Dead but not Buried

by Iain North

  Jim nodded. ‘It would suggest there were problems with the other babies. If one baby died out of 20 it might be seen as an exception, maybe the result of other circumstances. ‘

  ‘Look at thalidomide,’ Amber said. ‘The problems that caused.’

  Jim felt the sudden realisation smack him in the face like a well-aimed fist. ‘Of course!’ he exclaimed.

  Amber waited restlessly for him to continue.

  ‘Thalidomide,’ Jim said. ‘It caused birth defects.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When we were speaking to Eddie Macdonald at the police station last week he said Sam O’Brien was pregnant.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He said her unborn baby was badly deformed.’

  ‘And she was taking Providon.’

  ‘What if Providon was the drug Gallagher was developing all those years ago. He shelved it away, discovered it might work with HIV and AIDS and dusted it down again at Caleypharma.’

  ‘Is that scientifically possible?’

  He wished now that he had paid more attention to his chemistry teacher when he was at school.

  *****

  Chapter 20

  ‘Did you tell her?’ George grumbled.

  ‘Almost,’ Jim replied.

  They were standing in a cold Portakabin, each clutching a polystyrene cup of coffee. Half a dozen other journalists, including the Bellboy, had taken the limited supply of plastic chairs. They were happy enough on their feet – it kept the circulation flowing.

  ‘Almost?’

  He sighed. ‘She put me straight before I had a chance to say anything.’

  George nodded. ‘I’m glad she’s got her head screwed on the right way around.’

  Jim didn’t say anything. He took a sip of boiling liquid and winced. ‘It tastes fucking awful.’ He dumped the cup and its contents into a bin. ‘Why are we having to wait here?’

  ‘Security, Jim. They don’t want us upsetting the Royal visitor.’

  ‘Which one of the clan is it?’

  ‘Prince Charles, as promised.’

  Astonishment: ‘Charlie is coming here just to see an oil rig!’

  ‘Not just any oil rig,’ George stressed. ‘It’s the rebirth of an industry.’

  Jim wasn’t impressed. ‘When is he due?’

  George shuffled stiff fingers through a pile of press handouts. ‘Here we are. Programme of the Day.’

  He began reading aloud from the sheet. ‘His Royal Highness will arrive by helicopter at 12.00 hours.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Jim coughed. He checked his watch. It was 11.30am.

  ‘His Royal Highness will be welcomed by the Lord Lieutenant of Ross and Cromarty, blah, blah, blah. His Royal Highness will board the Royal Navy Fleet Tender to take him out to the Moray Alpha platform, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera’

  Jim let out another deep sigh. ‘We have to wait here for half an hour.’

  ‘Not as exciting as that, I’m afraid,’ George said, holding aloft another piece of white A4. ‘We’ve a safety briefing to look forward to.’

  ‘Great. Then do we get the free lunch?’

  The door of the cabin opened. Amber stepped in. She smiled at George: ‘The facilities aren’t up to much.’

  Jim slipped a box of Marlboro Lights out of his pocket. ‘I’m going out for a smoke.’

  ‘I’ll join you,’ George added.

  They lit up and sheltered from the breeze on the lea side of the cabin.

  ‘That’ll be the Moray Alpha,’ Jim observed, pointing to a lone platform berthed in Loch Kishorn. Up close, its presence would undoubtedly dominate, but the surrounding landscape of high mountains and the wide swathe of open water deflated its stature.

  ‘She’s in for a refit. ‘

  Jim scanned the sprawling fabrication yard below them. The Portakabin was perched above the old dry-dock, part of a compound of prefabricated huts and bungalows plonked in regimented rows round a network of pre-cast concrete roadways. At the foot of the slope, perhaps two hundred metres away, huge corrugated aluminium sheds, muddy brown in colour, obscured the sea view. There were several big cranes, some fuel tanks and an assortment of heavy plant.

  ‘Will they bring the rig into the dock?’ he asked.

  ‘They’ll just moor it against the piers. The water is deep enough. Nobody will ever use that dock again. It was designed for concrete platform construction and nobody uses them anymore.’

  ‘I still don’t know why they never filled it in.’

  ‘They could use the Bellboy,’ George chuckled. ‘His ego alone would fill it.’

  Jim puffed on his cigarette. ‘Why’s Charlie doing the honours?’

  ‘He’s done it before. In 1983 he was up for the dedication of another platform. It was called Maureen, I think.’

  ‘Maureen? Strange name for an oil rig.’

  ‘Sounds more like a fat bird, doesn’t it?’

  It was Jim’s turn to laugh. ‘Was it a good do?’

  ‘Aye, it was a good lunch,’ George nodded.

  A white Transit minibus rumbled over, stopping a few metres from them. A burly man in a hardhat and fluorescent jacket slid out.

  ‘You the media?’ he asked gruffly.

  ‘Aye,’ George confirmed.

  ‘Just you two?’

