Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  Before I could muster a reply, MacNeil appeared from the cabin. Only the extreme pallor of his cheeks marked the shock of discovering a body, “This is a serious matter, Mr. MacKenzie, you’ll kindly accompany me to the station, immediately. Anything you say may be taken down as evidence and used if required.”

  It needed not the gravity of his voice to emphasise my critical situation. I helped Eilidh onto the pier and waited as she phoned Ella. Apart from a rapid mobile phone call the sergeant remained silent and didn’t leave my side. No attempt at handcuffing but in effect I was under arrest. Within minutes a police car drew up beside us. Hasty instruction sent the constable to stand guard over the Valkyrie. “Don’t worry, Eilidh,” I left her waiting for Ella as MacNeil marched me in silence to the police station.

  Locking the door and seating himself at his desk, he began taking particulars. On giving the Sandray house as my address, he pinned me with a sharp eye, “This is the second dead body in which you appear to have been involved. I would advise you not be flippant, you may find that eviction warrant is now surplus to the whole matter,” and in a far from easy Highland style he added, “You’re not obliged to say anything, but I’m arresting you pending further enquiries.”

  I said nothing. Crossing the room, he held open a door. A curt, “This way.” I walked the length of a corridor under fluorescent lighting. The concrete floor stank of disinfectant. Careful not to be too close behind me, he indicated a door to the left. Without option I entered.

  Quicker than I could turn, the door slammed. I swung round sharply. No inside handle, the metallic click of a lock, a loud sound in an empty cell. A mattress on the floor, a slit of window too high to reach, and suspected of two murders.

  I leant against the concrete wall, dropped my head into my hands. The sun that meant freedom grew black in the shadow of an eclipse, until only plumes of fire marked its disc

  Lying at my feet against the cell wall, the crumpled briefcase from beside our bed swam into my unfocused eyes.

  The lift attendant’s smart salute drew a brusque nod from Sir Joshua Goldberg. Swiftly and silently it descended to the labyrinth of reinforced control rooms deep below the Pentagon. A heavily carpeted corridor led him to a private meeting with two top US officials.

  Coffee and pleasantries were brief, the Chief Scientific Officer to the US Ministry of Internal Affairs spoke freely in a Texan gun- slinging style, “Bore a hole half a metre wide and five kilometres deep into hard crystalline rock, drop in the canisters of spent fuel, stack ‘em up two kilometres high, cap the little lot with clay, asphalt and concrete and sure thing the geological barrier has only to last a million years for the waste to decay and become as harmless as putty, yup, that’s the method the big boss would very much like your company to adopt here in the US. Simple, keep the stuff close to the site of production and safe as houses; ah wouldn’t mind one in ma own back garden.” A sullen Sir Joshua sat quietly without comment.

  Nuen’s Chairman was under pressure, not least from the White House for his company’s extensive nuclear operations to adopt this cheap and easy form of waste storage. Apart from the method involved, Goldberg found the whole proposal entirely contrary to his strictly private ambition. Monumental influence and wealth would be in the hands of an international controller of nuclear waste, he intended those hands to be his own.

  Perhaps in an attempt to expose their clients thinking, perhaps to add an element of persuasion, the Chief of Weapons Procurement in the Pentagon broke the embarrassing lack of comment on the part of an aloof Goldberg by changing the subject, “You’ve no need Sir Joshua to let today’s agreement between our boss and the Russian President worry you. A thirty percent reduction in nuclear weapon stocks, yeah, it’s high level window dressing but still leaves us and the Bolshevik’s with ninety percent of the world’s big toys.”

  After a deliberate pause the Weapons Procurement official drew himself up, “With Iran’s nuclear programme coming into the cross wires we needed to tame the Trots, which brings me to the point,” he placed the tips of his fingers together. “The arrangement we have with you for the re-fuelling of nuclear submarines at our Indian Ocean base at Diego Garcia is under surveillance,”

  “And?” by sounding a little aggressive Sir Joshua attempted to maintain the strength of his position. Should Iran require subduing, he knew it would not follow another Iraq debacle, hence the importance of this strategic base, but under surveillance? Surely Nuen’s lucrative contract for supplying nuclear fuel and fissile material to the oceanic base hadn’t a problem? Surveillance? It was common knowledge that sufficient enriched plutonium to make several nuclear bombs had gone missing. Could his company be suspected? The palms of Goldberg’s hands became sticky.

