platform of a few plastic barrels lashed together. I watched it bob on the swell, recalling the geography from the maps I’d studied back at Faslane a few hours earlier. Our island was sitting in a huge oval bay, and here at Camp Vollum we were up on the north-eastern coast. Staring back at me were the other islands in the bay, guarding the way out to the North Atlantic.
The Summer Isles, they call them – bloody joke as far as I could tell, but I wasn’t laughing. I wondered if these were the same Summer Isles that featured in The Wicker Man, but the weather made it unlikely – apart from the odd human sacrifice, that had looked like a pretty cheery place to live. This, by comparison, was a cold, desolate family of squat brown islands and beyond them, the craggy headland at Polglass and Polbain lost in the mist. Vague pines faded in and out of view as the drizzle constantly remoulded the landscape.
HMS Dauntless was sitting out of sight round the north-western tip of our island, guarding the widest channel between the Opinan headland and Priest Island – guarding against what, no one knew. For the briefest of moments the clouds parted, sharing a watercolour of diamond-encrusted heather twinkling in the sunlight. As I was appreciating the sparkling waves and spectacular landscape, the drizzle started up again, the mist rolled back in, and the sea reverted to churning black.
On the other side of the huts I met a mass of pipes and a chunk of machinery. The large pipe coming in from the sea was coupled to one side, no prizes for guessing this was the pump Marie had pointed out. Scores of smaller yellow hosepipes spewed in all directions, connecting to long hoses trailing off across the grass, creating the grid pattern I’d seen from the hill.
I was about to inspect the hoses when the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I looked up at the huts, straight into a face at the window. It backed away suddenly, melting behind the steamed-up glass, leaving me with a fleeting impression of dark hair, heavy brows, staring eyes. I watched the window for a while but it didn’t reappear.
‘Tyler?’ A muffled shout from the far side, by the door. I jogged to the entrance. Rounding the corner, I almost ran into the back of someone.
Impossible to tell who was in the suit but I knew the voice belonged to the one person I trusted on the island. I tapped her on the shoulder.
Chapter Seven
She jumped a mile, spinning to face me, eyes wide. ‘Jesus Christ!’
‘Well, I am your saviour. I’m guessing you’re Alice?’
‘And you must be John Tyler. I’d expected someone… taller.’
‘We need to have a chat.’
The door opened, another figure emerging.
‘Not here,’ she snapped.
The new person walked down the steps, tall as Dash but minus the girth, stretching Clay’s ‘one size fits all’ comment about the suits as far as it could go, but from the way he walked I could tell it wasn’t fat doing the stretching: he was built like a brick shithouse.
‘John? Thanks for sortin’ us out.’ The accent told me this was the other American on the island, Evan Hurley. He flicked a hand back towards the door. ‘You here for the stiff?’
‘Evan, for fuck’s sake!’ Alice exclaimed.
He held his hands up. ‘Sorry, he was your colleague, right? Gave us the creeps having him in there with us, but he’s bagged and ready for ya.’
I looked past him, at the door I thought he’d propped open with a bin bag. I took a step up, seeing it was much bigger and thicker than a bin bag. It was a body bag.
Chapter Eight
Hurley turned out to be decent company, if a little liberal with the gallows humour.
Fortunately, given the atmosphere I’d encountered so far, I was happy to talk to a real human being. He was all set to help me carry the body down to the sea until I explained the tide was on the turn, the currents too strong for a launch from Dauntless to land here. Instead I explained I’d be meeting the boat down the sheltered southern end of the island, where I’d been deposited. He dug out a wheelbarrow from under the huts, helping me bundle in the morbid bag of Andy Kyle, ready for his last ever trip to the beach. After promising to show me how to lighten Dash of cash at poker later (apparently something of a hobby for Hurley), he and Alice plodded away to continue their work.
