Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  A consignment of this material would now be heading secretly to Diego Garcia. Goldberg worried mightily over his conversation with the US military; one mistake and -so far as they were concerned- he didn’t care to speculate. High time to weigh up the risks, Mr Dealer should understand containers didn’t just fall off a lorry. Time indeed, and critically short, Sir Joshua poured a coffee. Risk detection or renege on the deal and lose forty million? Renege, maybe, but how to avoid these criminals in future- hand the dealer’s name to the FBI? The man wouldn’t be seen again but he might squeal in the process. Goldberg cursed, the loss would be unbearable, fifty million. Agitated fingers drummed his head, maybe wisest to abort the deal.

  If he did, security would be paramount. Sir Joshua looked nervously at his own door. How had those thugs gained entry to a bedroom in Qatar’s most expensive hotel? Bribery, it wasn’t a break in, pure bribery, nobody’s trustworthy, anything for money. How much had it taken he wondered-five hundred dollars, surely not? Security, yes, as from today he’d hire bodyguards from that reputable London agent with experience in Iraq. Yes, ten million in his Midas account, courtesy of that upstart of an arms dealer, it should cover safety fees nicely, and a little to spare. Goldberg smiled, why not use Mr Clever Dealer’s dollars to protect himself from another visit?

  Payback time, the idea appealed. Mind made up, he dashed off a text to Nuen’s Chief Technical Director, the one man with knowledge of the transaction and in full charge of the current shipment. ‘Ensure safety first and foremost.’ A prearranged message, it would immediately alert his director that the deal was off. No exchanging containers during the flight, but of course the dealer would receive a consignment. Unfortunately the particular canister selected for him to innocently pass on would contain ten kilos of lead.

  Capital thinking, problem solved, the weapons grade uranium stayed safely at Diego Garcia, no duping the US military, the dealer would escort the container he’d collected to its final destination. At this point Goldberg’s thoughts broke into gleeful laughter, “And he’ll carry the can when it’s opened. How awfully annoyed the recipients will be, they’ll certainly arrange a little farewell party for Mr. Big Dealer.” Though seldom finding other people’s jokes amusing, Sir Joshua was not averse to laughing at his own.

  And back on top form, he barked a stream of instructions down the phone. The international consortium dealing with the nuclear waste project in Scotland received an ultimatum, “Unless you commence stage one construction within a month, I shall regard this as breach of contract and instruct my lawyers to begin proceedings accordingly.”

  To witness the pride with which Eilidh handed over the baby for Ella to inspect and nurse was a pure delight, two women happily sharing their motherly instincts. For Ella it must have been the reawakening of a succession of children bathed in the kitchen sink, children creeping down the stairs in the dark when she and Eachan sat at the fire, the sound of her family playing in the fields, one day to be scattered abroad. No reproof followed for our not calling on her to aid the birth, only admiration in Ella’s tone as she asked a few womanly questions.

  I noticed she carefully refrained from enquiring his name. Finally Eilidh could hold back no longer. The old lady’s face at once solemn, “I knew you would give him the good Gaelic name.” The memory of old Eachan showed in her eyes and she hugged the boy to hide her emotion.

  Leaving the women to their talk, I pushed open the steading door and sat on the front wheel of Eachan’s little grey tractor. Hammers and saw bench, fencing tools and hay rakes, all the hand held implements which kept a working croft alive were much as he had left them. His scythe hung from a rafter, its worn sharpening stone on the window ledge, a spade propped against the wall, their idleness added to an air of disuse which brooded over the shed. I found it difficult to grasp that running this croft had fallen into my hands.

  Looking thoughtfully to the far off fields I could see the cows and calves. Ella no longer milked a house cow. The calves would be sold, perhaps the cows? Iain, good friend and neighbour had made the season’s hay crop, small stacks dotted the nearest field. Carting them to the barn would be the first of many day’s work.

  Three weeks since coming over to Ach na Mara and each day had counted. Our hay forked by hand onto the trailer and into the barn, Ella’s lambs sent away to the mainland sheep sale, all the pleasantest of work and set to a purpose. Whilst down at the Castleton ferry loading the lambs, I noticed the Valkyrie had been moved out to a mooring in the harbour. Nose to the breeze, riding her chain amongst the local fishing boats, even from a distance she’d taken on a look of neglect.