  Less than friendly, the Pentagon Official sought to force an agreement. “It sure would be helpful to get an understanding on waste management before we discuss more delicate issues.” and wishing to keep an edge over the meeting, he continued, a shade threatening, “Nobody outside these walls must know anything, this is top mouth shutting business.” Letting the implication hang in the air, he spoke quietly, “We know fissile material may have fallen into the wrong hands, possibly stolen,” another carefully weighted pause, “or maybe dealt, and you know better than most Sir Joshua, this ain’t the stuff to carry away in a plastic bag.”

  The hint of a possible collusion between technical expertise and criminal elements was left boring into the mind of a frightened listener. Looking over the rim of his glasses the Official continued slowly, “Stolen, maybe a deal, whatever way this stuff went off account, the result could be real serious, might give fanatical terrorists a chance to pull off nuclear suicide right here. Maybe a rogue State is involved, it might not be Iran, Pakistan is one helluva close to Afghanistan, then again, just who do you think would want us to take our eye off the Middle East to follow their own private agenda?” He looked keenly at Goldberg, “Missing material, yeah, it’s a specialist job,” and almost in a whisper, “I hope Sir Joshua there’s not any others privy to these shipments to Diego Garcia, or any other place?”

  “Certainly not,” Goldberg snapped back, shaking internally, any other place? Couldn’t possibly be the material which Nuen had supplied very privately to a country not admitting a nuclear arsenal? It had had the blind eye treatment from the White House many years ago. Stolen or dealt, his mind raced to Anderson, he might have to implicate him in the missing plutonium. Veiled eyes fastened on Goldberg. Perhaps to catch him off guard, the Texan drawl of the Scientific Officer broke into the Nuen Chairman’s acute concern, “Excuse me for being a mite curious Sir Joshua, how’s that UK deep bunker storage programme of yours coming along?”

  Realising this sudden diversion was part of their intention to get his international UK facility abandoned, Sir Joshua responded sharply, “Work is in hand. Under our existing contract I shall be ready for the first shipment of your high level waste in eighteen months time.” Unable to contain his sickening worry, he forced an artificial smile.

  Stolen or dealt, shifting the burden of any suspicion now uppermost in his thoughts, Goldberg enquired in a casual manner, “Ever hear of my company’s ex-chairman Anderson these days? I’d just love to keep in touch with him, such a fine chap, the very life and soul of a party, knowledgeable too, but then on the other hand perhaps not all that, ermm…” and hinting a broad note of condemnation, he tapped his lips.

  The eyes of two Pentagon civil servants met, “You don’t say,” again the slow Texan speech, “Well now Sir Joshua, ah heard it said a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Nope, we don’t know his whereabouts but my guess is we ain’t likely to hear of him no more.”

  “I see. Oh I’m so disappointed, he must really have gone to ground, such a pity.” Attempting to appear genuinely saddened, Goldberg felt a surge of relief.

  Should Anderson have met with an accident, he became the ideal, what was that cheap Americanism, the ideal fall guy.

  CHAPTER FORTY- EI
GHT

  A Squatter’s Rights

  Claustrophobia, perhaps the stench of disinfectant but as a patch of yellow light slanted obliquely across the cell wall- a concrete wall, white and barren- I watched its pattern become narrow and slowly narrower until just a slit, it moved across the counterpane on a bed in a hospital ward. Skyscraper horizons deprived me of sunlight; the beleaguered days returned and with them again the hunger I’d known.

  That same hunger which had driven me to work in the open, to heed a call which had become ever more insistent until the sun in some way embraced my every day. Health, vigour, the plants I nurtured, the seals I watched basking on the rocks, its light on the bay when I lifted my head, the colours which excited me, from rising to setting its presence wrought an inseparable bond. The plight of a captive, native of the outdoors would die of longing; the slit of a window, a sun that went away, the eye that looked in, the torture of separation. The pallor of such victims, filled my prison wall, white and blank and I understood.

