Knife Edge (2004)

by Reeman, Douglas

  Ross could see him in his mind. Tall, well built, kept himself in good condition. Tanned features, but not a man who stayed too long in the sun. And a permanent frown of which he was probably unaware. Steady grey eyes which revealed nothing, and missed nothing, either, watching him at the meetings, and when he had signed the witness statements. She had been there too, legs crossed, reading a paperback. But when he had touched on the more personal side, the Royal Marines, the Blackwood family, even his father’s death in Cyprus, Ross had seen that her eyes were unmoving, the paperback a pretence.

  She had been wearing the ring he had seen hanging on the chain. Gets in the way sometimes in this job. So casually said, but did it have another meaning?

  Diamond’s face had given no hint. The tipsy naval doctor named Andy, his hand fumbling with her shirt. New Year, then . . .

  Did he know, or suspect? Did he care?

  Only yesterday. Ross had thought of little else. No, Ross, a proper kiss. It was pointless to search for comparisons or excuses. The young girls at the various service events. The regattas and open days, bags of swank an’ swagger, as Sergeant Boyes would have said. But always keeping up appearances. A game which was never serious, unless you were asking for trouble. And some did.

  But this was quite different. She was not some young flirtatious girl, out for a laugh and nothing else. He could see her name as if it was written in fire before him. Glynis. Who came from Wales, and who had been a nurse in London. Her smile as she had said, the East End. As if it were another world. And it was, too.

  She was a real woman, and some one else’s. Beyond him in every way.

  He heard her voice again. Testing him? Mocking his interest? They think you’re anybody’s. Was she?

  He realized with a start that Houston had asked him something.

  “Sir?”

  “Sorry if I’m putting you to sleep!” The mood changed just as quickly. “You will remain on call. This is a top secret operation, a raid, if you like. Acting on information received. Boat action. Not a word to any one. If you fart in Victoria, they pick it up in the Peninsula Hotel. The Big White Chief will be overseeing every move. Remember that.”

  Three weeks ago: Lieutenant-Colonel De Lisle, the rain-spattered windows, the tramping feet on the square at Stonehouse . . .

  The Big White Chief had only just returned from Singapore. Operation Ratcatcher. He must have known then what was coming.

  He could feel the thin wound on his back, the touch of her fingers, which the surgical gloves had not disguised.

  She would laugh if she knew. They think you’re anybody’s.

  There was going to be a raid. Old hat to men like Irwin and Boyes, but no room for mistakes. The scar should act as a reminder.

  Houston was showing Irwin a new squash racquet, swiping at the humid air. Irwin was nodding at some remark, but Ross knew his mind was elsewhere.

  Tomorrow, or the next day, they might be in some sort of action. Bandits, smugglers, rebels, it made no difference.

  Houston’s words again. When I’m on the wrong end of a gun, that man is an enemy!

  Despite his father, the Corps, De Lisle, even Houston, the decision had been his, but now that moment was behind him. He had the lives of others to consider. Men who had no choice but to follow and trust him.

  He found himself gazing at a newspaper cutting pinned on Houston’s bulletin board. It was a photo some alert reporter had snapped of the Duke of Edinburgh, the Corps’ Captain-General, turning to stare at a marine in his guard of honour who apparently had dropped his rifle in the middle of the ceremony. Somebody had scrawled underneath, If you can’t take a joke, sir!

  Ross breathed out slowly.

  It was the only way to look at it.

  Sergeant Ted Boyes stood at the end of the jetty watching three marines handing down bundles of personal gear and some anonymous crates to the crew of a harbour launch alongside, while he picked at his teeth with a matchstick to rid them of the remains of a massive bacon sandwich.

  It was dusk, and the water was already alive with navigation lights, and the occasional winking buoy.

  He could hear the traffic behind him, the constant movement. To any casual passer-by the marines and the harbour launch would look like just another working party. This time, it was not. The assorted bundles being loaded into the launch were weapons, ammunition, the tools of the trade. You stopped asking ‘why’ and ‘what for’. Otherwise you were in the wrong job.

