Since the days of Nuen’s Chairman Anderson’s departure their elaborate New York offices had been enlarged to include Goldberg’s taste in works of fine art. Pride of place was given to a large, much admired example of Jackson Pollock’s drip painting style; it occupied most of the wall opposite the room’s main entrance. Rather than taking all his substantial annual bonus in cash or shares, the chairman opted for expensive oils. “Always a useful investment,” he informed Nick Fellows, “nor so troublesome on the company balance sheets at the AGM.”
Selecting his next acquisition was far from Goldberg’s mind. The company’s recent shipment of weapons grade uranium to the US base at Diego Garcia was the sole responsibility of Nuen’s chief executive, the only other person privy to their strictly off the record deal. A coded message had reached Goldberg’s computer early that day indicating some problem. From that moment on he became unapproachable, swearing fluently if disturbed. The fool must have cocked it up, the penalty would be diabolical. Sir Joshua re-read the message. Had their arrangements been leaked? This could mean personal ruin. He loathed digital systems, damned satellites and instant information, hacker’s playground or government tool, one had nothing private any more.
Goldberg seethed inwardly, the last coded instructions to his chief executive were clear. If the nuclear arsenal of America’s Middle Eastern ally discovered the switched container held lead rather than weapons grade uranium then let the middleman take the flack, the man wouldn’t trouble them again. Sir Joshua paced his office. Ten million down payment on the agreement was already in his offshore account. It must be moved immediately to avoid trace. Screwing the deal, losing the outstanding forty million dollars, oh God, the acid stress burnt his stomach.
Little dark eyes slid under heavy lids. Maybe all was not yet lost. Should he play the innocent upright citizen. Expose this ‘on the side’ deal to the C.I.A. Speak to the Pentagon, they’d turn a blind eye, mutual interests in Middle East affairs and all that; more interestingly they might be persuaded to contribute quite a sum for his help in tracking this dastardly piece of uranium smuggling. It could be one way to claw back at least part of the forty million and absolve himself from suspicion. Goldberg warmed to the idea of revealing the deal.
There had to be a ‘fall guy’, so be it. If Nuen’s Chief Executive had created any hitch, let him fend for himself, my word against his; as for the middleman, he was disposable. Goldberg sat down to think. This might be the wisest plan, ditch this bungler in the interests of safeguarding the great Uncle Sam and plaudits would flow. Sir Joshua toyed with the idea, after all one had to believe in exposing international criminals.
“There’s a gentleman in the outer office who is insisting on seeing you, sir,” the secretary sounded nervous, his employer had been in a foul mood all morning. Sir Joshua swivelled round, “Tell him, who ever he is, to go to hell.” A respectful cough, his secretary hovered at the door. “What is it now?” Goldberg growled. “The gentleman gave me his card.” “Bugger cards, get out!” “I think, sir,” from a safe distance his secretary held out the card. Squinting over his half spectacles Goldberg could just read, Criminal Investigation Authority. His patience cracked, “CIA., Give to it me.” He snatched the card. The next line read, Chief Inspecting Office, U.S.A. Security. Twinges of indigestion title gave way to a sickening jab of pain.
Avoiding further announcement a man strode into the office. Sir Joshua rose to greet him with an ingratiating smile, “Good morning. Have we met before?” The greeting drew neither answer nor handshake. Instead the tall, cold eyed visitor replied, “You got my card. I need a strictly private word with you on a matter concerning my agency.” Goldberg hesitated, the card might be a fake. Nervous of a sudden attack, he avoided being alone if at all possible. Casually placing his large desk and its panic button between himself and this unexpected caller Sir Joshua briefly scrutinized the man before dismissing his secretary with a significant nod.
Instinct suggested a friendly tone, “Do sit down. Care for a coffee?” Sir Joshua smiled, always a model of gracious manners if the situation hinted problems. “No thanks, I’m here on an issue which might have serious international repercussions.”