  Two hours passed, time to rap on the door. Its viewing hatch slid open, the unpleasant eyes of the constable looked in. “Kindly open this door.” He said nothing, the hatch closed. More hammering would be futile. High above me a fluorescent strip light replaced the shaft of sunlight. Demanding a solicitor would be pointless, the nearest had to be on the mainland. Given my lack of co-operation so far maybe a different approach might ease the situation. I lay on the mattress thinking and worrying about Eilidh. She should not be part of this ridiculous travesty.

  A metallic click and the cell door opened. “Now Mackenzie we’ll have a word in my office.” The Sergeant stood back and motioned me to go ahead of him. Our footsteps echoed down the corridor, I found it amusing to think he must reckon me dangerous. Eilidh sat at the back of the police station. In mutual relief we laughed as she came across and gave the criminal a hug. “I came round to spring you but they caught me with the ladder.” “No, no, not a ladder,” although in poor taste, given a man’s death, being pleased to see each other made us silly, “the window’s too small. If I’m booked in tonight, get gunpowder, not too much, the accommodation’s a bit cramped.”

  “When you two have finished, I’ll maybe get a word.” Just an impression, but Sergeant MacNeil could be a different man without a sneering constable in the background. He sat down to study his notes, “Subsequent to our first meeting when you claimed an assassination attempt, you failed to come forward. An identification of the corpse revealed it to be that of a Londoner, the body went south and so far the case remains open. Have you anything to add?” I shook my head.

  “This second body has still to be identified, but it now seems clear you weren’t involved in,” he eyed me closely judging my reaction, “…in what may have been murder. Two Americans helped this yachtsman from the Castleton bar last night but didn’t return to the hotel. I understand you’d met the deceased when he arrived at Sandray” Briefly I told the Sergeant what little I knew of Anderson. He wrote without comment, closed his note book and adopting a puzzled tone, “Why in the world would two Americans kill a drunken yachtsman, if they did?” then casually, “and why would some stranger come all the way to Sandray and attempt to kill you?” I shrugged, aware of being watched. “You say you didn’t know your attacker, mmm, that suggests his actions could have been premeditated?” His easy style masked an edge, “Any idea why that might have been?” I preferred not to mention my briefcase or the London experience. “No, it’s a mystery to me.”

  Small communities have a knack of divining more of a person’s affairs than might seem possible and doubtless the sergeant wasn’t behind the times. He began to probe, “You appear from nowhere, there’s an assassination attempt, now a murder; who knew you’d come out here?” Not wishing to divulge a suspicion that somehow the two incidents were linked, “Nobody had any prior knowledge, my decision to travel north happened to be entirely a spur of the moment whim.” “Is that so,” one eyebrows rose, I hoped not in disbelief, “Well now, a whim; perhaps you’re just a photo in a Post Office window that reads’ missing person’,” the tone almost smacked of teasing. I guessed he knew plenty about me. “That suits me fine,” I grinned.

  After a lull, fresh thoughts prompted the sergeant to lapse into his natural manner, “Look here, there’s the question of this man’s boat.” In a roundabout way of telling me he spoke to Eilidh, “You know salvage can be claimed by the first person aboard any vessel found abandoned on the high seas,” and as if hinting at our course of action, “I suppose the yacht wasn’t exactly abandoned, just drifting with a corpse on board, anyway the pier master’s the official Receiver of Wrecks.” Wearily he returned to shuffling notes, “This boat and its owner is some complication.”

  We awaited his next move. Eventually glancing from Eilidh to me, he framed a question almost as if hoping my reply would be evasive, “You’ll have signed that Sheriff Warrant?” Eager to get outside, this was not the moment to tell him it lay in shreds, “No, not yet Sergeant, I’m thinking about it.” His stare took time to pass. “Whilst you’re busy thinking young man, you’ll be wise not to leave Halasay, that eviction order meant what it said.”

  Directing us to the door and once out of earshot of a glowering constable, he spoke to me in a friendly manner, “See you look after that woman MacKenzie, her folks were good friends of mine,” adding in to no one in particular, “I believe there’s something called squatters’ rights.”