  It was almost time to pick up the others. Twenty in all. Not an army, but enough, if the brass had got their sums right.

  The launch was moving stern first away from the jetty, the bowman raising his boathook in mock salute to the marines above him.

  It looked like a twin of that other hard-worked launch he and Blackwood had boarded. About the same time of day, too, glaring lights switching on along the waterfront and the high buildings inland.

  Boyes had been in plenty of tight corners before, but that had been different. The unexpected roar of engines as the hidden boat had sped away into the darkness, the scream, the desperate encounter in the cabin . . .

  He had seen Blackwood only twice since the interrogations by Naval Operations and the harbour police. The last time had been near the sick quarters when he had seen him talking to the woman. A real smasher, older than the lieutenant. Nearer my age. He grinned. She had certainly had all Blackwood’s attention. Lucky lad!

  “’Eads up, Sarge. Mister Follow-my-example is comin’!”

  It was the sarcastic nickname given to one of the three lieutenants who had been flown out from England. Lieutenant Alan Piggott was young, about Blackwood’s age, Boyes thought, very fair and good-looking, and he knew it. From another old service family, Royal Marine and naval, he always displayed a tremendous self-confidence and was quick to show his impatience with any one who did not measure up to his standards. Those who had served with him before usually had to admit that Blondie Piggott was usually right, and efficient in everything he did, which only made it worse.

  Boyes spat the matchstick into the water, where it joined other floating rubbish, and braced himself. Officers sometimes had to be carried by their senior N.C.O.s, but always obeyed.

  There was nothing in Q.R.s to say you had to like them.

  “Ah, there you are, Sergeant. All done here? Those marines don’t appear to be busy.”

  “All stowed, sir. The launch has just shoved off.”

  Even in the fading light Boyes could see the fine profile, the rakish way he wore his green beret. Like everything he did.

  “Everything checked to your satisfaction?” Boyes thought, it’s too bloody late now if somebody’s forgotten something. But he answered, “As ordered, sir. Do we know the final destination yet, sir?”

  “The marines will be told nearer the time, right?”

  Boyes relaxed slightly. So Piggott did not know, either. It was that important.

  Somebody called, “Some more are comin’, Sarge,” and added self-consciously, “Sir!”

  There were three of them, a sergeant and two corporals.

  Boyes said, “Demolition party, sir. Come across from Kowloon,” and said abruptly to his opposite number, “I’m Boyes. This is Lieutenant Piggott.”

  He looked at the officer. “We can move off now, sir.”

  Piggott was regarding the other sergeant.

  “Then you must be Sergeant Blackwood.” He seemed to rock back on his heels, a little mannerism Boyes had already noticed. “A pretty famous name in the Corps, or has been. Something to live up to. But on this mission we put all personal odds and ends to one side.”

  Boyes waited, and was not disappointed.

  Piggott said, “Just follow my example, right?”

  “Boat comin’!”

  Boyes watched Piggott’s pale outline move to the opposite side of the jetty, and said, “Welcome aboard. Steve, isn’t it?” They shook hands, and there was a brief, unspoken question.

  Boyes said, “
He’s got a lot to learn, but . . .”

  The other sergeant’s teeth were white in a broad smile.

  “Yeah. But. Says it all. And thanks. We’re going to get along fine.”

  Boyes nudged his arm. “Sure thing. Just follow my example!”

  The others turned as they both laughed. It couldn’t be all that dicey.

  A boat surged alongside, a smaller, faster version this time, and the marines clambered into it. Lieutenant Blondie Piggott, correctly, entered last. Operation Ratcatcher could now begin.

  “There she is! Starboard bow!” The seaman’s oilskinned arm showed briefly above the choppy water as the helm went over, and the motor’s pitch eased for the first time since they had climbed aboard. It had begun to rain, too, warm and refreshing against the skin, but making the lights along the shore seem far away, alien.