“Ah, I see. How may I help?” Still careful to remain affable, Goldberg looked concerned, and not without good reason. The officer’s face showed nothing, “You are directly responsible for your company’s top secret supply and movement of weapons grade fissile material, are you not?” The directness of the query sent a sickening twist of apprehension through Nuen’s Chairman; he fought to appear matter of fact, “You could say so, that is the case up to a point. I’m extremely busy, I have a multifaceted business.”
“Quite,” the inflection implied some suspicion lay behind the comment. It was not lost on Goldberg, he clasped his hands to stop them trembling. Glancing over the office before locking Sir Joshua in a penetrating stare, the investigator used words calculated for their effect, “A quantity of weapons grade uranium is unaccounted for. We have reason to believe it has been smuggled into the Middle East, by somebody,” his stare intensified, “or persons, in Nuen.”
The final, ‘or persons’ mentally paralysed Nuen’s chairman. His ashen cheeks sagged. His mouth opened as though to speak. It hung open, a glittering display of gold fillings. Recovery took many minutes. Appalled at the implications, finally he stammered, “This is, is very serious, extremely serious indeed.” The CIA official remained silent, waiting, poised.
“Theft or smuggling, it’s impossible, I’ll have to, to..” words failed. Sir Joshua needed no excuse to manifest his total alarm. The appealing thought, not twenty minutes previous, remained uppermost. Instantly Goldberg decided. Survival, him or me, no question; the fate of Nuen’s Chief Executive, sealed. There was no other means of escape. “The only person, and I truly hesitate to say this, but I find your suggestion so grave, in all honesty, though I can barely believe it, the only person who might be involved if your statement has any possible validity, is my Chief Executive.”
“I see,” the investigator’s eye had not left Goldberg’s face. “You know this man’s whereabouts?” “I’m not altogether certain,” Sir Joshua was regaining mental equilibrium, “his day to day movements are not my concern. He carries out his work entirely at his own discretion.” Flipping a hand towards his desk, “Naturally I can easily find out.”
The CIA officer stepped smartly to the door, “That won’t be necessary.” His last words as insidious as his parting glare, “He’s not Diego Garcia by any chance?”
The door closed without Goldberg noticing. His secretary entered quietly and stood watching a man who by appearance could be gravely ill. Should he call a doctor? “Are you feeling all right sir?” His employer ignored the question, instead he barked, “I’m flying out immediately, get my plane organised!” The secretary fled the room.
Sir Joshua sat on the edge of his desk talking inwardly to himself; this needs clear thinking, if that fool chief executive hadn’t totally erased their communications; that would be the only link the CIA could find. The stupid man might have kept them, safeguard himself, double cross me, blackmail. If this thing leaks, I’ll need friends’ right at the top, fucking politicians- the most untrustworthy of the lot, but they have their uses. Thank God the banker has sense, first job, see him face to face, shift that cash; there must be no trace, no phones or coded messages, face to face, there’s nothing safe in this bloody sneaky world. Never had he felt more in need of caviar and Caribbean sunshine, nor the more in need of an emergency meeting with his banker.
“Your plane is waiting on the tarmac, sir.”
Of an evening when skies were clear, I’d step from the byre and for a little time watch the southwest horizon; the pleasure derived from my first glimpse of the evening star, a lone outpost in the twilight mauve, poignant and unfailing. Did beauty exist apart and beyond us, a dimension in the cradle of creation awaiting the gift of seeing? I turned away. Venus no longer graced our southern sky, the
blind arc of lights over Sandray claimed the horizon.
Both of us had abandoned scientific careers to chase an ideal. Much was to be decided, the ruination of our aspirations made us unsettled. Should we return to academic work? The guilt of having completely abandoned my team at the Hadron Collider in Geneva still surfaced at times of indecision. Likewise Eilidh was plagued by the feeling that her experience in highlighting some aspects of climate change required her drive and common sense approach. We remained ambivalent. Even if we could pick up the threads, back to the city? I’d often remarked to Eilidh, ‘The first mark of intelligence is a healthy lifestyle.’
