by Clare Carson
‘Is this your friend?’
The raven cawed, scolding her, swooped close.
‘I’ll put it back, don’t worry.’
She turned the skull on its side, eased the tile inside the eye socket, squeezed her arm inside the rock’s crevice and gently deposited the raven’s skull back in its hidden grave. She withdrew her hand, stood quickly before she had a chance to change her mind, half expecting a bolt of lightning to strike her dead now that she had been parted from the protection of her talisman. Nothing happened. She turned and spotted another path she hadn’t seen before that cut a diagonal across the slope and ended at the back of the village nearer to the car. She ran and skipped, gaining speed on the slope, reached the Volvo. She looked back over her shoulder and saw Jim leaving the croft. She’d made it just in time.
She thought he might have guessed she had been spying on him, almost anticipated a bollocking. But he seemed subdued; the meeting with Pierce had left him more sad than mad. They sat in the car. He turned the ignition, did a three-point turn, crawled along the track.
‘Don’t tell Anna you’ve been to Hoy,’ he said as they passed through the barren, scorched valley. ‘It would be safer for her if she didn’t know.’
She nodded and she felt that she shared some of the burden of his sadness, some of the blame and the guilt.
CHAPTER 15
Orkney, October 1989
Prospero: Hast thou, spirit,
Performed to point the tempest that I bade thee?
Ariel: To every article.
See you October 3rd
SHE HAD BEEN quite pleased with her coded note to Pierce. Although having written it, posted it to the PO Box number he had given her, battled train cancellations because of lines blocked by fallen trees and braved a gut-churning ferry crossing to Stromness, she was beginning to wonder whether too much time scouring The Tempest for suitable quotes had morphed her into Ariel, her cipher, complete with storm-inciting powers. She collected the archaeologist’s Honda 50 – he’d kindly told her she was welcome to it if she was mad enough to ride it in this weather. He always left the key in the ignition, he said. She could use it whenever she wanted. She had ridden through the deluge to a cheap and damp B and B in Kirkwall.
Waves of rain sliding over grey paving stones. Water trickling down her neck every time she ventured to the library archive. She spent two days reading old excavation reports from the Earl’s Bu, searching for evidence of the Norse settlement below the surface. There were hints of older ruins – a pictish stone with a carved crescent moon had been found – and strange accounts of hundreds of small cat bones sifted from the soil. The animals had been butchered, knife cuts visible on the bones. Why would anybody butcher a cat? Ritual. Or something more practical – pelts. Bred to be skinned. She thought of Reznik the cat strangler then; butcher by name and butcher by nature. Harry’s reaction confirmed Pierce’s assessment of him as a ruthless operator; a dangerous arms dealer who would pursue his enemies to the grave. She tried to concentrate on the excavation records – but her mind was drifting, sifting memories, washing away the dirt and debris until all that was left were shards of scarred bone. Fears about Jim. She closed her notebook, wandered to the window, watched sheets of rain falling. The apse of the Round Church at Orphir was so badly built it should have collapsed, she had learned, and the only reason the circular stone wall remained standing was the strength of the mortar that glued it together. Earl Hakon’s guilt for murdering Magnus had been mixed in with the putty, she reckoned. Guilt had a habit of persisting. When she turned up at Pierce’s croft in Hoy earlier in the summer, he had asked her whether she was at the Round Church because she was a penitent and, of course, she was; remorse for past errors and fears about her father’s sins the force driving her from one end of the country to the other in an autumnal storm.
*
THE RAIN STOPPED on the 3rd, chased away by a howling wind that sped her along the road to Houton. Greylag geese combed the sodden fields in straight lines, like policemen searching for a body. Gusts stripped the leaves from the sycamores and whisked them around in golden flurries. The Houton ferryman in his yellow oilskins laughed when she asked whether the crossing might be cancelled because of the wind. He said this was nothing. This wasn’t even a gale. If they cancelled the ferries every time there was a gust of wind in Orkney, nobody would ever go anywhere. Don’t go climbing the cliff paths, though, he warned. Play it safe.
