A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

  He smiled at the memories.

  He made his way down a grassy slope to dark jagged rocks. Only feet away, two seals lounged near the water. One eyed him lazily as he made his way carefully to a tiny outcrop of rock where he found a boulder flat enough to sit on.

  The day was bright and sunny, with hardly any wind. He stared into the clear water, watching the strands of kelp and bladderwrack twist and sway gently on the ebb of the tide. One of the seals waddled across the rocks then slipped gracefully into the water with barely a sound.

  He remembered the story that his mother used to tell of these creatures, who stole children and took their place. They could only be recognised for what they truly were if they swam in the sea.

  You watch out, now. The boy who won’t swim is one of the seal children.

  He could see her earnest face as she warned them. He also recalled pitching reluctant swimmers into the waves, just to make sure they were ordinary little girls and boys. Though he nearly drowned a few of his classmates, he never found a seal child.

  Maybe that’s what I am? He pondered this question as he stared at the green coast across the water. Was he a shapeshifter, existing in a foreign skin, far away from the place that he knew was home? True, in a way. He wondered whether, if he jumped into the clear cold water in front of him, he’d return to the skinny Belfast boy he’d once been, rather than the rich fat American he’d now become.

  But dreams and stories were just the same: they always ended in the grey wash of harsh reality. Whether it was the first fluttering of the waking eye, or the last chapter of the book, everything came down to the here and now.

  He knew who he was, and he knew what he wanted to do.

  He took one last look at the coast of County Antrim and made his way carefully back across the jagged rocks and back up the ragged rise.

  It was time – time to change things for ever.

  38

  1972

  The little boy ran, his feet aching in his worn-soled shoes as they slapped against the hot, hard road under the bright summer sun. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth tasted of blood as he shot up the hill as fast as he could and turned left into the cobbled street.

  The bar stood amidst a row of shops: a grocer, an ironmonger and a bakery. They all displayed their wares through open, bright windows: a loaf here, a tin of beans there, a yellow plastic bucket in another.

  The ironmonger was standing in the doorway of his shop wiping his brow with a handkerchief as the boy caught his breath, hesitating in front of the door to the pub.

  ‘But you’re a boy in a hurry, am I right?’ said the stout man kindly. ‘I saw you bolt up that hill – like an Olympic athlete, so you were.’

  He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry, and he was still gasping for breath.

  ‘If it’s your daddy you’re after, he’s in there. But if I were you I’d steer clear, young man. The last I saw of him, he’d a fair head of steam – like the bloody Titanic. Aye, and in bad colour, too, young fella.’

  The boy stared at the only place in the street with no windows – well, none you could see through. The glass was dark and mottled, and only the ghosts of shapes moving inside were visible from the street. But these were no phantoms of the imagination, for they produced that familiar warm, malty smell and the gaggle of conversation and laughter he’d so often heard coming from this place.

  He doubled forward, his hands on his knees. ‘It’s the soldiers, Mr O’Leary – they’ve got my brother.’

  The ironmonger’s expression changed. His ruby-red cheeks sank into his face and his eyes glowered straight into the boy’s as he grabbed him by both shoulders. ‘Where do they have him?’

  ‘Down by the old gasworks – the place they blew up.’

  ‘Come with me, boy.’ O’Leary hauled him by the jumper off the warm, bright street and into the dark mewl of the bar.

  At first the boy could see nothing, so dim was the place, but slowly his eyes adjusted.

  ‘Where’s Declan?’ O’Leary shouted.

  ‘He’s through in the pool room,’ said one rough-looking man with a green T-shirt, untidy curly hair and long sideburns. ‘But if it’s conversation you’re after, you’d better take a trip elsewhere, Seamus.’

  Ignoring this advice, O’Leary dragged the boy through to another room with brewery mirrors and a painting of dogs playing cards on the wall, where two young men he’d seen with his father before were playing pool.