One evening as we walked the croft and summer’s warmth lingered in the soil, a thin mist settled the undulating hollows of grasslands which stretched towards the night. Beyond us the dunes floated on an opaque white cloak of mist, hunched backs moulded by the dying light. From the far north a skein of geese flew in, the beating of their strong pinions brushed cool air on our faces. Splayed feet at the ready, wings angling to hit the flight path, they coasted in to land with a chatter of voices and burst of flapping to slow their descent. We laughed together. The birds, happy in their own world of chance, lifted the gloom of weeks.
I took Eilidh’s hand and drew her to me, “They’re home for the winter.” Gently she rubbed her lips along my bare arm, “Yes, and so are we.” I clasped my fingers amidst the thickness of her unruly hair, in the scent of her nearness there was peace. We had young Eachan, we had each other, and the land would sustain us.
Crofting Ach na Mara it was to be, and in the ways of Eachan. Little had changed, cows, calves, ewes and lambs, Ella, with help from Eilidh’s brother Iain, managed to keep together the livestock of which the old boy was so proud. Following his footsteps would be a privilege, simple, wholesome and unhurried; fresh air by day and last thing each evening the warmth of a winter byre to fill the hay racks above each cow’s head and give a scratch to their necks. Finishing for the day I’d step into starlight, snib the door and stand listening to the sea; so to a supper grown on the croft and the long nights of knitting, reading and music.
Winter slipped into spring, the horrors of our last days on Sandray were fading. Down in Castleton we heard of tunnelling into the Hill of the Shroud and the building of a vast breakwater on the east side of the island. We didn’t wish to be reminded. Reports from the local fishermen spoke of an island covered in activity and an atmosphere of secrecy. Landing was strictly forbidden. Several journalists manning a hired inflatable sped off intent on breaching the island security, only to reappear at the Castleton bar later that day with soggy note books--- buzzed by a patrol boat whose curve of spray had the wetting affect of sleet in a force eight gale. Value to the locals from story hungry journalists ran to many drams and beads of sweat on the brow of MacLeod the publican. Even an assault by Greenpeace could not provide more entertainment.
Although I joined in the fun at the bar counter, Goldberg’s involvement confirmed my suspicions that Sandray was destined to be an underground receptacle for nuclear waste. This was less amusing for if this information proved correct it represented the backup for what my researches warned me was mankind’s ultimate stupidity. Anger flared from time to time. I should be fighting its building, climbing their towers shoulder to shoulder with the true activists, creating maximum disruption, sacrificing my insular security in the interest of humanity. And yet here I was a chattering objector, torn between a hankering for things past and the morbid fatalism of things to come. Indecision equates with weakness, and I did nothing.
Instead of resolute action, I ranted to the ever patient Eilidh. The most deadly force known to the universe placed in the hands of greed and religious violence. Set that folly against burgeoning energy usage and the stresses of climate change, add in the escalating race towards control of global resources, and then rest fully assured no safeguard exists against human error, political insanity or the forces of nature. Succeeding generations were being handed a lethal inheritance from which there would be no reprieve. On that note my diatribes invariably ended; Eilidh would take my hand and hope the creaking old stairs didn’t waken Ella.
Young Eachan was beginning to crawl about the house and pull things out of cupboards. By the following year he’d follow me about the croft and at summer haymaking, dungarees and bare feet, he’d play amongst the coilacks with his pal Muille. The house could not contain him, beach or field- the boy was happiest in the open. Modern living rumbled on without us, a tumbrel beyond our horizon. We were able to feed ourselves at small expense, our needs were few, the ‘have everything ‘ ethos had yet to permeate Halasay living. Little did we appreciate the difficulties of those who faced the concerns of a society grappling with unemployment and the financial chaos driven by greed; to us it appeared in turmoil. Only the breaking into unscarred landscape across on Sandray and the smashing of natural systems by brute force brought us face to face with the unmasked hunger of a single species under pressure.
The years were to bring about dramatic change. Vested interests of planners and Government agencies fanned the wind of economic forces blowing from the south. A new housing estate built outside Castleton saw the precious arable of several crofts planted with eighty homes. Population was on the move, mostly from the industrial conurbations and fuelled by a property boom. Furniture vans from far a field struggled with single track roads whilst house prices soared out of reach of local pockets.
