The Watchers

by Neil Spring

  I studied the cutting again. The photograph beneath the headline showed a sad-looking young woman with a narrow face and long dark hair. She was holding the hand of a thin girl with terrified eyes.

  Something about that woman . . . A memory almost sparked, connected to the lighthouse from my dreams. Its yellow beam pulsing, pulsing before the image slipped away. As it always did.

  ‘Well, this Araceli Romero wants our help,’ said Selina. ‘Phoned the office twice this week.’

  ‘And she expects Bestford to do what, exactly? Demand the aliens pay landing fees?’

  ‘She’s in a state, and so are many of the locals. There’s been a whole spate of reports about lights in the sky and strange things appearing out of nowhere. Not helped by this reporter, Frank Frobisher.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘He’s with the Western Telegraph,’ Selina said. She rose and stood beside me. ‘And when you think about it, the locals have had their fair share of uncertainty after what happened with the Jacksons.’

  I nodded absently. I didn’t know much about the disappearance of the English couple who had stayed in the area last summer. Only that dealing with correspondence on the issue had become an almost full-time job for Selina.

  ‘Any developments on the case?’

  ‘Don’t get me started.’

  According to the police report, Thomas and Joan Jackson were gentle churchgoing wildlife enthusiasts who knew the Pembrokeshire coast intimately. On the day of their disappearance, beneath the morning’s honeysuckle heat and the bluest sky, they’d set off for a walk along the coast to a remote beauty spot on a footpath running over the cliffs of St Brides Bay. They were never seen alive again.

  Selina sighed. ‘If I get this job, you’ll have to stay close to the police investigation.’

  I had no wish to stay close to the case. ‘My grandfather lived near that footpath. Ravenstone Farm,’ I said quietly.

  I’d had no contact with the man since the day I left home. Dead or alive, wherever he was made no difference to me.

  ‘You’ve never spoken about him,’ she probed gently.

  ‘No . . .’ I trailed off. The truth was, I’d blocked out much of my time at Ravenstone Farm. And I was thankful for that.

  ‘What sort of man was your grandfather?’

  Cruel. Extremely paranoid. Those were the words that leaped to mind. A man of nightmares.

  ‘He had religion bad,’ I said, remembering the rosary in his truck, remembering the shock as his Bible struck the back of my head. ‘He thought there were hidden dangers everywhere.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I hesitated. How much to say about the guardian who had raised me to be the man I was? ‘As a young man he was in the air force. He quit, became a farmer.’

  She nodded encouragingly. Smiled

  ‘When I lived with him he would scare me with fairy tales about fires in the sky and giants in the ground, watching us. He said their faces were made of shadows.’

  Selina’s smile vanished. ‘What else did he say?’

  And suddenly, from long ago – the worst time – I could see the wild contempt in my grandfather’s eyes as we stood together on the cliffs overlooking Stack Rocks; could see him crossing himself; could hear his rusty voice: Your father was a monster!

  Dad had deserved better. Much better.

  I stood up abruptly.

  ‘Robert?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I need to focus. Big day!’

  Before I could reach the door, Selina grabbed my arm and said, ‘You take care of yourself when I’m gone. Promise me.’

  A sort of prophecy. I see that now.

  – 3 –

  The journey to work took barely fifteen minutes, but on grimy mornings like this it felt much longer. I walked swiftly along the Albert Embankment through a thin low-hanging mist, crossing Westminster Bridge, dodging one of the new Silver Jubilee buses.

  Weaving through the crowds on Parliament Square, I couldn’t ignore the weary realism in everyone’s eyes. It looked nothing like the hopeful optimism the police said we needed to get through this difficult time. The IRA West End bombings the previous year had left a black cloud over London.

  The Houses of Parliament loomed grandly before me as I joined the procession of young men and women filing into St Stephen’s Entrance. Parliamentary researchers, we were easy to spot in our ill-fitting suits and scuffed leather shoes – glorified bag handlers weighed down with thick files and bundles of papers.

  I didn’t know anyone who wasn’t intimidated by the grandeur of Parliament; the mantle of history that weighed on your shoulders in a complex of buildings that felt both like a cathedral and a museum; an eight-acre maze of stone where a hundred staircases connected three miles of passages and over one hundred rooms. But today it wasn’t the building intimidating me. Under my left arm I was carrying a folder packed full of notes on the inquiry: witness statements, official letters, everything except the pivotal document mentioning Project Caesar. That was tucked safely in my inner jacket pocket.

  ‘You know where you’re going, sir?’ The question had come from a young policeman.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ I flashed my parliamentary pass and hurried on my way. The admiral would be waiting.

  I paced past the darkened library that was my second home, heels clipping on the ancient flagstone floor, until eventually I came to the octagonal Central Lobby on the principal floor, the heart of the palace. Ahead of me and on either side symmetrical corridors lined with frescoes stretched away to the debating chambers of the two Houses: the Members’ Lobby and Commons Chamber to the north, and the Peers’ Lobby and Lords Chamber to the south. And there, in the far corner, was the stairwell leading to the roof.