  Down at the harbour the masts of Valkyrie and the Hilda swayed above the lip of the pier. A fluttering strip of blue and white tape hung on poles. “I dare say they may be waiting for detectives but if I can get past MacNeil’s cordon, I’ll sail Hilda round to Ach na Mara this evening.” Eilidh squeezed my hand, “Don’t worry, he’s one of us.”

  Driving back to the croft, Eilidh was in high spirits, “Iain’s busy clipping, I told MacNeil to stop his nonsense and let you out.” Bonnie girl, she laughed and laughed. The bleating of ewes and lambs greeted us. Newly clipped sheep free of their heavy fleeces sprang up from the clippers of the shearer. Fresh white coats, smelling differently, had puzzled lambs running away from equally mystified mothers. Iain, head down, his back bent and sweating in the heat, stopped the clack of his shears long enough to welcome me, “Come on MacKenzie, this isn’t the day to be passing time in the cooler, I’ve just started and there’s a new sharpened pair of shears awaiting you.”

  Iain made the work look easy, a sheep against his knees, a sweep of the arm, rhythm, flow and the steady clack of metal amongst creamy new wool; in minutes the fleece would be a neat heap and four pounds lighter, shorn and white, the ewe would bound away. Bending was not for Eilidh, but Ella, deft for her years gathered each fleece and rolled it into a tight bundle for Iain’s willing children to carry and stack on the growing mountain of wool. Given a few tips by the expert, “Don’t hold the sheep too tightly, keep the blades flat against its skin and mind your fingers.” I picked up the shears- they were razor sharp. After a couple of hours of struggling and finding their fleeces fell into pieces instead of coming off like a rug, I realised that learning which button to press on a computer was child’s play compared to clipping sheep.

  Eilidh brought out tea and pancakes warm off the girdle. We sat against the stack of wool and smelt like the animals now happily back to their grazing. The ones I’d dealt with stood out, going by the neatness, I realised Iain had clipped six to my one and thinking I’d have learned the skill more quickly, I shook my head. “Don’t worry, it’ll take at least five hundred ewes before you get the idea, but you’re coming on Hector boy, some never get the way of it.” All afternoon we’d clipped away under a hot sun, sweat dripping and the morning forgotten, I was happy again. The last clipped sheep bounded off to find her lambs, supper arrived and a needful dram.

  Iain dropped me at Castleton pier and thinking of the five hundred sheep before I learnt the skill, “I’ll be over to give a hand with your own clipping tomorrow.” “That’ll be great,” and
over his shoulder, “if your back isn’t too stiff.” He was right, my back ached.

  The mainland steamer had sailed hours ago. A deserted pier, no coloured police tape to prevent me from boarding Valkyrie. A quick look about, nimbly down the iron rung ladder and I stood on the yacht’s teak laid decks admiring her lines. Truly she was a beauty, the elegance of a sweeping bow matched the curve of her stern, strength and grace. Would I pursue a salvage claim?

  I looked at her cabin door and felt impelled. Heavy brass hinges and mahogany panels, it opened smoothly. Evening shadow darkened an empty bunk. A faint smell hung about the cabin, a sweet sour odour, the lingering stench of a corpse. My skin prickled. The body had gone, but the contorted face of dead Anderson stared out of the bunk, the lolling tongue, frothing saliva trickling down a cheek faintly blue in the first stage of decomposition. Huge eyes bulged from their sockets, burst blood vessels flared red. No longer starting eyes of terror but imploring, abjectly pleading, turning slowly. I followed their gaze. The navigation table; I looked down and on it, unfolded, a chart of the Indian Ocean. A pencil line circled a group of islands. I bent to read their name, a corner of the chart lifted, ever so gently. The cabin door swung softly.

  I leapt back. Instantly the eyes vanished. I was staring again into an empty bunk; in my nostrils the wafting sweet rancid odour. Sickness welled up. Bolting up the companionway, I was out in three steps. Gulping the clear air, I hurriedly cast off mooring lines and swinging over the rail, dropped aboard the waiting Hilda.