  ‘There’s more inside. ‘

  ‘Great.’ He didn’t sound too enthusiastic. ‘I’ve got to take you for your safety briefing.’

  The press pack assembled in front of the Portakabin, then piled into the van. It took them all of 100 metres to another portable building. A much larger one this time, two storeys high, looking something like a small supermarket – windows along the front, three flags poles standing by the main entrance, two Saltires and a Union Jack clasping the masts tightly as the wind threatened to blow them out to sea.

  The sliding side door of the Transit opened and everyone trooped out. The driver led them into a carpeted foyer where the receptionist, a young lady, smartly dressed, guided them up a flight of stairs to a conference room.

  The safety briefing lasted a full 15 minutes. It was the dullest 15 minutes Jim could remember. He spent most of the time drawing pictures of tiny oil rigs in the margins of the press releases thrust into his hand by a PR girl.

  On the way out they were issued with hard hats and instructed to wear them at all times. Overhead, Jim heard the dull rumble of a helicopter engine. He looked up. An RAF Wessex, painted in the dark blue and red of the Queen’s Flight, banked across the loch and lowered itself towards a helipad on the opposite side of the dry-dock.

  ‘He’s early,’ George remarked.

  The journalists were herded back into the van for an even shorter journey down to the quayside where a navy vessel was moored. An over-enthusiastic PR-type, doubtless powered by a Prozac overdose, was racing around, trying to make sure everything was ready. Tartan skirt billowing in her wake, she harassed the pipe band, all kilts, big drums and bagpipes, then moved on to a group of dour looking school children, visibly shaking with cold in the sea breeze. They looked miserable.

  She spotted the Press. ‘Over here! Quickly now!’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ George whispered sarcastically, raising his arm in a mock salute.

  He stuck his tongue out when she gave him the evil eye.

  The photographers and cameramen were swiftly marshalled to one side, the reluctant scribes pushed back behind a barrier.

  ‘You’d think she was expecting Royalty,’ the Bellboy sneered.

  A news cameraman shook his head. ‘There’s always one joker in the pack.’

  The helicopter was down. Charlie climbed out, transferred to the back seat of a green Range Rover. The car skirted across the dry-dock boom and the pipe band burst into life, a perfect rendition of some Scots classic Jim should have recognised instantly, but didn’t. The Range Rover stopped and the Prince stepped out greeted by a group of stiff men in suits.

  ‘The management,’ George said, ‘All the way from Canada.’ />
  Hands were shaken, some carefully chosen words exchanged. Someone cracked a joke and there was a smile or two from the Prince. He walked towards the boat, flanked by the schoolchildren, beaming now, as the band played on and camera shutters clicked away.

  There was a brief presentation – a wee child in a smart frock handed over a commemorative medal, and the Prince boarded. The suits followed, then the Press. Jim watched as back on shore the kids scurried off to the canteen for orange juice and sandwiches.

  With military precision, the navy cast off, floating out into Loch Kishorn, a course set for the Moray Alpha.

  ‘Do you think he really enjoys this sort of thing?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Where would you rather be?’ George replied ‘Tucked up in Balmoral enjoying a dram of Scotland’s finest malt, or wandering about a windy building site in the middle of nowhere?’

  ‘Point taken.’

  Ensconced in a large central cabin, they watched as the drizzle spat on the windows. Half way out Jim noticed an inflatable dinghy bouncing over the waves towards them.

  He nudged George’s shoulder. ‘Our flower power friends are coming to join the party.’

  ‘Aye.’ He tapped the cabin’s metal partition with his fingers. ‘But I don’t fancy their chances against this.’

  The little craft was coming no closer. A tugboat intercepted it, and there was another on the way.

  The Bellboy piped up from the back of the room. ‘If they’re serious they really should invest in some proper hardware. Daft fuckers are living on another planet if they think they can go up against a navy boat in that thing.’

  Everyone in the Press pack knew Bell had a fixation for military equipment and, some said, men in uniform. He knew fuck all about either, but that didn’t stop him waxing lyrical about the armed forces as if he was Earl bloody Haig.

  ‘Thanks for stating the obvious,’ Jim spat.

  He’d hoped to silence Bell, but it had the opposite effect. The runt was ambling over.

  ‘Fuck!’ he cursed under his breath.

  ‘Serves you right,’ George sniggered.

  ‘And how’s your big drugs scoop going?’ Bell smirked obnoxiously. ‘I haven’t seen any sign of it in the papers. I heard it turned into a bit of a damp squib. Never mind, you leave the real stories to us professionals.’

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about, mate.’ Jim replied.

  ‘No? I heard you were trailing round the countryside after drug addicts and teenage prostitutes. Maybe you’ve given up reporting and turned to social work. Might suit you better.’

  Jim’s fist was starting to contract again. It was strange how Grant Bell always managed to evoke a tightening of tendons in the wrist/hand region.

  ‘If that’s what you heard, you’re sources can’t be up to much, can they?’ Jim responded. ‘But I guess that would explain a lot.’