  In his unhurried manner the pier master leant on the rails of the sheep pens, “Your lambs are in great fettle, whatever the trade will be.” He gave no indication that I was a total amateur with sheep and turning his back to look across the harbour, “We needed to move the yacht, MacKenzie.” It was his way of opening the subject. Being equally slow to broach the matter, I stated the obvious, “I saw that.” He turned slowly to face me, “There’s papers in the office, if you’re interested.” Clearly in his capacity as Receiver of Wrecks, the question of salvage required attention. “Right, I’ll be over in a little,” I’d fallen into the easygoing island style.

  Apparently from documents aboard Valkrie, Anderson’s next of kin had been traced, a Mrs. Anderson did exist. She had no knowledge of her deceased husband ever owning a yacht of that name and nor did she wish to pay the cost of its salvage. Unrealistic as it sounded, legally I could claim the boat. The pier master come receiver sat at his desk aware of my hesitation, “You please yourself, MacKenzie,” adding in a noncommittal way, “She’s a fine yacht, never a better came into this harbour.“ Perhaps it was his way trying to help me make up my mind. Small wonder I had doubts, the sight of Anderson’s brutal end remained unpleasantly sharp. “Don’t be leaving it too long or she’ll have to be sold.” The yacht’s tall mast took my attention, on an incoming swell it circled against the horizon. Two days later Eilidh and I sailed her round to the jetty at Ach na Mara, and young Eachan in his crib roped on a bunk.

  Like myself, Eilidh wearied to be back in our Sandray home. To leave Ella alone made it difficult. Good woman, she guessed as much, though our feelings were never expressed. Would we sell the cattle? No, she wanted the work to help her pass the winter and Iain or his wife would be calling most days. Around the croft few things had changed, so too about the house little had been moved, in her own way Ella wanted to live with memories.

  We’d spent the best part of the day loading supplies onto the Hilda and with Eilidh, the boy and the dog perched at the bow, it was late of the day before I steered away from the Ach na Mara jetty. A dark night, banks of cloud rested their burden on the grey Atlantic. Eilidh rocking with the boat’s motion had fed Eachan before tucking a sleeping child into his crib. I’d lashed it to the thwart behind the mast and as Eilidh reached for an oilskin to put over the bed, I spotted Muille sneaking a lick at the leftovers on the boy’s face, “She’s got a taste for milk,” I laughed the length of the boat. Eilidh called back, “Well the boy’s taking all my supplies, he’s got some appetite, another month and it’ll be mince and tatties.” The note of her voice told me of a happy, excited woman. We were a family unit again, including the dog.

  A black ocean had no margin to offer a matrix devoid of starlight. The dead air held un-natural warmth. Given luck, we’d beat the approaching rain. In under the headland, I’d steered the track so often, each time with the thrill of a homecoming. Difficult to see, don’t swing in too soon, I held course, open up the bay. The mass of headland passed astern. Instantly out of the blackness, a flashing light, a small orange light, another further inshore, both towards the south side of the bay, flashing every few seconds, certainly not a vessel, anchored or otherwise. “What the hell?”

  Now I had my bearings. We were at the mouth of the bay. Over the tiller, hard a- port, “I’m going to run across to investigate,” Eilidh stared, equal
ly surprised. She nodded and put her hand onto the crib. Cold air struck the back of my neck. Behind us hissing began, rain on the sea.

  I steered for the light, closing in. The first blast of rain hit us, large drops, stinging my ears, rattling on the canvas covering our supplies, beating a tattoo on the sea. Eilidh pulled an oilskin over the crib. Ahead the beacon flashed. Orange light spread on the water for a second, vanished for two. Dimly the seal rocks appeared at each pulse, owlish and yellow.

  Close in we saw large objects undulating in the slight swell. Each garish flash outlined low angular frameworks, the hideously incongruous wood and metal struts of fish cages. Factory farming, fish fed to fish, the ocean plundered to turn cheap fish into expensive fish, and the bay an arena consigned to another environmental rip off.

  The bleakness was not of the unceasing rain, nor the rising wind that swept numbing sheets across the jetty as we landed, that would pass; it was the inner desolation of knowing the advance of exploitation had sought and found another victim. The bay and the innocent would suffer.