Waves rolled the ferry as it crossed Scapa Flow in the thin dawn light. Gusts rocked the bike along the coast road past Pegal Bay. She tried to quell the wind in her mind without much success. The inland road between the scree slopes was calmer than the coast, but still she was relieved to part company with the Honda when she reached Rackwick Bay.
Pierce was leaning against the doorframe of his croft, watching her climb the path. He looked more like an ageing Prospero, she thought, in the mysterious low light of Orkney’s autumn; more unkempt than the last time she had seen him, windblown strands of brown hair striping his forehead.
He straightened as she approached, raised a hand dramatically. ‘What, Ariel! My industrious servant, Ariel!’
A performer – like Anna. There was something in his rendition of Prospero’s lines that unnerved her; even in those few words he reminded her how much she had disliked the character the first time she had read The Tempest for her English A-level. Prospero was cruel to both his slaves, Ariel and Caliban, but it was the way he treated his daughter Miranda that hacked her off the most. Mind control. Complete psychological suppression. She had decided that The Tempest was a play about abusive patriarchy. Her teacher had corrected her assertion; it was Shakespeare’s final work, his farewell to the stage. A play about reconciliation with the inevitability of death as well as with one’s enemies, he said. She had never been entirely convinced.
She smiled awkwardly at Pierce, uncertain how to react to his disconcerting theatrical greeting.
‘Good to see you.’ He said it with a genuine warmth that dispelled the peculiar twinge produced by his brief Prospero performance.
‘Good to see you too.’ She meant it. He wasn’t straightforward – he was a spy after all – but he was interesting. And, give him his due, he was trying to do the right thing. Resolve the discords in his life, reconstruct his relationship with Anna. A blast of wind ruffled the edge of the turf roof.
‘You arrived with the first proper tempest of the autumn. Very appropriate.’
‘The ferryman said it wasn’t a gale.’
‘Hah. The ferryman. Let me guess, you’re talking about the large ginger whiskered bloke on the Houton to Lyness crossing.’
‘Yep.’
‘He grew up on Hoy. He’s used to the conditions here.’
‘Don’t you ever get scared here alone?’
‘The weather doesn’t scare me.’
She thought that was probably true. He had the air of a man who wasn’t easily scared, someone you could rely on in difficult circumstances; military coup in a far-flung country, broken-down car on a motorway hard shoulder, knife-wielding maniac advancing. The one thing that rattled him was the Czech. Reznik the Butcher.
‘Let’s not stand on the doorstep. Come in.’
She could barely see inside the croft, it was so gloomy. The hurricane lamp guttered on the kitchen table. Why didn’t he buy another? Surely he could afford more than one. She watched him fill the kettle, place it on the hob. She could imagine Pierce commanding a room full of strangers with his presence and his stories hinting at bravery and insider knowledge of state secrets. And yet here he was, living the life of a hermit, a castaway in Hoy. Hardly anybody knew he was here apart from her and a few of his contacts in Intelligence. And probably Harry. Her conversation with Harry was bugging her. She was sure he had known Pierce’s location all along – Jim must have told him in ’76 when they met at his allotment. Pierce handed her a cup of tea, sat in the chair next to her.
‘I gather from your postcar
d that you’ve met Anna?’
‘Yes.’
‘How is she?’
‘Very well. She hasn’t changed much.’
His face cracked and wrinkled. ‘Well, that’s fantastic. Debrief me on your meeting.’
Debrief. She hesitated, she hadn’t prepared herself, decided what she should or shouldn’t say. Pierce was watching her expectantly.
‘I went along to a poll tax meeting and saw her there. It was in a crypt in Brixton.’
He tutted, eyes rolled to the rafters and back.
‘But I really don’t think you have to worry about her mates. She doesn’t have anything to do with Militant, so I doubt whether there’s any security risk to her knowing where you are.’
‘You didn’t tell her where I was living, did you?’