  ‘Young fella,’ said one, ruffling his hair. ‘If it’s your da you’re after, that’s him there. Sleeping off a fair cargo, so he is. What’s your hurry, O’Leary?’ he said to the ironmonger.

  ‘The soldiers’ve got the eldest boy down at the gasworks.’ He looked across at the man stretched at full length on a red upholstered bench at the side of the pool table. ‘For fuck’s sake, come on, Sean. They’ve got your boy – the bloody Paras. Will you wake the fuck up!’ O’Leary punched the recumbent man on the shoulder, but to little effect.

  ‘Away and tell, Mary,’ Sean muttered through his beard, turning his back on his son and facing the wall.

  ‘You drunken bum!’ O’Leary shouted. ‘Come on, lads. The boy’s one of our own; you’re not going to see him get a kicking, eh?’ He looked down at the youngster he still held by the shoulder. ‘Now you, just get off and get your mammy. Tell her to get down to the gasworks. Have you got that?’

  The little boy watched O’Leary and a few others rush from the bar to the aid of his brother, leaving his father spreadeagled on the bench. One of his platform shoes had fallen to the floor, and there was a hole in his red sock. As the man who’d given him life began to snore, for the second time that day the boy felt a new emotion: the sharp passion of hate.

  ‘I think that went well, Ella,’ said Scott, removing a tight shoe while balanced on the corner of the large bed in their cabin. ‘Maybe I could get used tae a life at sea after all.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother your arse. Symington will have a fit when she finds oot what you said tae thon sheik.’

  ‘We was just chewing the cud, dear.’

  ‘You telt him he’d need tae pitch his tent somewhere else! Did you no’ see his face?’

  ‘Ach, I was just at the banter.’

  ‘You were not. You think they all live in tents, don’t you?’

  ‘How come you’re an Arabian expert a’ of a sudden?’

  ‘Because during a’ the time you spent propping up some bar or other I was reading newspapers and books, or watching the TV – finding things oot.’

  ‘Listen tae Paul Gascoigne.’

  Ella looked puzzled for a moment, then: ‘Bamber. You mean Bamber Gascoigne, Brian.’

  ‘Well, whatever. I’m willing tae bet nane o’ these folk at oor table were any threat tae the ship.’

  ‘Good. Your investigation came at a price though, did it no’?

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ve single-handedly changed government policy on wind turbines, for a start.’

  ‘Och, a blind dog in the street could see that they tidal machines is far better – mair environmentally friendly, tae.’

  ‘Who are you, Jacques Cousteau or David Attenborough?’

  ‘You’re getting right bitter in your auld age, Ella.’

  ‘So what’s next? Which British industry will you manage tae put to the wall the night?’

  ‘Symington’s coming aboard. She’s got Jimmy working on some background o’ the passengers – see if he can spot any likely rogues.’

  ‘He’s no’ well enough tae be back at work.’

  ‘He’s just sitting doon at a computer, no’ taking on the Taliban.’

  ‘Thank heavens you never mentioned them o’er lunch. We really could have had an international incident.’

  ‘Gie me some credit. I am a senior police officer, you know.’ Scott smiled broadly.

  ‘Until they hear you’ve caused a massive rift within OPEC.’

  ‘Opeck? I’m buggered if I know
where you get this stuff fae. Anyway, are we going oot on deck tae mingle?’

  ‘I need a nap. I’m fair knackered after all that food.’

  ‘At least you never got the soup.’

  ‘How many times! Lobster bisque is soup. And you’re likely the only person in the world that gets chips tae dip in it.’

  ‘You get your nap. I’m off tae dae some undercover work. Which is why we’re here – no’ for the soup.’

  ‘Right, Mr Bond, I’ll see you later.’ Ella Scott stretched out on the bed as her husband slipped into something more casual.

  39

  The paramedics rushed Liz into the Kinloch hospital on a stretcher. They were met at the door by a team of doctors and nurses.

  ‘Is she still conscious?’ asked a young doctor.

  ‘Yes, but her pulse is weak and she’s drifting in and out,’ replied the paramedic.