Strange names, different customs and manners, Iain and I noted the change, especially at the bar counter of the Castleton Hotel on a sale day. Due to complaints sheep had been barred from wandering through the village, cattle kept off the roads; we, along with the few crofters who’d stuck with it, provided photograph opportunities for passing tourists as we unloaded sheep from trailers at the local auction mart. After the auctioneer’s hammer fell to a dealers last nod and the livestock sold and loaded aboard the steamer, we stood at the counter enjoying a dram and admiring the cheque for a year’s work. As oilskin oddities smelling of sheep we were ignored by a congregation at one end of the bar, symbolic of two cultures drawing apart.
One escalating aspect of the crofting scene I had not considered, until an avalanche of brown envelopes and swarms of visiting inspectors became a regular feature. They arrived from the mainland, spent a pleasant night on expenses at the Castleton Hotel and by coffee time an expenses fuelled car would arrive at Ach na Mara. Many of the old timers packed up in disgust, and the islands livestock number fell in step with the increase in form filling. The big picture on the mainland was the rapid advance of factory farming, we still milked a house cow and Eilidh made butter; by contrast the consumers’ sugar pops enjoyed milk from the eight thousand head dairy herds of cloned indoor cattle. Price pressure from multinational operations and an avalanche of regulation- the family farmer’s role would soon be that of servant to a bureaucratic control. Sadly we faced the reality that our dash for freedom on Sandray had little chance of long term success. Remote as the island seemed to us, it could not hold out against the escalation of deleterious human activity.
In day to day life at Ach na Mara, Ella lacked her old vigour, she seemed happy to be sitting all day, when of old she would be up and busy. In evenings through in the room, young Eachan sat at her knee and listened to stories of her youth. A doctor was out of the question and any hint that she might be tired was brushed off with a flurry of activity. Beneath her cheerful self we knew she missed her own Eachan and although we had no TV maybe the news filtered through. The radio reports would leave her in no doubt we were headed into a world of which she wanted no part.
The following summer witnessed the building of pylons. The blades of one- legged giants captured the winds which swept hill and peatland on islands far to the north of Halasay. The same breezes which dried our hay became the energy to light an office and power the factory; a green disguise for the footprints of economic development. By the time I had the hayfields cleared and another winter’s feed safe
in the barn, across the land which bordered Ach na Mara, loops of cable drooped between gangling steeples. Scenery made way for saving the planet, maybe a small price to pay in an attempt to defeat a two degree temperature rise and protect western consumerism.
Tallest of these monuments to progress was being erected on the south side of Halasay where the Sound of Sandray lay at its narrowest. From our kitchen window it towered above the horizon. “Atlantic gales will soon power the island, we left too soon,” Eilidh didn’t laugh, my cynicism wasn’t funny. Presently another gigantic structure built on Sandray became a feature of the skyline, legs akimbo, wide arms of steel struts, its massive cables conquered the Sound. Its feet straddled the headland, the Viking grave of Eachan’s resting lay ominously under concrete, so too the grave which he himself had covered those many years past beneath the walls of Tigh na Mara.
Ella viewed this scenic intrusion with considerable misgivings, perhaps with hidden fear. Its outline pierced the Hill of the Shroud and she would gaze from the window at the colossal triangle of girders and braces without speaking for long spells at a time. Each night when a dazzling brightness illuminated the hilltop it stood with arms outstretched, a skeleton cross against the faded starlight.
Not long after the pylon took over our southern view, we sat through in the room one evening as was our fashion. The boy had been told his bedtime story by Eilidh and I sat reading, to the click of knitting needles. Ella broke the quietness, her mind far from stitches, “I was with Eachan last night, on Sandray, just as we used to be.” I lifted my eyes from the page, Eilidh glanced at me. Ella’s words took us completely by surprise. She spoke with a dream like abstraction, “We talked and talked.” Her eyes were closed. Poor Ella, her heart had broken. “That steel statue was over us, over the stones, above everything, pointing at the sky,” she caught her breath, “and Eachan stood at the foot of that hideous cross, and looked up, ‘This will be the end,’ her voice broke down, “and he turned and stepped into a galley and sailed with the Raven,”
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