The prayers of a nation were answered yesterday when members of the armed forces liberated the hostages. The prayers were for a successful end to the hijack. Successful in terms of the hostages being led out alive, that was. And that’s exactly what happened. Pretty damn good result, I hear you say.
But that got me thinking. What about the prayers of the families who prayed to Allah for the safe return of their boys? The families of the hijackers. There was no liberation for those young men. No grand exit, smiling and waving to the press as they came out of Leeds hospital. Those families won’t be taking their sons home in a wheelchair or on crutches. No. They will be taking their boys home in coffins.
One set of prayers answered. One not. Or maybe looking at it a different way, one set of prayers answered, but at what price? I can only hope that in prayers led by the Archbishop of Canterbury and other religious leaders, when they give thanks to their God, they take a moment to realise what it has meant for them to have their prayers answered. It meant that others had to die.
So maybe, just maybe, it would be appropriate for all those vicars and priests taking Sunday services this weekend, to acknowledge, to recognise, that in order for the hostages to survive, the hijackers gave their lives. They were young men. The eldest just 26 years old. All with lives to live and dreams to dream. All with families that cared for them, mothers that gave birth to them, fathers who taught them, brothers who played with them.
Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not condoning their actions. I believe the radicalisation of young Muslim men is a terrible thing that begets terrible things. And anyway what exactly did they accomplish? I guess a few million more people know about Bagram Detention Centre in Afghanistan. But that’s all. They didn’t stop the unlawful detention. They didn’t manage to get anyone released. But at least they died for their cause, didn’t they? In that case I hope that brings some comfort to their grieving families. But I doubt it. I think they’d rather have their sons back with them. Alive. Don’t you? Instead of celebrations, they will hold funerals. Instead of life, they got death. Instead of a future, only tears.
Truman Capote puts it far better than I ever could:
‘More tears are shed over answered prayers, than unanswered ones.’
So during this weekend of celebration, as we shed the occasional tear of joy, let us not forget those who are crying many more tears of sadness, because our prayers were answered.
Prologue
Sgt Billy Williams returned to his Royal Military Police Unit at Aldershot Garrison, occasionally haunted by images of Emma consorting with Kourash, although he never regretted covering it up. His parents were never told that he’d been on the train. He managed to keep his date with Diane Chambers.
Emma Harrison survived her head wound, completed her English Degree and wrote a true crime account of the hijacking. It was not as successful as In Cold Blood. She joined the Prison Service from University, on a fast track graduate program. She became a Junior Governor at Reading Young Offenders Institute (HMYOI) as deputy head of offender management.
Mick Smith never drove a train again, nor did he ever work again and took early retirement on health grounds.
Hazel Mountford was successfully delivered of a baby boy, albeit rather earlier than expected. She named him Billy. Instead of returning to work at her local supermarket after her maternity leave, she decided to stay at home to look after her baby.
Colin Appleton died of a heart attack on the rescue helicopter. Miraculously he wasn’t shot during his rescue.
Charlie Thornton was re-united with his mother, Constance, at the end of the siege. He underwent years of counselling and Constance dedicated her life to raising him. She never re-married after her husband was killed during the hijack.
Peggy Richards resigned from Northern Rail, preferring to remain at home with her family. She never travelled on public transport again.
*****
Read on for an excerpt of Glass Cutter, the new Sgt Major Crane crime thriller.
Glass Cutter
A hidden diary is the only clue that Matilda Underwood has ever lived in the house. As the new owner, Louise Marshall, reads the compelling words, Matilda quickly becomes the friend Louise doesn’t have. But as Louise is drawn into Matilda’s world, she becomes unable to recognise right from wrong in her own. And that’s when people start to die....
One
Louise Marshall passed the back of her hand across her brow. She’d been unpacking all morning and looked at the mass of boxes littering the sitting room of their new army quarter. Well, not so much new, as old, she supposed. The house was imposing, as befitting a commanding officer, a solid Victorian house, set in large gardens. The resultant quietness was calming, but if she were honest, a little isolating. No longer could she hear the chatter of women, clattering of children’s feet, or cars being backed off drives. Now she only heard bird song, or the occasional mewling of cats.
There was a whole world outside the gates, which were as large and imposing as the drive they protected. But somehow the house made her not want to go out there. Out there was new. A new garrison, new wives, new subordinates. For as the Colonel’s wife, or as the army would put it, the wife of Colonel Marshall, Royal Logistics Corp, Travers Barracks, Aldershot, she was expected to get involved. Her duties would include meeting her husband’s subordinates, greeting them by name, asking after their wives, their children. She rather needed a notebook, she realised. She’d never remember everyone’s names and writing them down would help her memorise them. She must remember to ask Peter that evening to run through the people she needed to recall. When he came home. If he came home.