  Daley was still carrying James, whose wailing made the rest of the conversation between the medical professionals inaudible to him. ‘Is she going to be all right?’ he asked desperately.

  ‘Pupils are responsive. We need bloods taken a.s.a.p. Then prepare her for gastric lavage and IV antidote,’ said the doctor calmly, as two nurses transferred Liz to a gurney and wheeled her down the corridor.

  ‘Here, I’ll take the wee one,’ said another nurse, holding out her arms to take James junior. Daley handed him over and left the crying child with her as he followed the team pushing his wife into the A&E ward.

  When they reached the door the doctor turned to him. ‘Listen, you stay here and let us do our job. The guys on the ambulance say it’s a paracetamol overdose, right?’

  ‘I think so, yes. This is all I could find.’ Daley handed him the empty blister packs. ‘Could be worse?’ he said hopefully, but though he didn’t speak the doctor’s face said otherwise.

  Daley watched as the ward doors swung shut. He stood for a moment, hands on his head, not knowing quite what to do. It was a strange feeling. Having been a police officer for so long, he’d dealt with many poor souls who had resorted to an overdose in desperation, or OD’d accidentally on illegal drugs, but now he was lost. Now it was personal, his training – his reason – had failed to kick in.

  Down the corridor, he could hear his wailing son. He hurried in the direction of the sound and persuaded the nurse to hand him back.

  ‘I’ll go and get him some sweets and juice. Maybe that will help.’ She patted the little boy on the head, but James, although back in his father’s arms, continued to sob. For a moment, Daley felt a pain flash across his chest. He stumbled, and spotting a chair in the corridor staggered over to it, sitting down heavily.

  As he’d been taught to do during his recent visit to hospital, the big detective took deep slow breaths in and out, and soon the room ceased to spin, the pain in his chest eased, and his breathing steadied.

  He sat still for a while, trying to calm his son, who was now shouting loudly for his mother and trying desperately to wriggle free from his father’s arms to find her.

  The nurse arrived with some crisps, a bottle of orange juice and a packet of colourful sweets. ‘I’m afraid this is all they had in the vending machine. I hope he’s allowed to have sweets; they might calm him down a bit.’ She looked at Daley. ‘Are you feeling okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Just the shock, that’s all.’

  ‘You’re sweating, Mr Daley.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all been a bit of a rush, you know.’

  She looked at him doubtfully. ‘If you say so. Here, let me have your son for a moment, and go and get yourself a drink or something. Try and stay calm.’

  ‘Calm? My wife’s just taken an overdose. How the hell can I stay calm?’

  ‘Listen, she’s still conscious. That’s really good.’

  ‘Barely conscious, you mean.’

  ‘But responding. That’s the important thing. I think I’d like a doctor to check you over, Mr Daley. I’m aware of what happened to you recently. Do you have your medication with you?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Right, just sit there.’

  ‘I’m fine, honestly.’

  ‘I want to be sure, and in any case you’ll need to have your pills.’

  Still with his son in her arms, the nurse hurried down the corridor.

  Daley had been afraid before in his life, but not like this. He had no control: not of what was happening to Liz, or to himself. As he felt another twinge of pain in his chest, he sat forward on the chair, and again began to breathe slowly, in and out.

  Symington was at her desk, nearly ready to leave for the Great Britain, when Sergeant Shaw poked his head round the door. ‘Ma’am, you have a visitor. Captain Banks.’

  ‘Oh? Please show him in, Sergeant.’

  Banks appeared in the doorway a few moments later. He was in full uniform, smart and tall. He took his cap off as he entered the office.

  ‘Good afternoon, Chief Superintendent.’

  ‘Lovely to see you. To what do I owe this honour?’

  ‘I came ashore to make sure our guests were doing okay in Kinloch. I must say, some of them seem to be having a very good time indeed.’ He raised his eyes to the heavens.

  ‘This place can have that effect on people, Captain. As long as things are going along smoothly, I’m happy. I’ve a full contingent of officers on duty, just in case, and I know that a large security detail from the ship are ashore, too.’

