A Breath on Dying Embers

by Denzil Meyrick

‘Bastard! So you didnae know anything?’ Scott shook his head ruefully.

  ‘Just you be careful, that’s all I’m saying. Nothing’s worth your life, and you’ve come too close too often.’

  ‘Ella Scott, I do believe you’re getting soft.’

  She held him close. ‘I’ll stay in here. But promise me you’ll be careful.’

  ‘Aye, you know me.’

  ‘Yes. That’s the problem, Brian.’

  43

  Cabdi knew the layout of Kinloch reasonably well. He’d studied maps of the town just in case their plan went wrong – and it had done so, spectacularly.

  He knew he had to get to somewhere he could think, somewhere safe and out of sight. The realisation that he’d been betrayed was slowly dawning, and it was a bitter blow. But why send them on a mission that was bound to fail? It was clear that the drone they’d been told contained explosives had held nothing of the kind. If it had, Faduma would have set it off.

  It made sense too that the only man who knew of his existence had leaked his presence in the town. Scally had said it. He knew how the British government – all Western governments – worked; it would all be covered up, unless they thought a significant threat presented itself. The Great Britain would surely have sailed away from Kinloch otherwise. But nothing made sense.

  Suddenly he felt guilty; but guilt was part of his life, and had been for a long time. He cursed Faduma, cursed his mission, everything. But now the mists were beginning to clear he had to decide what to do. He had a duty to do something to make a difference. He couldn’t shift one face from his mind. He knew it was the key to everything.

  Cabdi took quiet side streets, avoiding the centre, and eventually found a road that rose out of the town, bordered by grand-looking houses. When he’d reached the top, and was clear of Kinloch’s boundary, he could see the island at the head of the loch, and beside it the cruise ship that had occupied his thoughts for so long.

  He pulled the van over onto the verge, zipped up the fleece that Scally had given him until it almost covered his face, and made off across a field.

  The ground fell away towards a rocky shore. He now had a clear sight of the Great Britain. He fished in his pocket and found the tiny transistor radio he’d picked up in Scally’s kitchen. He would use the radio to glean what he could about what was going on.

  The pistol was still nestled in the small of his back, and as long as he had that, he could do something to make a difference.

  When he reached the shoreline, he almost slipped on the rocks, slick with seaweed and wet from the sea. But the tide was out, and he managed to scrabble round towards a structure he’d spotted. It was a squat brick construction, dank inside, with a slit through which he could view the world outside. Cabdi assumed that it had something to do with the war – certainly it was the perfect hiding place. Though the far side of the building was crumbling, the part in which he now nestled would provide shelter from prying eyes, as well as the rain and wind when it came.

  Here, Cabdi could plot in relative safety. He was wearing clean clothes and was warm. He’d grabbed some food at Scally’s house; predictably the man had lied about there being none. Now he was ready to think, ready to plot, ready to kill.

  As he squatted in the corner of his impromptu shelter, only death and destruction were on his mind.

  Scott read the email Symington had sent him containing a plan of the ship and the cabin in which O’Rourke was berthed. He decided to take a look around, and when he reached the right floor took a slow walk along its length, pretending to be engrossed by something on his phone.

  Symington’s email had detailed Daley’s findings, and from Scott’s perspective the man did have a questionable past.

  He stopped at the door marked Cabin 312, knocked on it and called out, ‘Mr Sangster, are you in?’ He listened quietly for a response, but there was no reply. ‘Mr Sangster, it’s me?’ Still nothing.

  Just in case, Scott turned the handle, and was surprised to find the door unlocked. He opened it a crack and leaned his head around it. ‘Hello, Mr Sangster. It’s me, William. Just wondered if you fancied that chat we talked about last night?’ There was no sign of movement in the room, so Scott slipped in and let the door close quietly behind him.

  The cabin was untidy, a white bath towel spread along one side of the unmade bed. He walked through into a small lounge, where a couch and an easy chair sat facing an enormous screen. At the other end of the room was a writing desk, facing the exit to a balcony. Through the next door was a small but well-appointed dining room. He looked about, but saw nothing of interest.