Shaking such thoughts away, she turned her mind back to the job in hand and began to stack the empty boxes, placing smaller ones inside larger ones, until she had a pile in the hallway. She looked up at the imposing stairway and around the elegant hall of their new home. The overall impression was of high ceilings and deep mahogany wood that gleamed. She imagined the shine was because of the countless servants that had diligently polished it over the years. Through an open door at the back of the house she could see into the large kitchen that was, luckily, not as old as the house. It had been dragged into the twentieth century and sported all the modern appliances and was where she would be expected to produce wonderful dinners. They would be for men who were far more interested in drinking and wives who were more interested in taking stock of her, than eating her cuisine. Louise could feel their eyes on her already.
They would be wondering if she looked young for her age? Or old? Did she dress right? Sound right? Was she friendly? Or slightly frosty? Did she peer down at everyone from her elevated position as the Colonel’s wife? Or would she muck in and get her hands dirty?
Turning her gaze away from the kitchen, Louise looked at herself in the lovely old gilt framed mirror that had been hanging on the wall when they arrived. It was so large and imposing, there wasn’t really anywhere else to put it, so she had decided to leave it hanging there. It was handy to check her appearance when they left for whatever function or duty was to be performed that day or night. Today she looked pale, she decided, inspecting her skin tone in the antique glass. She really should put some make up on and brush out her auburn hair which was breaking free from the twisted knot she’d hastily pinned up that morning. Her cat-like green eyes would benefit from a sweep of mascara and her chapped lips from some lipstick. Peter always instilled in her that you never knew if anyone would call unexpectedly. Peter would expect her to be ready for anything and everything. He expected her to be the perfect army wife.
And thinking of which, it was about time she got rid of these boxes. Under the stairs, set into the wooden panelling that graced the wall under the banister, was a small door. Peter had said it led to the cellar, somewhere where she had yet to explore. The perfect place for boxes, she decided. Out of sight. Out of mind.
She really should go out and do some food shopping, she thought, as she glanced at her wat
ch, yet she was hesitant to leave the house. Somehow it felt safer here, tucked away from the hustle and bustle of the garrison, away from the watching, prying eyes that would be monitoring her every move.
So instead of walking up the stairs to put on a face for the world and change out of her jeans and tee-shirt, she walked towards the door to the basement. She’d stay a while and explore the house, she thought, as her hand reached for the door handle.
The stairs surprised her, being concrete. Somehow she’d expected rickety wooden ones, leading down to a cellar full of cobwebs, spiders and the odd dead mouse. She stood at the top, grasping for a light. As her hand felt a plastic plate, she flicked the switch on and took a few hesitant steps downward. A strip light struggled, flicking on and off, before settling down and buzzing into life, illuminating the cellar with its harsh light. She leaned over the banister.
The area was large, seemingly running underneath most of the house. It was split into sections. Here, there was a work bench, stained and marked from unknown tools. There, were metal shelves ready to hold Peter’s bits and bobs, the solitary oil can waiting patiently for other tins to join it. Louise walked down the remaining steps and past the workbench and shelves. She came to a large boiler, clanking and working overtime to keep the house above warm. Moving further into the cellar, she could see the back wall was roughly plastered, as though the workman had become overwhelmed by the size of the job he had taken on. As the far corner of the cellar was not on view, it seemed he hadn’t bothered to produce his best work there.
Turning back towards the stairs, Louise saw something pushed up against the side wall of the cellar. Walking over to it, she saw it was an old travelling chest, of the type used many years before by boys going off to boarding school, or soldiers travelling to their next posting. Kneeling down, she ran her hands over the old cracked leather, brittle beneath her fingers. There was a label on it. Looking closely at the old fashioned writing in black ink against the yellowing paper, she read the name. Underwood. Man or boy? She had no idea.
The natural thing to do would be to open the chest and peer inside. But Louise hesitated. Looking behind her she made sure no one was watching. A stupid gesture as she was alone in the house. But she’d had the feeling, for a fleeting moment, that she wasn’t on her own. It was probably just a change in temperature as the boiler has just fired up, she reasoned. But still, opening the chest felt like an invasion of someone’s privacy. A nonsensical notion, as it was more than likely empty, Louise thought. So she took a breath and lifted the lid.
Secretly hoping it to be full of treasures, such as old clothes, shoes, boots and pictures, she was disappointed to find only one item in there. It appeared to be a scarf of some kind as Louise could see white silk. Reaching for it, she realised it was covering something. Something hard. A book perhaps? A diary?
Using both hands, she lifted it out of the chest, rocking back on her heels. The silk headscarf shimmered as it slithered away, revealing what appeared to be a large scrap book, or maybe a photo album. The light at the back of the cellar wasn’t very bright, so Louise put the scarf back in the chest and took the book over to the concrete steps. Sitting on the first one, she placed the book on her knees. She could now see that the large red leather book had something written on the cover. There were just two words embossed on the leather. Matilda Underwood. Intrigued, Louise opened the book.
Two
My name is Matilda Underwood and this is my story. It’s not a new one. It’s the story of every other disaffected, displaced and abused individual. What makes my story different is how I dealt with it. How I dealt with the rejection, the misunderstanding, the mistreatment.
I came to this house hoping for redemption. And in a way I got it, I suppose. Just not in the way I imagined. But more of that later.