  ‘Well, everyone looks very happy and well behaved. I have some of my stewards on hand too, to make sure that anyone’s who’s had a glass too many gets back on board in one piece.’

  ‘A very good idea, I’m sure. Please take a seat, Captain.’

  ‘Thank you. I was wondering, can I have a word?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Just interested to know if that information I gave you bore any fruit?’

  ‘I have DCI Daley on it now. In fact he’s due to report back to me soon. Trust me, he has a good eye. You can’t beat experience.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Banks looked around. ‘I have to say that the drone incident did trouble me, on top of the disappearance of Majid. I’m a bit shocked that I seem to be the only one now who seems to be bothered.’

  ‘We are taking it very seriously.’

  ‘I’m sure, but I can’t help but feel that I don’t have the full picture.’

  Symington lowered her gaze. ‘Oh? Why is that?’

  ‘Just a rumour – you have no idea how rumours spread on ships, big and small. Especially when they carry the type of passenger we’re currently entertaining.’

  ‘So what’s this rumour?’

  ‘Probably just gossip, but I heard that a man was found dead on the hill – near where the drone was launched, I mean.’

  Symington sighed. ‘You know there are some things I can’t speak about, Captain.’

  ‘But you’re happy enough that I gave you the security report on our passengers, aren’t you?’ He smiled and smoothed back his hair. ‘I could get into all sorts of strife if that were to come out, Chief Superintendent. It was only given to me after many demands. I like to know all of those I have aboard my ship.’

  Symington drummed her fingers on the table absently. ‘Yes, the rumour is true. The man who flew the drone – we think – was found dead at the scene when my officers arrived.’

  Banks’s expression was grave. ‘And don’t tell me, the Security Service shut the information down, right?’

  ‘I’ll leave that to you to work out, Captain.’ For a moment, Symington was sure she saw a sign of irritation pass across Banks’s face, but she could imagine how frustrating it must be being in nominal command of a ship with such an exalted passenger list while being kept in the dark. To a certain extent, she felt the same.

  ‘Thank you very much, Carrie. Though I must admit, that knowledge does make me more uneasy. It stands to reason that if this person was killed, then someone must be at large, yes?’

  ‘I can’t say any more,
Magnus,’ replied Symington, taking her opportunity to dispense with the formalities as he had done. ‘And the problems with the ship: how soon until you can sail?’

  ‘The team are now on board. It’s electrics and computers, so always a bloody nightmare, but they’re confident that we shouldn’t be delayed by more than a day or so.’

  ‘Does this type of thing happen all the time on great vessels like yours? The big cruise liners, I mean?’

  Magnus Banks raised his chin. ‘No. That’s just it, Carrie. Of course we have the odd technical problem from time to time, and our engineers are very capable. But this is different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘Different as in I think it was done deliberately.’

  Symington took a few moments to absorb this information. ‘And you’ve made your concerns known to Brachen, yes?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But I believe he’s under pressure to work quietly behind the scenes. No fuss – absolutely the last thing they want.’

  ‘They?’

  Banks smiled enigmatically.

  ‘Sir Edward – the government?’

  ‘That, Carrie, I will have to leave to your instinct and reason.’

  ‘Touché, Captain.’

  He nodded. ‘In any case, let me give you a lift in my personal barge. You’re heading across to the ship this evening, yes?’

  ‘Oh, that’s very kind. But I’ve a few things to do before I go.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll carry on the grand tour of Kinloch. Here’s my card; just give me a call when you’re ready to depart.’

  Cabdi’s mind was working overtime as the local man beside him rambled on, becoming more and more intoxicated.

  He had no doubt that the man who’d stood only a few feet away from him not long after he’d arrived in the bar was the same person he’d talked to over the phone. The voice was distinctive and identical. They’d always communicated by fax prior to their mission going live, but he’d carried the pay-asyou-go mobile with him for communications in Kinloch.