The wind had picked up, blowing across the Minch from the Atlantic, adding to my struggle around the low rise to the centre of the island. Being uninhabited, there were no paved paths, just endless mud. I swore aloud time and again as the wheelbarrow skidded, digging in. I cursed Kyle for dying, the cause for my being here, and I cursed him for being overweight, the cause for my aching arms and legs. But at that moment I mostly cursed austerity and the penny-pinching British government; if this was an American-run operation I’d have at least been given a Jeep.
Wellies, washing-up gloves, wheelbarrows. Welcome to twenty-first century Britain.
The skinny tyre bounced on a rock, jumping over the grassy summit. I followed a second behind, sighing with relief as I saw what was left of the island stretching out below. Even on this more sheltered coast the channel we’d crossed from the mainland was livelier, furious dark swells topped with white crests pummelling the rocks at the shoreline. Through the mist and drizzle I made out smoke drifting from the cottage near our helicopter landing site. They had a good fire going, probably cooking breakfast right now, which reminded me of my stomach and a place down past Glencoe that served great stovies.
At the bottom, the coarse grass gave way to rocks. I wheeled down, searching for a place to complete my task. I didn’t know much about the tides or currents, there was a far better reason I’d brought the body here rather than the shore nearest the ship, or that cove near Camp Vollum.
Below was a short drop onto the pebble beach, where I’d be partly hidden from prying eyes. It meant having my back to the sea, but I’d take that risk – I’d heard the approaching outboard easily enough earlier. I instinctively looked at my wrist but my watch was still in my bag. Didn’t make a difference, I had no idea when the message would get through, and when that launch from the ship would be coming to collect the body – I could be waiting hours or minutes. Best crack on; I had things to do before they arrived.
I pushed the wheelbarrow to the edge of the drop then tipped it on one side, dumping the bag onto the beach, wincing as Kyle’s head bounced, though I don’t think he minded.
I pulled the body up into a hollow the tide had washed out, undercutting the land. With another glance, satisfied I was alone, I set to work.
I’ve had no formal medical training. Some basic first aid and a few choice bits learned here and there but I’m certainly no pathologist. Still, I felt compelled to check Kyle’s body for myself before consigning him to the relevant authorities. They’d determine the cause of death soon enough, but how long would that take?
When you’re starting a new job, first thing to do is find out why the previous person left the position. My needs were immediate.
I unzipped the bag, pulling it apart. Kyle had died yesterday morning, less than twenty-four hours ago, but hadn’t been kept refrigerated. Thankfully, sealed in the bag, any flies usually associated with a day-old corpse were absent, but I was glad to be wearing a respirator, a barrier between living and dead.
Still dressed in his protective suit, I could only see the skin of his face. All colour had leeched away, leaving it glowing white, highlighting the stubble on his cheeks. Flecks of vomit crusted his lips and spattered the hood of the suit. Someone had cleaned him up but it was clear he’d puked into his gas mask. I pulled the hood back, revealing the same light stubble on his head. My head itched. If I’d been clever I’d have shaved my hair off for this job, life in the suit would be more bearable.
Rigor mortis wouldn’t wear off for a while, which made it easier to roll the body on one side, then up onto the other. The pale blue suit looked intact and unmarked. Marie had said he must
have had an accident – I’d been puzzled but thought better of asking too many questions so soon after my arrival.
Anthrax isn’t a lightning-fast killer. Marie had explained the differences between the types of death you could look forward to. I reconciled these with the pictures and notes I’d studied during the short briefing, ticking them off in my head.
Pulmonary – he breathed it in. Rare in humans, results in several days of flu-like symptoms followed by respiratory collapse. Usually fatal if it gets that far, but sometimes treatable if it’s caught early. I wasn’t an expert but this seemed to me an unlikely candidate for Kyle’s death, for several reasons. Firstly, there would have been a gas mask between him and the anthrax, which would have had to come off for him to inhale the spores. If he’d knocked off his mask he’d have known about it – ergo, any resulting flu-like symptoms would have been picked up early and he’d have been eating Rice Krispies in a military hospital right now.