  What made the roof garden at Parliament special aside from the fact that hardly anyone ever went up there was the view. It hit me now with the same force as the plummeting temperature as I stepped out into it on that iron-cold morning. On my right the Thames wound its dark, permanent course through the city; on my left and directly ahead were Westminster Abbey, Whitehall and Horse Guards, the last once the headquarters of the British Army and the scene of countless parades and ceremonies since the seventeenth century.

  ‘Remarkable, isn’t it, old chap?’

  The admiral was just a few metres away, his leather-gloved hands gripping the railings and his head tilted back in appreciation of the view. I had expected to find him here.

  ‘Democracy,’ the admiral said quietly. ‘Whenever I need to remind myself of what we’re defending in this endless war of attrition, I come up here.’

  He was immaculate, refined – as always. Silver hair neatly side-combed, gold cufflinks catching the sun as it rose over the glittering buildings on Whitehall – the cogs and gears which ran our country: the Cabinet Office, the Treasury, the Ministry of Defence.

  ‘You must be freezing,’ he said, scanning my thin suit jacket. ‘We’ll make this quick.’

  ‘Thanks for your call this morning,’ I said.

  He nodded cryptically but didn’t smile. ‘I have something to discuss with you. But first it’s a vital day for you. I know that. How are you faring?’

  ‘Fine. Selina’s helping.’

  ‘Will she be at the evidence session this afternoon?’

  I felt sure she would make it and told him so. The admiral didn’t know Selina personally, but he always expressed interest in her work and her relationship with me.

  ‘Still, you really don’t look well, old chap. You haven’t skipped your pills?’ Curiosity in his voice, and concern.

  ‘No, still taking them.’

  He raised a sceptical eyebrow. Perhaps he knew me too well. I had been skipping my medication for weeks. The tablets made me feel drowsy and unfocused, but without them . . . that was when the dreams began. Dreams about the lighthouse a
nd the beat of its peculiar yellow light.

  ‘You’re afraid of lack of control. That’s the heart of the problem. But you must keep faith, never give in.’ He dropped a hand on my shoulder. His face was pinched red from the cold. ‘Remember what I told you. Keep a tight hold on your thoughts, or they’ll take control of you. When it gets too much, close your eyes. Breathe deep.’ He inhaled, breathed out slowly. ‘And keep taking your medication.’

  Lord Hill Bartlett, one of the highest-ranking members of the military: chairman of the Military Committee of NATO, with an impressive office located in the north-east turret of the MoD Main Building on Whitehall. He had entered the Royal Navy as a cadet in 1928 and served as an officer in various ships in the Far East and Pacific Fleets during World War Two, being promoted to lieutenant commander in 1944. But my high regard for him had nothing to do with his military credentials. The admiral was my anchor in a sea of stress. Less of a mentor, almost a surrogate father.

  From somewhere on the Thames sounded the hooting of a passing tug. The admiral produced a pipe from his pocket and gave me a sage smile.

  ‘I’m concerned about Paul,’ I blurted, burying my hands in my pockets. ‘If the fight’s going out of him we may not have much time. I need something else to go on now. Something solid.’

  ‘Under the circumstances I’ve given you all I can,’ he said, keeping his watery blue eyes on me. It wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but still there was something reassuring in the admiral’s appraising stare, a familiarity born of his many attempts at professional and personal counsel.

  I found myself remembering the embarrassing day we had met three years earlier. I had just started as Bestford’s researcher and, fresh out of university, was naive and drunk on the need to find out what had happened. We were getting no answers from the MoD or the Americans about RAF Croughton despite the scores of letters that I had written and Bestford had signed. The admiral must have seen those letters and the many parliamentary written questions Bestford had put down about the Croughton arrests and protestors’ injuries, because soon after I was asked to attend a private meeting in his office. Although he was forty years my elder, we became friends quickly, and he taught me the value of the long game. It was, he said, ‘the gentleman’s way’, like succeeding in a chess tournament.

  I produced from my inside jacket pocket the document mentioning Project Caesar, running my finger down a column of numbers. ‘See here, thirty million pounds allocated to a black project run out of RAF Croughton for the last fourteen years. What is it – a secret unit, a weapons storage facility?’

  ‘Ah yes, you’ve brought me back to why I wanted to speak to you in the first place. This is a little awkward, Robert. I’m sorry. I know I gave it to you, but I’m afraid I can no longer allow you to show this document to Bestford today. Or anyone on that committee.’

  That came as a shock. Since I had first been summoned to meet the admiral, he had been nothing but accommodating. He had been respectful of the Defence Committee, of Bestford and my loyalty to him even as he had illegally passed me sensitive intelligence about Project Caesar. I was never entirely sure why he had taken an interest in me. I suppose I might have wondered if he was homosexual. Even if he was, I didn’t care. I liked him, trusted him. And his help with the Campaign for the Accountability of American Bases meant far too much to me to risk.

  ‘You know I have always assisted where I can.’ The admiral inhaled on his pipe, taking his time, then lowered his voice to a confidential tone. ‘But new intelligence has come to light, even since this report.’

  ‘What intelligence?’ I asked with more hostility than I intended.