  Ross Blackwood took a firmer grip as the coxwain swung the little craft on to a different course. There were only three men in the boat’s crew, shining occasionally like wet seals as the tiller swung this way and that, and prior to this nobody had said a word. They knew their jobs, and any attempt at conversation was pointless anyway. He could feel Irwin pressed beside him, bouncing up and down with the hull’s lively motion, twisting around from time to time to peer astern, but otherwise keeping to himself.

  A dark, wet night; it could have been anywhere, but suddenly, rising over them like a grey breakwater, was the ship. No challenges or flashing signals, no fuss at all. One moment they had the black waters to themselves, dashing it seemed into nowhere, and now she was here. H.M.S. Taunton, one of the TON class, so called because every ship’s name ended in ‘ton’, had been originally designed and built as a small coastal minesweeper. Dozens had been constructed during and in the wake of the Korean War, with every kind of non-magnetic material to lessen the chance of disaster. As some wag had said at Naval Operations, they must have fast been running out of ‘tons’ when the last vessels were launched. Now they had changed roles, and most had been relisted as patrol vessels, ideal for this part of the world.

  They were almost alongside, and Ross saw the Taunton’s brightly painted pendant number, P1095, passing just above his shoulder. A new life for a veteran ship. She must be at least fourteen years old by now. Launched at the famous yard at Cowes on the Isle of Wight, which had been the birthplace of so many wooden vessels, motor torpedo boats, rescue launches, and sweepers. Now they were back to building luxury yachts for those who could afford them; and there were a growing number who could. He had been serving in Ulster when the great new liner Queen Elizabeth II, ‘QE2’ as she was already affectionately known, had made her maiden crossing to the States. The year his father had been killed in Cyprus, and a young marine had died in a mean Belfast suburb. It still made no sense.

  The boat squealed against the grey side, and somebody jumped down to fix the hoisting gear. Wasting no time.

  Figures loomed out of the rainy dimness, a hand reached down to grasp his elbow as he climbed a short ladder and on to the deck.

  A voice murmured, “Welcome aboard, sir.”

  Another called, “Take up the slack! Stand by to hoist away!”

  Irwin said, “They’ve done this sort of thing a few times before, by the look of it.”

  “This way, sir!”

  Somewhere a bell clanged, and Ross felt the wet deck shiver into life. They were moving, even as the boat was being hoisted and manhandled into position abaft the squat funnel. It was strangely exciting, like going back, and yet somehow new. The hot air and smell of diesel, the whirr of fans, even the sluice of sea and spray drifting from the bows. Under way . . .

  Taunton, like her many sisters, was a far cry from frigate or destroyer. Less than four hundred tons, and some hundred and fifty feet in length, with only two Bofors guns as her main armament, she was exactly right for her new role, and with a company of thirty, including her four officers, she was the last of her kind.

  Taunton’s commanding officer appeared for a few seconds. A quick handshake, a voice in the darkness. “All your people are below. One’s in the sickbay, I’m afraid. Fell down a ladder when he came over the side. Thought it best to keep him aboard. No sense in wasting time, or drawing attention to my ship.”

  Somebody murmured in his ear and he said, “Time to chat later when we’re clear of the channel.” Only a lieutenant, but Taunton’s captain. And proud of it.

  They groped and stumbled after their guide. And then, suddenly, there was light, the ship’s sounds and smells crowding around them.

  The commanding officer’s cabin was cramped and neat, with a bunk and a desk, and a battery of telephones. There was a framed photograph above the desk, the glass of which was cracked. The little TON craft could be very lively in a storm, not to mention a typhoon.

  As one of the Operations staff had commented, “The old TONS roll on wet grass!” He had served in one himself. A ‘small ship man’. It was always there.

  Their guide proved to be a midshipman, the youngest member of this small wardroom.

  Curiously, Ross looked at the photograph, and recognized the lieutenant now up there on his crowded little bridge, feeling his way clear of all other shipping. He was standing with his bride outside a church doorway.

  The deck tilted steeply and the engine vibration became more insistent.

  Irwin said, “Cracking it on a bit. What can she do?”

  The midshipman smiled, and it made him look like the schoolboy he had so recently been. “She can manage fifteen knots, sir.” The smile broadened. “With a following wind, that is!”