Gastrointestinal – rare, usually contracted through eating infected meat. Highly dangerous and a much quicker, surer killer, but again I discounted this for similar reasons. If he’d fallen, knocked his mask, and swallowed a gobful of dirt, he’d certainly have known about it and sought help.
That left the most common and likely form of the disease – cutaneous, which basically means infection through a cut. It’s easier than you’d think – you may have a cut you don’t even know you have, or a scratch you don’t think is serious. So if Kyle was infected through an existing cut, he wouldn’t have known when the infection happened – there’d have been no single ‘event’ or accident to trace it back to. He wouldn’t have needed to fall over, knock off his mask, or eat some dodgy meat; the spores just drifted in on the breeze and fell upon a tiny innocuous break in his skin. To me this seemed by far the most likely explanation, only problem was that Kyle had been wrapped in a protective suit.
Had he skipped a vital part of the decontamination procedure? Skimped on the tape on his cuffs or boots? Regardless, if this was the method by which he’d contracted the disease, there’d be telltale signs. Those coal-black lesions on the skin at the site of infection.
I was about to unzip his suit when something caught my eye – the way the suit creased across his leg as I moved his body. Bending lower I could see it – a tiny slit in the suit just under the right knee. I stuck my finger in and pulled. The flimsy material ripped easily, exposing joggers beneath, with the same slit. Again I hooked a finger through and pulled. A line ran across Kyle’s pale flesh, a deep slice just below his kneecap. The wound was clean but darker than the surrounding skin, puckered where the flesh had shrunk away. No black lesions, nothing to suggest it was out of the ordinary.
Actually, that’s bollocks – it was definitely out of the ordinary. What I mean is nothing suggested the wound had been infected with anthrax.
It was in a likely accident location. I could picture Kyle stumbling, hitting the ground with his knees, catching on something – a branch, a thorn, even a sharp rock. Or falling into the edge of a piece of machinery?
I took some time to remove the rest of his clothes as best I could with his stiff limbs. The skin down the back of his ribs and legs was darker. Hypostasis – the blood had pooled in the lowest points as he’d lain, either on the ground or in the huts. I prodded and pressed, inspecting as best I could. Aside from a Saltire tattoo on his shoulder and some chewed nails, I couldn’t find any other marks on his body.
There was no point re-dressing him. The ship’s doctor would assume he’d been partly undressed prior to sealing him in, so I just bundled the clothes by his feet and zipped the bag back up.
I thought of the scenarios by which Kyle could have acquired the cut, but discounted them all. The cut must have happened yesterday – the suit would have been new on when he’d left the base after breakfast, and the cuts appeared in the same place on the suit, the trousers, and the skin beneath. Still, it was definitely out of the ordinary. I did say I’m no pathologist – but I do know even small cuts bleed.
Unless they happen a fair while after death.
There’d been no bloodstains on his skin or the inside of the joggers. I stood and stared at the body bag, thought about the mounting questions, the lack of answers.
A flash in the corner of my eye, a glint of light on the hillside above, interrupted my thoughts. I tried to focus through the streaked gas mask but the movement was gone. Behind me, over the mainland, a lighter patch of sky proved the sun still existed somewhere above the clouds. I looked at the hill again, wondering what would reflect that sunlight, out amongst the dreary grass and heather.
All I could think of was the eyepiece of a gas mask. Someone had been watching me.
Chapter Nine
I was cold, I was hungry, I hadn’t slept in over thirty hours – this was all pushed into the attic of my mind as I walked back to base.
That the cut had appeared sometime after death was beyond doubt. But was it an accident – the result of rough handling of the body – or something else? There was no corresponding hole in the body bag (I’d checked) so it’s not like it had happened when I’d bundled him around. If deliberate, then why?