  I wrapped the boy in my jacket. We trudged the path through the dunes, both soaked. That meant nothing, tomorrow the driving rain would give way to sunshine. The desecrating of a natural world would yield only the sorrows of a barren waste.

  The incessant buffeting pushed us on, the moan of a rising storm at our backs. We hurried, anxious for the shelter of home. Uneasiness grew at every step. The island had been broken into, robbed of its spiritual warmth, no feeling of welcome. Somebody’s here? I became wary.

  Without warning the storm broke. A jagged bolt of lightening split the heavens, the crackle of ionized air quenched its energy in the sea. A second’s brilliance illuminated indigo waves, turned the underside of the clouds stark white. Lashing rain smelt of discharge. Darkness intensified. Thunder reverberated from the Hill of the Shroud. We felt the pressure.

  Home, just fifty yards. Great black bellied clouds impounded the sky. Another mighty flash and ear shattering crackle. Through grey rain it lit dark objects.

  Heaped before the walls of the house, our furniture, sparse as it was, chairs, table, bed and mattress, lamps, dishes, broken and scattered.

  Eilidh gasped, stifling a cry she clasped her bedraggled hair. The boy began to whimper, I passed him to her.

  Shaken by disbelief I ran to the door. Boards were nailed across it.

  A sign stared me in the face.

  NO ADMITTANCE.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  A civilised shape

  Fluorescent tubes illuminated the broad desk of a spacious planning office in the London headquarters of a multinational construction consortium. Three be-suited gentlemen turned sheet after sheet of plans. From an artist’s overall impression to the intricacy of its computer control room, every aspect of the underground storage facility about to be built for Nuen required a final verification; its capacity, the safety back up system, security against nuclear attack, a maze of detail, all to the satisfaction of the energy giant’s chairman.

  Flanking Sir Joshua Goldberg were the consortium’s chief designer and its executive director. Given that the gap between paper plans and practical reality often tended to diverge, it suited none of the trio to admit that the project would include an element of inspired guesswork on the part of the foreman and the ‘brickies’.

  A tiring session, Sir Joshua’s varicose veins were aching, his elastic stocking were too tight. At last they came to glancing over maps which indicated the site for accommodating the labour force; not strictly a concern of Nuen’s chairman but having another scheme in mind, he demanded to assign its location. “That is not where to erect your worker’s huts. I suggest you make use of this area.” Behind his back the consortium executives arched their eyebrows, however this being a major contract, they chorused, “Very suitable Sir Joshua.”

  “Of course it is,” he snapped not wishing any interruption, and pointing a stubby finger, “demolish that ruined house, divert the stream and so forth and remember, I want the utmost care taken over this piece of land, no burying of any rubbish or dumping residue from the construction.” The chief executive bristled slightly, “That is not our company policy, Sir Joshua.” It brought a snide rejoinder, “Am I correct in recalling your company being fined two million dollars last year for a toxic spillage?”

  The question was ignored. Cocking his head, the Nuen chairman expanded on his latest theme, “You see getting away from the packaged holiday throngs appeals to those with sensitivity, escapism if one wants to call it that, it’s the in thing, and as my main contractor you should bear in mind that ultimately, once this place is carefully landscaped, I shall build a concourse of exclusive holiday bungalows, facilities to match, swimming pools, etcetera.”

  His hand swept over the plan, “and this flat area which at the present is a totally worthless expanse of grass and sand dunes, I shall lay out as a golf course. I shall call it, Oceanic Paradise. In years to come, once the place has been knocked into a civilised shape, I shall also incorporate a luxury timeshare complex.”

  “Naturally Sir Joshua, any future venture will receive our closest attention,” the chief planner smiled ingratiatingly. “Our record in tasteful developments is second to none; you may be aware that we are the consultants involved in Dubai’s visionary new city.”

  Goldberg merely grunted. Half a head shorter than the company executives, he drew himself up and turning from one to the other, “Gentlemen, I find myself reasonably satisfied with your final designs. I insist however on immediate action, move in your heavy equipment, the site clearance must begin at once, and kindly do not use adverse weather as an excuse for any delay.”

