Sciron

by David Rashleigh

  “Who? Who do we know that might have had anything to do with...wait a minute. Could this be something to do with old George? Is he the one?” Steve’s face took on a determined expression as he recalled the conversation with Jack Rimmer the previous afternoon. “If George derailed a munitions train, maybe there was something else that happened because the train didn’t arrive. Jack Rimmer’s got a copy of the report: I’ll ask him. Where’s his mobile number?”

  Katie gestured towards the small telephone table that occupied the corner next to the other chair. Steve took the two steps needed to reach the phone and located the number on the pad. Lifting the handset, he dialled the number and waited, his back to Katie. After a moment, the call connected.

  “Mr Rimmer, it’s Steve Melling. Can I ask you a question?”

  Katie couldn’t make out what was being said at the other end, but the voice sounded less than happy.

  “Sorry to disturb you, but it’s just a quick one. You said that you had seen a report from the war about the train being derailed. Can you tell me, was there something else that happened?”

  The disembodied voice spoke for a minute or so.

  “Thank you Mr Rimmer. Sorry again. ‘Bye.”

  Steve turned to Katie, but said nothing for a few seconds. He seemed to be struggling to find the words, but finally he spoke.

  “According to the report, the ship that the train was delivering to was delayed in Preston Dock long enough to miss their convoy. They sailed anyway, heading for Alexandria. They never made it: the ship was torpedoed and lost with all hands.” Steve’s voice began to break and his eyes filled with tears. “Jesus, Katie! I’ve been drinking with that bloke for over a year, and now he’s brought all this on us!” Steve was almost shouting now, desperation creeping into his voice.

  In a quieter tone he added: “I’ve brought all this on us. First the flat, then George. It’s all my fault.”

  Katie stood, wrapped her arms around him and placed her head on his shoulder.

  “No it isn’t, love. We’re in this together, and we’ll see it through together. Something tells me that it’ll all be over soon, anyway.”

  ***

  Despite the interruptions, Jack was in the hotel’s reception area at seven twenty-five. Wearing his least-creased trousers and shirt, he paced nervously under the disinterested gaze of the receptionist. During his time at Sandhurst, his etiquette training had told him to be five minutes early for a business appointment and ten minutes late for a social engagement. Jack, however, wasn’t taking any chances: he didn’t want to run any risk of Janice arriving in reception without him waiting. The ten minutes before Janice appeared seemed interminable but at last she was in front of him, a slightly nervous smile on her face but her eyes bright with anticipation.

  Before leaving home, Janice had spent some considerable time choosing an outfit for this eventuality. She had taken everything out of her wardrobe and laid them out on her bed, fussing over this outfit or that. After about an hour, she had settled on a simple but elegant calf-length pale blue dress, high-necked but sleeveless. A matching pair of low-heeled shoes and a simple gold bangle and pearl drop earrings had completed the ensemble. In her hotel room, she had carefully unpacked the dress, examining it for any creases. Her makeup was understated, and the finishing touch was a dab of Chanel No 5.

  To Jack, she had glided gracefully towards him while he stood, butterflies in his stomach like a youth on his first date.

  “Ready?” she said, smiling and taking his arm. “Where are you taking me?”

  “I hope you like Chinese. I found a restaurant in the city centre” he replied.

  “I love Chinese.”

  Jack led her outside to his car, wishing that he had had the foresight to change the Micra for something a little grander. Ever the gentleman, he opened the passenger door for Janice before walking briskly round to the driver’s side and climbing in. Hoping that he had memorised the directions properly, he took the car out of the hotel car park and on to the main road into the city. Fortunately, his nervousness failed to get the better of his memory, and he was glad that he had asked the restaurant for advice where to park. They had informed him that the covered market doubled as a car park in the evening and that he would therefore be able to leave the car right outside.

  The sun had set before they had left the hotel, and the night was made darker still by the steadily lowering clouds. As Jack leapt out of the car to open Janice’s door once more, the rising wind made his shirt flap about his torso and made him wish that he had brought a jacket, if only to place it around his companion’s shoulders.