As I started down the slope towards the base those thoughts in turn were pushed out by a pale blue figure making their way to the shed. Yet again Clay’s ‘one size fits all’ comment was stretching it in more ways than one, but this could only be Dash. I didn’t fancy getting roped into anything, so I slowed, hoping he’d disappear. Someone else slinked along the side of the base. Dash hadn’t seen them, he was still waddling towards the tool shed as they jogged up behind. I was closer now, could see the newcomer moved like a man. Yellow suit. Too short for Hurley, too tall to be Clay. I thought back to Captain Greenbow’s Cluedo game, process of elimination told me this was Gambetta, the Frenchman I hadn’t yet met.
He must have shouted something, as Dash stopped to turn. Gambetta was angry, gesticulating wildly, stabbing a finger at Dash. I picked up the pace. Dash’s reply clearly wasn’t to his liking as Gambetta responded by shoving him roughly. His weight got the better of him and he splatted heavily in the mud, the Frenchman turning to walk back round the side of the base before he hit the ground. As Dash got to his feet, brushing himself down, he spotted me running over.
‘You okay?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing, you know what these Eurotrash are like. Emotional.’
‘Surely we’ve got enough on without you two—’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plans for him. You’re new, John, you’ll figure everyone out. Hey, mind giving me a hand? Gotta run some checks on the generator.’
I shook my head. ‘I’m heading back inside.’
‘Well, if you’re at a loose end later…’
I flicked a wave, heading back towards the steps, but after checking Dash had disappeared I instead ducked round the side of the huts, following in the direction Gambetta had taken.
I found him round the back, leaning against the second hut. He’d pushed his gas mask up his forehead and was sparking up a cigarette, gazing at the churning sea. It’d been ages since I’d quit, but the island was frying my nerves so much I could have joined him.
I was about to speak when he turned and beat me to it. He took a drag and spat smoke in my direction, eyes narrowing. ‘You are John Tyler, the new technician?’
I didn’t ask who he was or give him the pleasure of letting on I already knew. ‘Taking a risk, aren’t you?’
‘Leave science to the scientists,’ he replied, balancing his Zippo next to a pack of cigs on the windowsill.
My heart was hammering, I clenched my fists to stop them shaking and took a step closer. ‘I don’t pay my taxes for the NHS to treat wankers who can’t wear a mask.’
‘You think the anthrax spores will jump up off the ground? You’re as retarded as they said.’ He flicked the cigarette at my mask, showers of tiny sparks and ash exploding across the visor, then reached up to pocket the lighter and cigs, leaning
back against the hut, one leg propped up on the wall behind him.
My right eye twitched, fuzziness creeping in at the edges of my vision. I swept out with my right foot, hooking it behind his ankle. Before he knew what was happening he was pitched sideways onto the ground.
He rolled away, hastily pulling his mask down, glaring at me as he crawled backwards through the mud. ‘Batarde!’ he shouted. ‘I could have got it on my face!’
I took a step forward, drawing my leg back, ready to smash my boot through his ribs, stopping myself just in time. ‘You touch Dash again and I’ll make sure you do.’
He got to his feet, eyes daggers. ‘Technician is a dangerous job here.’
He almost added something else but thought better of it, glaring, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. Finally he turned, stamping away towards the bluffs.
Clay and Greenbow had been bad enough, but here was a new contender for biggest arsehole on the island. But did that justify my reaction? I watched him go, inhaled deeply, tried to feel my heartbeat, willing it to slow down, using the techniques they’d taught me. When he’d disappeared I turned and walked slowly in the opposite direction, back to the entrance.
As I went through the decontamination ritual I tried to calm myself, putting Gambetta out of mind and instead thinking about my hasty inspection of Andy Kyle’s body, about who could have been watching me. Who else had been outside? I’d no idea where Alice and Hurley had gone. I couldn’t imagine Dash getting back in time without having a heart attack. Unfortunately my thoughts circled back to Gambetta as I decided he was the most likely candidate.
The late-night drive up to the naval base, the dawn briefing, the hellish helicopter flight, the adrenaline comedown – I was dead on my feet. It all caught up with me at once, I took a moment to rest on the bench in the HADU, almost dozing off right there.
Anthrax Island Page 4