  On his way back through the suite he pulled open drawers at random, but found nothing save for some information on the car dealerships that O’Rourke ran, some business cards and a top-of-the-range MacBook Pro.

  The door to the bathroom was just off the bedroom, and Scott decided to have a quick look inside before he left.

  In one corner was a huge bath, in the other a shower, handbasin and WC, and some make-up and toiletries. Something was lying in front of the lavatory, so he bent down to pick it up.

  He unfurled an Ordnance Survey map of Northern Ireland showing the coast of County Antrim. Just outside Ballycastle, an area of beach was circled in red pen. Scott studied it, laid it flat on the floor, and with his mobile took a picture of it.

  Just as he was folding it away, he heard movement: the handle of a door being turned.

  Suddenly, Brian Scott was rooted to the spot.

  ‘We will see you tonight on the ship, yes?’ Henning called as they parted ways at the door of the County Hotel.

  ‘Aye, you surely will,’ replied the old man, rather unsteady on his feet, but nonetheless disappointed that the guests had been asked to report back to the Great Britain early, therefore ending the party he was enjoying. There was nothing better than the chance to tell tall tales on the back of free whisky, as far as Hamish was concerned.

  But he’d heard some gossip, and was determined to find out if it was reliable or not before he went home to get ready for the reception to which he’d just been invited.

  He wandered up the hill, past Kinloch Police Office and the primary school, and was soon at the entrance to Kinloch Hospital.

  ‘Hamish, what can I do for you? You’re not feeling unwell, are you?’ asked the receptionist as she noticed the old man stagger.

  ‘Och no, I’m in fine fettle – maybe one dram too many at the County, that’s all.’

  She smiled. ‘Well, I don’t think there’s much we can do for that.’

  ‘Am I the one that’s glad for that. There’s no cure for a dram of which I’d care to partake. Anyhow, I’ve had my three score years and ten, so I’m on borrowed time anyway.’

  ‘You’re a fit man for your age – mainly,’ she replied, smelling the strong odour of whisky on Hamish’s breath. ‘So if you’re okay, why are you here? This isn’t the County Hotel, or have you got lost?’

  ‘No, I’m here to enquire aboot a friend.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Mrs Daley. I hear she’s no’ so well.’

  The receptionist looked at her desk. ‘Listen, Hamish, there’s no visitors allowed to see her at the moment. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘Och aye, of course. I was just thinking Mr Daley might be aboot?’

  ‘Well, I’m sure he has enough on his plate . . .’ She didn’t get to finish what she was going to say, as a young voice called out and a toddler charged straight for the old fisherman.

  ‘Hameby!’ James Daley junior grabbed Hamish by the legs and might have sent him sprawling had it not been for the prompt actions of his father, who grabbed Hamish by the shoulders, keeping him upright.

  ‘Young James, but you’re a wild a boy right enough. My, it’s good to see you, son – you too, Mr Daley. I was right worried when I heard you weren’t so well.’

  ‘I’m fine, Hamish, thank you.’

  ‘Aye, you look it.’ Hamish eyed him up and down. ‘A bit peaky
maybe, eh?’

  ‘It’s been a hard couple o’ days.’

  ‘Aye, I dare say it has. And how is your good lady? I heard she wisna feeling too chipper either.’

  ‘I know this town, Hamish, and I’m sure you know what’s wrong.’

  ‘But well intended, I assure you, aye, well intended.’

  Daley slapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘I know fine. You’ve been a good friend to me – to all of us – since we arrived. Liz will be okay, I promise.’

  ‘Och, I’m absolutely certain o’ it, Mr Daley.’ The old man shuffled from foot to foot. ‘I’ve something else to discuss, if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘I’m off work, you know, so no fishing for gossip, mind.’

  ‘As if I would dae such a thing. I’ll leave that tae Annie behind the bar at the County, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Come on, I was about to take the wee man out for a walk. He’s been cooped up in here for hours. There’s a bench outside where we can take a seat while he gets a run about and some fresh air.’

  ‘Aye, that would be just fine, fine indeed.’

  The three of them made their way out of the hospital and round a corner into a rock garden, a place where patients on the mend could enjoy some sunshine, and in some cases a quiet cigarette.