  The meal itself seemed to pass in a blur. Jack joined Janice in a single glass of wine as an aperitif, sticking to water thereafter as Janice sipped her Sauvignon. The food was excellent: the main dishes being served on sizzling platters placed in front of them. The conversation flowed more easily for Jack now that some of his earlier anxiety had dissipated. They talked about their past lives, how they passed the time and their hopes for the future. Neither mentioned the other as part of that future, although both were hoping that it would be the case.

  All too soon the meal was at an end, the bill paid and they returned to the car in the strengthening wind. The journey back to the hotel was in silence, each of them wondering what to say, or do next. Jack walked Janice back to her room, his nerves returning in spades. For her part, Janice was determined not to spoil what for her had been a wonderful evening. When they reached her door, she turned to face Jack. Looking him straight in the eye, she regretted, just for an instant, not investing in some lingerie for this occasion. Realising that she wasn’t yet ready for the next step, she settle for kissing Jack lightly on the cheek. Stepping back from him momentarily, she moved forward once more and kissed him again, this time fully on the lips. She lingered for just a second, then broke away. Placing her hand on his cheek, she smiled sweetly, bade him goodnight, then turned and entered her room.

  Jack, utterly speechless and unable to suppress a grin, returned to his room. Placing the plastic card in its slot under the door handle, he felt as though he was walking on air.

  Thursday 0700

  Mike Simpson had never known that there was more than one five o’clock each day, but that was the time that his alarm clock rudely interrupted a fantastic dream featuring Emily from the railway museum, a fast car and, bizarrely, Cadbury’s Creme Eggs. He had set the clock for that time to ensure that he would be able to shower, dress, pack his overnight bag and make it to the station by seven o’clock. These tasks complete, he had tiptoed down the stairs, raided the fridge for a pork pie and sneaked out of the house past the open door of the lounge where Karen was sleeping on the sofa.

  As it was , he had underestimated the length of time that it would take to reach the station: he was rescued by a passing taxi who took him the last three-quarters of a mile to York station. Train travel being new to Mike, he had no idea where to go next. He passed through the entrance hall, into the station proper and immediately saw the information boards on his left. Scanning the destinations, he panicked momentarily when he couldn’t find a train to Preston. Fortunately, a member of the station staff was on hand to direct him first to the ticket office (which he had walked past) and then to platform 6 where the train to Blackpool was already waiting.

  As he crossed the footbridge over the tracks, Mike remembered that he still didn’t know what to do when he got to his destination. He had the maps in his pocket; beyond them he would have to play things by ear. Once again, he didn’t notice the shadow that matched his every move. Entering the train, Mike was surprised at the number of people already on board and had to walk to the front of the second carriage of the three-car, maroon coloured train before he found a double seat to himself. The seat itself was broken, the squab having detached from the seat back. Moving further forward, Mike found another pair of seats, threw his backpack on to the luggage rack, and sat next to the grimy window. At this point he discovered the lack o
f legroom in these trains, and grimaced at the thought of over two hours spent with his knees jammed against the seat in front.

  At six minutes past seven, on time, the engines under the front and rear carriages roared and the train slowly departed York station and headed south on the main line. Gazing out of the window, Mike looked up to see that a fine rain was falling from the lowering sky, turning the dirt on the window into an opaque mud and further obscuring his vision. Above the rumble of the diesel engine, he could hear the increasing wind buffeting the train. Forty five minutes and seven stops later, the train had reached Leeds and was completely full, with passengers standing in the aisles and in the door vestibules. Despite the noise and the rising temperature, Mike was fast asleep.

  ***

  When Jack awoke he was still smiling. Sleep had been a long time coming the previous night, but when he had finally succumbed his slumber had been deep and dreamless. The memory of his time with Janice stirred an emotion that he had not felt for many years, if at all. Could she be the one? He certainly hoped so: perhaps he wasn’t destined to spend the rest of his life alone after all. Something, however, was lurking at the back of his mind, stalking his consciousness like the suppressed memory that it was. Suddenly, the thought burst to the forefront of his mind: his father’s ghost. He hadn’t dare raise the subject with Janice, afraid to risk spoiling the simple pleasure of her company by recounting a tale that even he thought too fantastic to believe.