On first sight I loved this house. It wrapped its arms around me like the mother I had never known. Made me feel wanted, loved, secure. In fact it is the only thing in my life that ever has. A house, after all, is solid and safe. Not like human beings. They are fickle, flawed, cruel and unusual. My past experiences mean that I no longer trust people. Men, women, children, it makes no difference. They have all hurt me in one way or another. At one time or another. But not this house. There was always a nook or a cranny revealed to me, that I could hide myself in. When the pressure of the life I lead and had led, got too much.
One of my hiding places was the attic. I loved poking around in there. Trying on old clothes, slipping them on like a new persona. Sitting in discarded furniture, setting out ornaments, playing the lady of the manor. I was as happy as a child given dolls and a tea set to play with. Most days I could be found either there or in the cellar. Underneath the house lay tools that I’d never seen before. Implements that I shuddered to think what they could be used for. Half used tins of paint and pots of foul smelling liquid. All fascinating in their own way. I would make up uses for them, imagine them being used by old gnarled hands, lovingly cleaned and cared for. But now they were relics of the past, memories of a time long gone by. A happier time? Who knows. But perhaps a simpler time.
I found this old book one day in the attic and rescued it. I was sorting through some old discarded newspapers and as I revealed it, the red leather cover beckoned me. I ran my hands over the hide and it warmed them. The book seemed to speak to me. Its pages were blank. I had the uncanny feeling that they were eager to be filled with a story that was just waiting to be told.
I carried the book carefully down the narrow steep attic stairs and took it to my room. There I cleaned and polished the cover, brushed the cobwebs off it and separated some stuck pages. When I’d finished, it sat on my dressing table waiting. But it wasn’t quite ready to be used.
The next day I took it into town to a local printer. I was unsure if he could help, but he assured me he could. And this is the result. My name embossed in gold on the cover. Isn’t it beautiful?
Now the book is ready and so am I. It’s time I told my tale.
Three
Before she could turn the next page, Louise was startled by a noise from up above. It was Peter. She didn’t know why she was so surprised. For who else could it have been? No one else would walk into the house unannounced. No one would dare. As Peter called her, driven by some instinct she couldn’t put a name to, Louise quickly returned the book to the chest, determined not to mention her find.
Thinking back on why she did that, she decided that perhaps it was nothing more than wanting something that belonged to her alone. For after all her life wasn’t her own. It was dictated by her husband. And her husband’s life was dictated by the army. The more she thought about it, the more she resolved that she wouldn’t share Matilda’s book. It would be her secret.
For the rest of the day they worked together on the house. Peter piled the empty boxes in the cellar for her and then went outside and spent the rest of the afternoon sorting through the garage, occasionally bringing through things to store in the basement. She unpacked the rest of the kitchen equipment, crockery and cutlery. She arranged pots and pans near the stove, put the china further away from it and nominated cupboards for foodstuff. Then moving through to the sitting room she pushed and pulled chairs and sofas this way and that until they were arranged to her liking. She plumped cushions, dusted off lamps and scattered rugs.
By the end of the day, Louise was too exhausted to do much more for dinner than heat some leftover casserole and put a baguette in the oven to warm. They ate their food on trays balanced on their knees in front of the television.
Louise watched Peter eating. He always ate quickly, as though needing to get the meal out of the way and move on to other more interesting things. A throwback from being on exercise or in theatre, she supposed, where food was nothing more than a necessity. Fuel. Not something to be slowly enjoyed, relishing every mouthful. He tossed back his wine as though it were lager and put the empty glass back on his tray. He was fresh out of the shower and beads of water glistened in his
short dark hair. He wore a simple white tee-shirt that clung to his slim frame and baggy joggers that hid his muscular thighs and calves.
Not much interested in the news and feeling the need to make conversation she asked Peter how things were going at the barracks.
“Fine. Why?” he answered his eyes still on the television.
“I just wondered. Do you think you’ll like it here?”
“Of course,” he looked at her in surprise. “Why on earth wouldn’t I?”
Why wouldn’t he indeed, she realised. For Peter things were the same on every barracks in every garrison. The same tasks, routines, policies and procedures. The army structure was the same the world over. Things only seemed changed for her. She was the one who seemed to find it all so unnerving. She quaked at the thought of the new house, new people and new responsibilities, every time he climbed yet another rung on the ladder of promotion. Every time they moved she was at sea. While he? He took it all in his stride.
Later in bed, she turned to him, slipping her arms around his waist. Kissed his neck. It wasn’t that he didn’t love her. Wasn’t that he mistreated her. He just, well, didn’t seem to take much notice of her. She wondered if tonight would be any different. Could she make him see her? Make him feel her love? Make him feel her need? She caressed his back. Felt the broad shoulders and well defined muscles under her fingertips. If the light had been on, she would have been able to see the scars that tattooed his body. One from where he was shot. Another from a skiing accident. A third from an operation.
“Peter?” she whispered in the dark, unable to hide the hope in her voice.
“Not tonight, eh, darling. Busy day tomorrow,” he said and burrowed further under the duvet.
Hijack: A Sgt Major Crane crime thriller (A Sgt Major Crane Novel Book 6) Page 19