  Much civility escorted Sir Joshua from the consortium’s top storey offices. Ticking over on their forecourt waited his personalised Bentley, SJG, 1. The newly engaged bodyguard held open a rear door, and taking an elbow, helped a wheezing Goldberg into his limousine. Behind darkened windows Goldberg settled himself deep into its leather upholstery, “Downing Street!” he ordered his chauffeur.

  Oil spilling into the Gulf, financial meltdown, renewable energy mania, never had there been a better time to turn the screw on politicians and taxpayer alike; the initials, PFI had an appealing ring, music to his injured pride. The side of a red bus loomed over the Bentley. Goldberg leant forward, “Kindly remember driver you’re not employed to give way to London Transport, my time is valuable.”

  Yes, he assured himself, Private Finance Initiative, how accommodating of the Chancellor to dream up such a clever wheeze for keeping some of the Nation’s debt off his capital account, so helpful towards getting a handsome return on one’s outlay. Let the taxpayer get a taste of the cost of borrowing, turn up the rate, this countrys’ been living on handouts too long, everything on the cheap, NHS is a classic, turned UK into a troupe of malingerers, they require a smart lesson in paying for what they get, a Nation in need of his expertise must be taught a lesson in economics.

  This surge of righteous indignation brought on an attack of panting. Sir Joshua glared at the wrought iron gates of the Nations political playpen, he was no longer a behind the scenes Scientific Advisor to an outfit of amatures. Soon they would know the strength of his financial muscle.

  Taking an elbow the chauffeur helped him alight.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  Scattered or taken

  Darkness and driving rain, I wrenched frantically at the boarding nailed over the house door. ‘No Admittance’ jeered at me. I ripped the sign off, flung it to the wind. Berserk, in bare -handed fury, I beat and tugged. The nails held. Nothing came away. More frantic wrenching, blood ran down my arm. Unable to see clearly, I gave up for the moment. My heart pounded. Hurriedly I checked. Every window in the place and the byre door, nails and boards! A clap of thunder grumbled away south. Eilidh stood dripping, Eachan tucked beneath her oilskin. They needed shelter. I must get them some form of shelter.

  Lifting the table I carried it round to the lee side of the house; s
till raining at least it was out of the wind. Furniture, books, clothes and all our possessions were heaped on top of each other to form a bonfire, obviously ready for burning. I dragged our sodden mattress from under the chairs, lugged it round and squeezed it in below the table, a tarpaulin covered the table top and down the sides. Nothing dry to lie on, I delved amongst the heap.

  Bursts of heavy rain swishing in across the bay rattled on the kitchen utensils. In spite of my hurry I moved things carefully, searching for something which might just be dry. Our two easy chairs were near the bottom. I pulled one from the pile. Our bedroom mirror lay in pieces amongst some of Eilidh’s clothes. Even in the blackness, drops of blood from my bleeding hand showed up on one of her white blouses. It needed a bandage. I raked the jumble for a bed sheet to rip. My hand felt a piece of leather. Even in the dark I knew it, my cursed briefcase!

  Plastered hair, rain dripping off the end of my nose I groped for a strap, jerked it free. Flap and lock hung open. I thrust inside. Empty. All my notes, the research papers on the dangers of nuclear waste storage, gone. Scattered or taken? I stood up, felt the rain run down my neck, my spine, for the first time that chilling night, I shivered.

  More hasty delving, an old cupboard lay on its front. I dragged out dampish towels and blankets and hurried them round to the makeshift shelter. Handing the boy to me, Eildh took them and vanished under the table. Her head popped out a minute later, “That’s the bed ready.” I patted her soaking hair, “Won’t be long, I’m away down to unload the boat.” As so often before, I ran to the jetty, this time without a lightness of heart. By the orange flash of a fish farm beacon I washed my cut hand in the sea and after unloading the Hilda, pulled a tarpaulin over our pile of stores.

  Heedless of the weather, I stood on the edge of the jetty watching the Hilda. Each tug on her mooring ropes shed amber droplets of rain. Streaks of orange reflection across the bay glistened on her varnished planking, timbers which had known the shores of a tree clad fiord. The long poem written by my great grandfather of the old women frozen beneath a larch tree, her sacrifice for a new born child, wandered through my head. The swish of gusting rain played on the water, first beside me, then somewhere far away. In its lulls and flurries the larches swayed, and autumn needles fell thick and auburn on a carpet of hidden memory.