  But the subject was still there, and had to be faced. Today. Jack switched on the light, climbed out of bed, made himself a cup of coffee and sat on the edge of the bed to think. As far as his reason for being in Preston was concerned, he really didn’t know what to do next. According to the Mellings, the visitations had been becoming more frequent, as if building up to something. And then there was Cedric Morgan’s insistence on coming to see him, here of all places. He knew about the Sciron file, but that was the only link, wasn’t it?

  Another thought occurred to Jack. Steve Melling had asked him about the consequences of the derailment but, in his haste to be with Janice, he had not thought to ask why Steve wanted to know. Had there been another appearance of the ghost? Jack decided that he would speak to Morgan first, then pay a visit to the Mellings.

  That left Janice, the person that he wanted to see more than any other. As the thought of her kiss once again pushed all other thoughts aside, Jack heard the howling of the wind outside. Frowning, he went over to the window and peered through a gap in the curtains. Outside, the dawn had been cloaked by the heavy, dark grey clouds that heralded the arrival of the first of the fronts associated with the depression that was generating the gale. Rain lashed down, whipped to an angle by the wind, causing the cars on the road alongside the hotel to throw up sheets of spray that their full-speed wipers struggled to clear. Grimacing, Jack closed the curtains and headed to the bathroom for a shave and a shower.

  His ablutions complete, Jack dressed, wishing that he had packed more clothes since he was clearly going to get wet today. Pulling on his coat, he headed to the restaurant to get some breakfast, realising that his first soaking of the day would be between the hotel and the pub where the food was served. As he crossed the hotel lobby, he saw the guest in front of him foolishly trying to keep dry using a collapsible umbrella. The umbrella lived up to its name, collapsing inside-out the instant that the wind hit it and exposing the poor, coatless man to the full force of the downpour. Jack spotted a discarded newspaper. Picking it up, he held it over his head with one hand while the other clasped the lapels of his coat. Thus prepared, Jack ran for his breakfast.

  ***

  Something’s happening, thought Katie Melling as she prepared breakfast for Joshua. The previous day’s events, culminating in the false alarm, had left her feeling unsettled. Sleep had been a long time coming: the arms of Morpheus being kept away either by the images crowding her mind, the restlessness of her unborn child or Steve’s incessant snoring. Standing in the tiny kitchen, mashing a Weetabix into warm milk, her eyes stared straight ahead and she struggled to concentrate on anything for more than a few moments. But still the same thought kept returning: something is going to happen.

  As to the nature of that something, there was no sign. The harbingers of her spectral visitors were all absent: no feelings of sadness, rage or loathing. Her baby was still for once. Outside, the wind howled, the trees on the embankment opposite the flat whipped into a frenzy of swaying branches whilst the rain drummed on the windows. But still her intuition told her that the events of the past ten days were somehow approaching their zenith.

  Her thoughts were interrupted by a tug at her dressing gown.

  “Want bekfast, Mummy,” burbled Joshua, his eyes wide and pleading. Katie looked at him and forced herself to smile.

  “Okay, little man,” she replied, taking a clean bib from the drawer next to the cooker and fastening it around her son’s neck. She then led him by the hand, his breakfast dish in the other, back to the living room where their small dining table was tucked into a corner. Too weary to lift him up, Katie let Joshua climb on to the chair and settle himself down.

  Realising that she had forgotten a spoon, Katie put the dish down in front of Joshua and went back into the kitchen. On her return, the little boy had started without her, dipping his hand into the dish then proceeding to spread most of the contents of his hand around his mouth and the surrounding area. He was delving into the glutinous mess for a second go when Katie got to him, snatching hold of his hand. Joshua looked at her in surprise, his face appearing to have a growth of cereal-coloured beard. Katie's nascent anger disappeared immediately; this time her smile was genuine.