  ‘You run about here, James. Now, don’t touch anything, or run out of sight, got it?’ Daley emphasised the point by pointing his finger to his eyes. ‘I’m watching you, remember.’

  ‘I won’t, Daddy.’ The little boy ran off with his hands spread out like the wings of a plane, delighted to be out of the confines of the hospital.

  Daley and Hamish took a seat on a wooden bench, and it was the older man who spoke first.

  ‘I’m right sorry tae hear about Liz. But she’s got a good heart, and I know she’ll be fine.’

  ‘Is this your second sight again, Hamish?’

  ‘You might scoff, but you know well I’ve got the gift.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Daley said with a smile.

  ‘In fact, that why I’m here, Jim.’ He fixed the policeman with a serious expression.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been having dreams – bad yins at that.’

  ‘What kind of dreams?’

  ‘About you, if you must know.’

  ‘Don’t tell me: I’m working on a bin lorry and my police career is over.’

  Hamish looked into the middle distance. ‘Every one’s the same. I see the sea – a boat, tae.’

  ‘Not unusual. You’re around them all the time, Hamish.’

  ‘Nah, this isn’t a boat fae aroon here. No’ a fishing boat. Nor is it oor coast, neither.’

  ‘Anyway, what’s so bad about dreaming about that?’

  ‘I saw you plain as day.’

  ‘On this boat?’

  ‘Aye, on the boat. The sky black as thunder – near as dark as your face. In the dream, I mean.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, that’s it.’

  ‘I don’t really know what’s worrying you about it. There’s a big ship in the loch, and you know I’ve not been well. It’s just a mixture of these things playing on your mind.’

  ‘It’s never what you see, Mr Daley, it’s what you feel.’

  ‘And what do you feel?’

  ‘Despair. Aye, I canna put it mair exactly than that: pure despair. Oh aye, an’ a great blackness. As dark as auld Horny’s waistcoat, it is.’ He reached out and caught Daley by the arm. ‘Take my advice, Jim. Don’t go near the water – no strange tides. Do you get me?’

  ‘I’ll try.’ Daley tried to suppress a smile.

  ‘Here, I’m serious!’ Hamish’s grip tightened. ‘Oh aye, and there’s one mair thing, tae.’

  ‘I’ll be running out of places I can go at this rate.’

  ‘Och, this is likely caused by my hatred o’ false teeth.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A big tooth – roots an’ all. That’s another thing I keep seeing. Jeest like the ones that auld butcher MacCann took out o’ me when I was aboot twelve. They called him a dentist, but he wiz mair like a torturer, and that’s a fact. I’m sure he took pleasure oot o’ inflicting pain on weans.’

  Jim Daley took a moment to watch his son caper about. The sun was suddenly hidden behind a cloud, and he shivered.

  44

  Brian Scott was trying to keep his breathing steady and quiet. He was pressed against the wall near the bathroom door, clearly hearing someone rummaging about in the cabin beyond.

  Trying to think what to do, he considered the idea of stepping out from his hiding place, flashing his warrant card and asserting that he was merely taking part in a security check. But, he thought, if O’Rourke was the man they were looking for it would be unlikely to shift him from his course of action, and he might well end up on the wrong side of someone with malign intent. In any case, one way or the other, his cover would be blown.

  The sound of movement from outside the bathroom continued. Drawers were opened then closed. Something was dragged across the floor. Scott’s mind began to work overtime. Then the distinctive sound of metal on metal, an implement being fitted together.

  Gun! thought Scott. He was on a boat – a big one, but a boat nonetheless. He remembered Hamish’s tales about people recognising the place where they would die – knowing it all their lives. And Brian Scott had always been scared of boats.

  I could make a break for it, he thought. Head down, push my way past. Och, I’d be halfway down the corridor before this O’Rourke knew what was happening. The idea cheered him. He took deeper breaths, getting ready to make a dash for it. He toyed with the idea of pulling his jacket over his head in order to hide his identity, but figured that was going too far. His vision might be obscured and he could fall over. Symington wouldn’t be happy, but he’d acted on his own initiative, and what he’d discovered from the map could make a difference if the man who occupied this room was who Daley reckoned him to be.