He leaned forward, face hardened, fist clenched in palm. She flinched, instinctively dodging a potential blow, the threat in his voice catching her off guard.
‘No, I didn’t tell her where you were living.’ She replied calmly, but she could hear the defensiveness in her voice, made wary by the glimpse of a darker shadow behind Pierce’s jovial façade. He stretched back on his chair, hands behind his head, relaxing again, and she dismissed the moment; she was on edge and had probably overreacted. Just the tone of a man who expected his orders to be obeyed.
‘Well, maybe she isn’t anything to do with Militant, but my informants are pretty clear that there are some funny old Trots in that group and we can’t be sure of who they know, so I think my caution is justified.’
She watched him curiously; she couldn’t get her head around the surveillance of Anna. Here was Pierce, using the secret state to spy on his daughter from whom he had become estranged because of his job. Nuts.
Pierce must have sensed her reaction to his comment. He changed tack. ‘I’m sure it’s a phase. I wish she would find herself a proper job, though.’
‘She’s an actress.’
‘Yes, but is she on the stage? Or in a film?’
‘She’s done some TV ads.’
‘Quite. That’s hardly... Why can’t she be more like you?’ he asked. ‘Do something with her brain. A postgraduate course. Take the civil service fast stream exam. Train to be a barrister. I don’t know – there are a thousand more productive ways of changing things than sitting in a darkened room in south London with a huddle of conspiracy theorists plotting the overthrow of the state.’
‘They’re not plotting the overthrow of the state,’ she said. ‘They are protesting against the poll tax.’
‘I know. I know. Sorry. I’m the frustrated father, trying to help his daughter from a distance. I mustn’t let it get to me. The most important thing is – do you think she would like to see me again?’
His eagerness was touching, exposed his vulnerability. She dug in her pocket, found the blue tile, removed it and held it in the flat of her palm for Pierce to see. ‘She wants to see you. She asked me to give you this tile.’
‘Ah.’ He pulled a curious expression which she couldn’t interpret. Surprised? Touched? Pained? ‘Now that brings back some memories. Jim handed me two similar tiles in the summer of 1976, except they were white.’ She wanted to ask what had happened to them, but decided it was better not to interrupt his flow. ‘Yes. Marble. Jim was bemused by them; he told me he had no idea where Anna had found them. Although I suspect he did.’
She suspected he did as well.
‘Jim said they were a gift from Anna, and I took them, a token of something or other. Love, I like to think, but maybe I was fooling myself.’
‘I don’t think so.’ Sam placed the tile on the coffee table, edged it in his direction. He didn’t touch it. ‘The tiles mean a lot to her, because...’ She felt foolish trying to explain the tiles – the Fisher King’s treasures – their magical powers and significance.
‘Of course.’ He left the tile on the table, as if there were something awkward about it. Maybe he had realized, after all, that Anna had nicked them from an ancient monument. Or was he interpreting Anna’s secret code in a way she could not decipher?
‘So I suppose the next move is mine.’
She nodded.
He smiled. ‘Great. Good stuff. Well done.’ He dug in his pocket and produced a folded wodge of notes, flicked through them. ‘I’ve got five hundred here for you. Will that cover your expenses for this trip?’
More than. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
She was taken aback by his generosity.
‘Let me make a note.’ He stood, handed her the cash. Five hundred in twenties. He went to his desk, took out his notebook, jotted something down. Ariel, five hundred 3rd October, she guessed. He really was oddly anal about money. Everybody had their quirks.
‘Operation Fisher King completed,’ she said.
‘Almost. One more thing.’
She baulked.
‘It’s nothing much.’
She glanced at the notes in her hand, neatly squared, twenty-five heads of William Shakespeare all facing the same way.
‘Could you tell her that I’m here in Hoy and she can contact me via the PO Box number I gave you? Would that be OK?’
Churlish to refuse, after he’d given her five hundred quid. Eight hundred, counting the three hundred he’d given her in September.