  At that moment, Steve made a fortuitous entry to the living room, having finished in the bathroom. One glance was sufficient to send him scuttling into the kitchen for cleaning materials. A few minutes later, their son was happily tucking into the remains of his breakfast under the watchful supervision of his father while Katie went to get dressed. On her return, Steve noticed the pensive look on his wife’s face.

  “Penny for them,” he asked.

  “It’s today,” she replied. “I don’t know what, exactly, but I have a strong feeling that something is going to happen.”

  Steve looked out of the window. “There’ll be nothing happening at work today,” he said. “I’ll just ring in, but I think that I need to take the day off.”

  Katie's reply was distant; virtually whispered. “Somehow, I don’t think that I’ll make it in today, either.”

  ***

  It was a sudden gust of wind driving the rain against the window that woke Janice. Having been woken from a deep sleep, she was momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. Sitting bolt upright in the bed, she spotted the hotel literature on the desk opposite her which served to remind her of where she was. With the realisation came the memory of the night before, accompanied by a contented smile. She sat for a moment, savouring the recollection of the look of sheer joy on Jack’s face as she had closed her bedroom door having kissed him. She was sure of it now: he was the one. But what should her next move be? It was at this point that she recalled just why she was in Lancashire at all, and wondered just what it was that her father had to do so far from home. He had spoken the previous afternoon of being a disappointment to her, but she had no idea quite what he meant by that.

  She decided to ponder the subject as she showered and dressed. Coming out of the small but functional bathroom wrapped in a towel, she parted the curtains slightly to look at the weather. Seeing the driving rain, she opted for the jeans that she had driven in and a simple white blouse. Looking at her reflection in the mirror as she dried her hair, Janice decided that she would seduce Jack, that very night. She was convinced that he was too much of a gentleman to make the first move so it would fall to her to lead him on. She began to plot how the evening would go: another restaurant, then back to the hotel...but not this one. Functional as it was, Janice thought that it was unsuitable f
or the first physical embodiment of true love. No, this was the sort of place people came to for illicit sex. A trip into the city centre was called for, firstly to find somewhere to eat, then a suitably high-class place to stay. There must be somewhere, she reasoned, near Preston that she could get a room for tonight. Cost wasn’t really an issue: her late husband had left her well provided for and an occasional extravagance such as this was well within her means. Finally, some appropriate nightwear. A silk nightdress, not too short, in black. No, red. She briefly toyed with the idea of finding a branch of Ann Summers but dismissed it almost as quickly, for now at least.

  Realising that they were unsuitable for the day’s dreadful weather, she shunned the suede boots from the previous day and pulled from her suitcase a pair of black leather boots with a short but pointed heel. Having pulled them on and tucked her jeans into them, she straightened up and looked once more in the mirror. She paused for a moment, then, thinking that Jack might be at breakfast, undid the top two buttons of her blouse before grabbing her coat and heading for the restaurant.

  Thursday 0900

  The rain hadn’t woken Cedric Morgan: he had lain awake for much of the night. He slept little at his age, his inability to rest not helped by the increasing discomfort from the prostate cancer that was spreading tumours around his body. But it was his guilty conscience that did most to prevent his slumber. Once again, as he had found himself staring at the ceiling in the small hours, he had weighed his lengthy and unblemished service to the nation against his one terrible failure. Once again, he remembered how he was one of the few in MI5 not tainted by the Philby and Burgess affairs. His career had been one of moderate, small scale successes, the only instance that had ever made the papers had been the Profumo case, and he had only been a peripheral participant even then. He often thought about John Profumo, a man of honour in Cedric’s opinion who had resigned not only his office but his seat in Parliament and devoted the rest of his life to charity work in the East End of London. Yes, he thought, a man of honour. Not like today’s crop of professional politicians; caught sharing a prostitute with a foreign agent they would refuse to admit any wrongdoing and blame the whole affair on the media. A snort of derision had passed his lips at that point.