  ‘Something that would make any mention of this money, this project, deeply unwise.’

  ‘But you gave me these figures. They could make all the difference! Please, you have to tell me what it is.’

  The admiral frowned and brought his face closer to mine. ‘Robert, you know as well as I do that there are forces in this country of which we know little. People watching, all the time . . .’ He paused, shook his head, then looked away.

  I turned my back on the admiral’s stony expression, wondering what he was holding back.

  He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. ‘Project Caesar does not exist, old chap. It never did, and you never heard about it. All right?’

  It’s very far from all right, I thought, fixing my eyes on the Cenotaph in Whitehall. I was so close, and this was way too important for me to fall at the last hurdle.

  ‘Why don’t you stay away from the inquiry today? Let Bestford handle it?’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  Suddenly he grimaced, jerked as if pricked with a needle in his side.

  ‘Admiral?’

  ‘No, no. I’m all right. You know I want the best for you,’ he continued, now walking towards the exit. ‘But I strongly urge you not to attend this afternoon’s session.’

  I turned, opened my mouth to speak.

  But the admiral was gone.

  – 4 –

  Committee Room 10 is the grandest of the committee rooms, all high wooden benches and deep green carpet. Located on the first floor of the House of Commons, it has an arresting view over the Thames, but at this time of year the room possessed a gloomy atmosphere, thick with dust and the scent of political blood.

  ‘Right, that’s enough rehearsal,’ said Bestford just as Big Ben struck four o’clock. He didn’t thank me for the time I had just spent coaching him for the afternoon session, but when did he ever?

  My boss removed his spectacles and pinched the top of his nose, and as he did so I recognized the strain in his face.

  ‘You’re sure you’re up to this?’ I asked.

  ‘Just about.’ Today he looked every day of his fifty-three years. His voice was husky, his eyes red.

  I hope he hasn’t been drinking.

  ‘As soon as this is over, we need to focus on the constituency. There’ll be an election soon; a new political generation is preparing to take power, and every day the newspapers bring more depressing news. Just look at what’s happening in Northern Ireland! And last year in Lebanon, more bombings. People think we’re out of our depth. They want law, order. I can’t risk looking out of touch.’

  ‘It’s not just about how you look,’ I said sharply. ‘This is about what matters.’ I could have added, It’s your duty too.

  It was Paul’s role, along with twelve others on the committee, to scrutinize the policies and expenditure of the Ministry of Defence. Not bad for a man whose maiden speech had focused on the problems of poverty within farming communities. Since then he had grown quickly into the role of Pembrokeshire’s Member of Parliament, piggybacking on the expansion of RAF Brawdy in his constituency to help secure another election victory. New houses were built; a runway was added. A winning move for Bestford and the local economy.

  I tried adopting a more reasonable tone. ‘Paul, outside that door is a pack of journalists who’ll be hanging on every word uttered this afternoon. You must make Corso confess to what happened at RAF Croughton – somehow.’

  ‘Don’t forget, that base was made available for use by United States visiting forces under the terms of the NATO Status of Forces Agreement of 1951. Whatever happened at that base, we need to show some restraint.’

  ‘We’re not here to show restraint; we’re here to make a difference!’

  His eyes flashed. ‘Our relationship with the Americans. Do you know why it’s special? Why it matters?’

  ‘It’s not special if it’s illegal.’

  ‘It matters for our morale, Robert. We’re not at war with the communists, but we soon could be, and the UK is utterly dependent on the Americans. The public need to know that Britain could repel an invasion from the Soviet Union.’

  He was right about that, unfortunately. I thought of the leaflets explaining the different emergency sirens, how
to protect yourself from radiation, how best to dispose of dead relatives’ bodies, but my patience was shot.

  ‘Their bases are out of control, Paul! They’re putting innocent lives at risk. If we don’t prevent serious violations of international law, who the hell will?’

  I expected him to come back at me, but at that moment there was a rapping at the door. A policeman entered, ushering in our star witness, Lieutenant Colonel Conrad Corso. Bestford stood and extended a welcoming hand to the American officer while I took my seat behind a long table at the side of the committee room, opposite high leaded windows and wood-panelled walls. My notes and files on the inquiry were spread out before me. Every document. Except one.

  I thought of the admiral’s warning with deepening unease.

  All thirteen members of the Defence Select Committee filed into the room, taking their seats around an enormous horseshoe table. John Myers, Labour Member for Lewisham, drummed his fingers impatiently on the table; Joanna Winterton, Conservative MP for Eastleigh, raked her hand through her limp brown hair. Here were my boss’s challengers and colleagues. You could see the mix of emotions on their faces as they exchanged private mutterings. Hope. Uncertainty. Fear. In their own constituencies they were in control. Not here. The shadow of the Cold War and other geopolitical tensions had forced this inquiry on them, and there was no telling the extent of the damage that it would wreak.

  ‘We should make a start,’ said Bestford, watching as journalists and members of the public took their seats on the rows of benches at the back of the room. Then, with relief, I spotted Selina – she had been seated on her own, near the windows. She had made it just in time. I smiled fleetingly but thought she looked nervous. Was it the job interview?