  He pointed to a file of signals.

  “The C.O. left these for you, sir.” He looked at Ross. “I’ve got some food laid on.”

  He left the cabin, his foot lifting automatically over a coaming, in time with the lowering of his head as he ducked through the door.

  Irwin said, “Fifteen knots. Jesus Christ, we should have taken the Star Ferry, with a following wind!” He unfastened his coat. “Well, let’s get on with it.”

  Then he leaned back against a pile of folded lifejackets, his eyes very calm again. Like some one else looking out.

  “I’ll go through it first with you, Ross. Then we’ll get the others into the picture.”

  Ross thought of the other lieutenant who had taken a different route to join the Taunton. Debonair, very sure of himself.

  “What about Piggott?” He had almost called him ‘Blondie’.

  Irwin shrugged. “Far as I’m concerned, you’re second in command. My decision, O.K.?”

  There was a tap at the door and it swung inboard without waiting for permission. It was a petty officer in a grubby boiler suit, an empty mug in one hand.

  “Sorry to trouble you, gents.” He looked directly at Ross. “One of your chaps is askin’ for you.”

  The door closed and Irwin said, “Very matey lot, aren’t they?” It seemed to amuse him. “I’ll leave you on your own. Ten minutes?”

  The door opened again, and there was a brief blare of music, probably from the main messdeck, which would be more crammed than ever with the marines aboard. A voice yelled, “Turn that bloody row off, for Gawd’s sake!”

  There was silence again but for the everpresent shipboard noises, and the occasional sluice of the sea against the hull.

  They faced each other across the small cabin, lieutenant and sergeant.

  “Sergeant Blackwood, sir. I thought I should report to you, and not wait until the briefing tomorrow.” He swallowed, but did not remove his gaze.

  Ross said, “You must be a mind-reader. I was thinking of making my number, too. But I expected you might have your head down.”

  Steve Blackwood looked past him. “In this ship, sir? Not likely.”

  Ross gestured to the other chair. “Well, I’m glad you came. It can’t have been easy.” It was not what he wanted to say at all. Like strangers. Or enemies. “I’ve often thought about this moment. After all the years, the uncertainties. As it was, I almost
didn’t get assigned to this mission. I bloody nearly put in my papers.”

  “Resigned? Leave the Royals? Why the hell—”

  Ross reclipped a deadlight over one of the scuttles. He had not noticed it rattling before.

  “Sit down, will you?” He turned abruptly and thrust out his hand. “Look, we’ve met. That’s what matters.” Just a momentary flicker, a hesitation. He had been about to refuse. Like Houston’s old sergeant, who had saved his life.

  But the handshake was strong. Like the man. His cousin.

  “I went to the house. When all . . . well, what were they, salesmen? When they were there. I’d heard about the Colonel, of course, everybody had. And I knew about Hawks Hill. I just wanted to be there. To be sure.” He broke off, as if unable to put it into words.

  “I wish I’d known.”

  The eyes challenged him again, searching for something.

  Ross thought of Irwin. “We’re in this together.” He smiled unconsciously. “This is like part of a bad film, isn’t it?”

  “We’ll not let you down.” The slightest pause. “Sir.”

  “I’m the one who should be saying that.” There were feet on a ladder, voices: Irwin and perhaps the Taunton’s skipper. It had to be now.

  He saw the surprise on the other man’s face, the features like and unlike his own.

  “This is as good a time as any. At least, I hope it is.”

  He took a piece of folded velvet from his pocket and laid it carefully on the desk. It was the old, much polished badge, the Globe and Laurel. The one in the photograph.

  “This is for you. It was your mother’s.”

  The door was open and Irwin was inside the cabin, his hair almost brushing some pipes that ran across the deckhead, his eyes full of questions. Two of Taunton’s officers were close behind him.

  “All done, then?”

  Ross could remember exactly, as if it had been this morning, when his sister had given him the square of velvet. Just in case you meet up with him. It was probably the worst thing he could have done.