  George stepped in. ‘Let’s keep it civil boys. There is, after all, Royalty on board.’

  ‘Just chatting, old man,’ Bell smirked, emphasising the last two words.

  Jim glanced down. He could see the same reaction manifesting itself in George’s right hand.

  Bell glanced across the cabin towards Amber who was in conversation with the STV cameraman. ‘I see you’ve brought your young lady friend along again. You pair are inseparable. Does Mrs Buchan know?’

  ‘Fuck off!’ Jim snarled.

  Eyebrows were raised amongst a posse of prim PR girls standing nearby.

  ‘Obviously not.’

  George interrupted again, this time lifting his not insignificant hands to Bell’s collar. ‘I’d crawl back under my stone now, if I were you.’

  Bell took the hint, backing off, but not before flicking a sly wink at Jim.

  ‘It must be pretty obvious if even he’s picked up on it,’ George reflected.

  Jim didn’t answer. He was starring at Amber. ‘I need to speak to her again,’ he sighed..

  ‘It’ll have to wait,’ George said, ‘We’re here.’

  The Royal party disembarked first, climbing on to a metal walkway, a flight of steps taking them up one of the legs, on to the main deck of the platform. The PR girls followed, then the invited guests and, finally, the Press.

  The protestors in the dinghy were someway off, being held at bay by giant water canons squirting hundreds of gallons of seawater over them. But no one in the party was paying them much attention

  On board the rig, everyone trooped down a newly painted corridor, past empty offices, kitchens and recreation rooms, to a cinema where colourful computer-generated images of oil and gas exploration paraphernalia flashed across the large screen.

  With the gathering seated, the Prince and friends in the front row, a short film charting the history of the Kishorn yard opened with a spectacular aerial panorama of the glorious Scottish countryside – deer running wild over a windswept moor, an eagle soaring above crags, salmon leaping up a river, sunlight glinting off the white water.

  ‘Very Brigadoon,’ George whispered.

  The film cut to old footage of the Howard Doris yard working full tilt in the 1970s, the huge concrete hulk of the Ninian Central rising out of the dry-dock.

  ‘It’s huge,’ Jim observed.

  Amber was sitting next to him. ‘Like a giant cathedral.’

  ‘And all that sits underwater?’

  ‘Aye,’ George nodded.

  There were pictures of the structure being hauled out into the loch, the steel deck being attached in the Inner Sound of Raasay, and then the platform’s departure to the Ninian Field, east of Shetland, where it was plonked on the seabed.

  More helicopter shots of North Sea oil and gas installations followed, accompanied by a commentary explaining the new era of rig decommissioning. Back to Kishorn and its resurrection before the final credits rolled.

  Appreciative hand clapping followed, then everyone was ushered back out on to the upper deck for the guided tour.

  ‘All this for a free lunch,’ George grunted. ‘There must be easier ways to make a living.’

  ‘We should have turned up late,’ Jim agreed. ‘At least you’ll get...’

  His sentence was cut short. A dull rumble, then a huge ear-shattering blast consumed the central tower. Flames shot out and metal debris showered down on the deck.

  ‘Fuck!’ Jim shouted, grabbing George’s arm and dragging him under a canopy. A ruptured length of steel pipe crashed down on the spot where they had been standing seconds earlier.

  Frantic screams, blurted radio messages, royal aides sprinting up the deck towards the guest of honour. He was bundled down the staircase, back on to the Royal Navy Fleet Tender.

  Smoke billowed out of the corridor behind them. Jim peered up. The main tower was dressed in flame.

  ‘Amber!’ he shouted. ‘My God, where is she?’

  The other journalists were running, jumping, falling down the steps. He couldn’t see her anywhere. Workmen were running up and down the steel gantries. Jim grabbed one. ‘Have your seen a young girl, brunette hair?’

  The man pulled away. ‘You’ d better get off.’

  The tugboats were bounding in towards the rig, high-pressure sea hoses already spewing jets of water up towards the blazing tower.

  ‘I’ve got to find her.’

  ‘She might be off already,’ George said. ‘We’ve got to get out of here. Get down to the...’

  A shrill alarm siren wailed, drowning out his words.

  Twenty metres away from them, men were crowding over a body slumped on the deck. Jim sprinted over, fought his way to the centre of the scrum.

  ‘Amber...’

  She was lying face down, blood streaming from the back of her head.

  ‘Stand back, sir.’

  Jim was pushed aside.

  Medics rolled her on to a stretcher, strapped her down under a red blanket, all in the blink of an eye.

  ‘Amber!’ Jim shouted helplessly, fear in his voice.

  A helicopter circled in overh
ead, ducking under the pall of black smoke. It bumped down on the deck above them. Men grabbed the stretcher, hauled it up the stairway. Jim tried to follow, but he was pulled back, dragged down the staircase to the landing platform. The navy boat was gone, but another vessel had taken its place. Jim was bundled on board, taken below deck and seated in a cabin. George was there.