‘I want to make sure the ball is in her court. I don’t want her to feel forced into seeing me. If you could give her my contact details, it’s all up to her. Is that OK with you? Would you mind doing that for me?’
‘That’s fine. And then I’ll be free. Like Ariel.’
‘Yes, and I can lay aside Prospero’s magic books, drop the dark arts of the secret state, the spells and tradecraft, and return to the real world of ordinary mortals.’
She thought Harry suspected differently; he believed Pierce was planning a comeback with MI5.
‘You don’t ever think about returning to the Intelligence services then?’
‘Good god no. Not at all.’
He wouldn’t tell her, even if it were true.
‘My plan is to do something completely different. I’ve got a friend who is running an ethical public relations company.’
‘Ethical PR?’ She couldn’t keep the scorn from her voice. ‘Isn’t that an oxymoron?’
‘I can see why you and Anna get on.’ He chuckled. ‘This company only takes on clients whose objectives meet the company’s human rights policy. No South African investors. No users of child labour. Do you think Anna would approve of my proposed career?’
‘I imagine she would think it was better than spying.’
Perhaps Harry had got himself worked up about nothing. She puffed her cheeks; believing Pierce meant doubting Harry.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine.’ Dismissing Harry made her uneasy. The wind howled down the chimney. ‘When we met in September, you told me you had come to Hoy because of the Czech.’
‘Yes.’ There was a tightness to his voice and she noticed his Adam’s apple bobbing. Maybe she shouldn’t be pursuing this, but she’d started so she might as well finish.
‘Do you think the Czech ever worked for the KGB?’
‘Now where would you have got that idea from?’
He was regarding her sternly and she felt dumb. Her amateurish attempt to wrangle some information from Pierce, the professional. She glanced out the window; scaly clouds like dead fish passing, the angry spume of breakers crashing on the shore. What was she doing here, making herself vulnerable, exposing herself to these elements she didn’t understand and couldn’t control?
‘Look. We’re family.’ He said it in a kindly way, which made her feel better. ‘When I talk about the family, I mean all the intelligence and security services. MI5, MI6.’ He gestured with his hand, indicating there might be others he wasn’t going to mention. ‘And of course, I have to include the Force and all their units, like the one your father worked for, because sometimes we collaborated with them.’ He ambled over to the window, stood with his ba
ck to her, hands linked at his tailbone. ‘And in all families,’ he continued, more to the bay than her, ‘there are loyalties and disagreements. Not just between the Force and Intelligence. MI6 has, historically, looked down on MI5 because we tend to think it’s full of ex-cops. They’re often in minor roles. Not necessarily at the centre of things. They’re good at what they do, of course. Like your friend Harry...’
He left the name hanging in the air. She got the message. Harry talks out his arse. Ex-cops in MI5 were at the bottom of the family tree, the lowest branches. Apart from the police spies. The black sheep, who got in the way and worse. That summer’s day in ’76, she had heard Pierce bellowing through the open window. Fucking tortured. She had understood the words literally because the pain made it clear he was being literal; he had been tortured. And now she had pulled the fragments together, she suspected that a fanatic from the Red Army Faction had taken Pierce when the operation was blown and tortured him to try to find out who he was working for and what he knew about the Czech. I dealt with them, he had told her. Whatever had happened, somehow he had survived, although not without injury. The wounded Fisher King. And she was left with the nagging question about her father – was Jim to blame for Pierce’s suffering? Had he somehow given away the information that endangered his colleague? She heard Jim’s voice small and tight. I would never betray... Perhaps it was better not to know, she would regret hearing a dark tale about Jim. She needed to know. She had to face the ghosts if she wanted to exorcize them. She decided she could risk a confession.
‘You know I came here with Jim, that August when he gave you the two white tiles?’
Pierce nodded slowly, steepled his fingers. ‘I gathered.’
‘Jim left me down on the beach. I got bored, wandered up the path to look for him, and I overheard a conversation.’
Pierce raised an eyebrow.