  Then the footsteps outside the bathroom became louder, and, as Scott forced himself against the wall, the handle of the bathroom door began to turn.

  Cabdi fiddled with the dial of the small transistor radio. It cracked and whined, but then a station came through loud and clear.

  ‘And the price o’ lamb this year is a disgrace. It’ll be a cold Christmas for us up at Lossiebeg, Jock.’

  ‘Ach, you’ve been saying that since 1981, Jock. And look at the belly on you. It’ll be the same Christmas at Lossiebeg it a’ways is – you full o’ turkey lying sleeping after the best part o’ a bottle o’ Glen Scotia doon you.’

  ‘Noo the listeners are no’ wantin’ tae hear that, Jock. My festive domestic arrangements are no’ for general consumption.’

  ‘Neither is your whisky! I came up last New Year and got a pixie’s thimbleful, while you were sitting wae a great bumper – damn near quarter o’ a bottle.’

  ‘I knew you’d the beasts tae set right first thing in the morning. I couldna bear the thought o’ they fine coos desperate tae get milked while you was lying in a drunken stupor after o’er enjoying my seasonal hospitality.’

  Cabdi was utterly baffled by this, but a jaunty jingle soon helped him make sense of what he was hearing.

  ‘You’re listening to Kinloch FM’s Two Jocks Show.’

  Local radio, thought Cabdi. If he was to find out anything about the movements of the Great Britain, this would be the place.

  ‘Dae you mind thon party we went to in 1979 – I’m sure it was after the Blaan New Year bowling match in the village hall.’

  ‘Och, I knew fine you’d bring that up.’

  ‘No’ as much as whoot you brought up that night, though, eh?’

  ‘I’m no’ going tae discuss the distant past wae oor listeners . . .’

  ‘Right o’er the Reverend’s wife, tae. Even I felt sorry for you thon night. I’m no’ right sure she did, mind you.’

  ‘Here, I paid for her dry cleaning bill. That green dress o’ hers came
up good as new.’

  ‘Aye, she wore it for the next ten years, right enough.’

  ‘I’ve jeest got a message in fae Willie doon at the pier. How’ye, Willie?’

  ‘Whoot’s he saying?’

  ‘Noo, apparently there’s tae be boats laid on for those lucky enough tae be invited tae the reception aboard the Great Britain tonight. They’re doing it in shuttle runs fae half five, so if you’re one o’ the lucky few, be there in plenty time.’

  ‘You’ll be going, you being a councillor and a’?’

  ‘No, they only invited Charlie Murray.’

  ‘Likely feart you’d get full o’ the amber nectar and deposit the results a’ o’er the princess.’

  ‘She’s a duchess, Jock – there’s a fair difference.’

  ‘Aye, you have the right o’ it there. If you was tae barf o’er a princess it would likely be the Tower. For a duchess, och, it would be nothing mair than a slap on the wrist.’

  ‘Anyway, folks. For all o’ yous going tae the big night, make sure you’re doon the pier in plenty time.’

  ‘Aye, no’ a trace o’ bitterness in that voice. And I’m reliably informed yous can all ignore that nonsense that was on the internet fae America this afternoon.’

  ‘Fake news, Jock.’

  ‘Aye, like Charlie Murray’s election promises, it’ll jeest no’ happen.

  ‘Here, that’s right controversial.’

  ‘Jeest a statement o’ fact, Jock. Noo, Kinloch Juniors are playing at hame this Saturday. Whoot dae you think the score will be?’

  ‘If it’s thon team fae Paisley, they’ll be lucky tae come oot the game alive, never mind score.’

  Cabdi clicked the radio off. He’d heard all he needed to. Somehow, he had to get to the pier without attracting attention. And that wasn’t going to be easy.

  Scott had managed to reach across to the sink and grab a soap dish. He raised it above his head as the bathroom door swung slowly open.

  It took the small Asian cleaner a few moments to register the man brandishing the white soap dish above his head behind the door. But when she did, her scream sent the hairs on the back of Scott’s neck upright.