“I suppose you’re right sis. I think you’re most definitely the Salford Confucius, not me.”
“Anyway, what do you mean by reliable? You mean stuffy and boring don’t you?” Deirdre clouted Bull across the head then asked, “So what happened in Glasgow? Tell me about this revelation.” Bull suddenly appeared excited. He put his arm around his sister’s shoulder and pulled her in tight. He said,
“I met up with an old university friend called Brian and we went out to a pub called the Scotia bar. The place has remained unchanged while the rest of the city redeveloped around it. There’s like this hedonistic atmosphere which most modern pubs have lost. A bit like the Squealing Pig before it got washed away.”
“I still can’t believe the Pig has gone,” moaned Deirdre. Bull's mind was back in Glasgow. Like a story teller Bull described a scene of log fires and steamed up windows, of drunken people arguing in an animated state one minute and then hugging each other the next. He made a point of describing an old man and woman dancing a jig while a Celtic folk band played on an impromptu stage, and where young couples fornicated in the dark alcoves. “Is there a point to this story Faerrleah,” sighed Deirdre.
Bull laughed, I’m just setting the scene for you.”
“Well get on with it, I’m growing face wrinkles here.”
“So we approached the bar as if we were regular drinkers. I ordered some drinks then asked the bar person, if the place had any darts for the dartboard. I was greeted with a huge puckered mug, snarling teeth and the growling reply, look ye big fud, yer here tae drink, no tae play games. A large hairy hand came slapping down on the wooden bar, shaking the glasses. Bull was inwardly impressed with his Glaswegian accent despite his sister’s unsubtle and disapproving shake of the head.” What’s a fud?” said Deirdre. Bull deliberately ignored her question. He continued his tale. He said,
“I stood there startled at first, staring into her face with amazement. She had hit the nail on the head. It has all been a game. Everything up until now has just been one big silly game!”
“She?” Bull nodded his head. He was smiling. His face was lit up like a Halloween pumpkin. Bull went on, describing the moment when his mind began to fill with revelations like a nebulous gloom being dispersed by the appearance of an illuminating star. He concluded that his happiness was to be found in the act of being able to be truthful with yourself and with others. In the long run, respect and fulfilment will follow. Bull was only concerned with the moment in time. What happened in the past could not be changed and only he could dictate what could happen from that day forward. He was ready to let go of the past and moreover, he didn’t feel that mourning his loss was a waste of time. This was in actual fact a transitional period that everyone went through when a relationship ended. He had devoted enough time to analysing the past, mulling over why Saffron had left him for someone else, even though, deep down, he suspected it was for other reasons. It was time to move on, look to the future and stop chasing shadows. He said,
“It was like a wall of confusion, that represented a mental impasse, but it had fragmented and crumbled - presenting a way forward. I had a direction. I began to experience a strange excitement in a way I had seldom felt before. I was now aware of time running away from me and change had to be embraced before time ran away from me and I got stuck in a maze.” A broad grin began to spread across his features, flexing facial muscles not used in a long time.
“So you got all that from a Glaswegian barmaid?” said Deirdre.
“For messages come in the strangest of ways,” said Bull playfully. “It wasn’t that she was the Glasgow Confucius, she just said something that triggered a reaction within me. It was like someone opened a door inside my head. The next day I got word from the Coast Guard about that job I told you about and I’ve been successful. The down side of it is that I’ll be stationed in St Kilda.”
“Where’s that?” said Deirdre.
“The Outer Hebrides. It’s going to be hard. I need to sell the narrowboat. And not being able to pop back home to see the family as often. It will be tough, but I need to enter the next phase of my life. I’ll achieve nowt just crying into my beer, as Patrick would say.” Deirdre smiled and then said,
“Patrick did say that even your tears have a frothy head on them.”
Deirdre was thankful that her brother had come out the other side of the tunnel and was rejuvenated by his life changing plan. How he arrived there still seemed to trouble her. She suspected that he was suffering from some temporary mental reaction to grief, not just the loss of Saffron but also the lingering childhood pain left behind after their mother died. Deirdre had a muddled recollection of how poorly he had coped as a child with the transformation of his life when she had passed away. Her predominant memory was that Bull took to wearing his Batman costume and refused to take it off, even for the funeral. She later came to understand that he had felt protected from the hurt by pretending to be someone else and by hiding behind his black masquerade and his fake padded muscles. He could believe he was a superhero, who could take on all the pain that the world threw at him.
She remembered sitting beside him on the church pew, Patrick felt both sorrow and embarrassment when the priest addressed the family individually, in front of the congregation of mourners, and feeling relieved that he hadn’t mentioned Bull’s costume. He ignored it as if it was somehow normal to dress as Batman to your mother’s funeral. Bull refused to take his outfit off. He would even wear it to school under his uniform and wear the mask at break. One day Bull was set about by the school’s self styled bully, Robert Clark and his sidekicks. When Patrick arrived on the scene, Bull was in floods of tears. His mask had been unceremoniously ripped from his face and was lying on the ground in tatters. With one well directed punch, Clark was dispatched to the floor where he stayed until Patrick was dragged off him by a teacher. The following day Bull's bruises had gone and he left his Batman costume at home.
At Victoria train station they watched a news bulletin. Bull said,
“That presenter has an annoying face. It's as if she's fighting back the urge to break into a grin, despite how distressing the news.”
“She can't help it. She's just a computer animation.”
“Well, whoever programmes her, they should make more of an effort and start by wiping that insincere smirk off her face.” Scenes of riot police arresting protesters were shown, followed a smiling family drinking a branded fizzy drink at a rain drenched Euro Disneyland in Paris. They turned and walked to the platform when the bulletin showed close up shots of the Prime Minister arriving at the G13 Summit in Brasilia. There had been no mention of the storms and floods sweeping across the country. When Deirdre left him at the railway station, she saw her brother in a different light. He appeared more like his old self - determined and at peace with himself.
“Send me a postcard, you fat bastard,” she shouted, managing to laugh while fighting back the tears forming behind her eyes. Bull sat on the train, staring out of the carriage window at the 3D projection advertising display. Developers were selling houses in the Cambrian Mountains in Wales.
Chapter 16: Operation Savage Elf
Professor Burke sat on a plastic chair. The room was dimly lit and undecorated. He had been staring at his shoes for at least an hour. His hush puppies were by far the most interesting feature in his line of sight. After leaving the Splurge Bucket in Leith, he had been taken to an abandoned power station outside Edinburgh. His introduction to the Elves was not as cordial as he was expecting. He had been escorted off the street, put into the back of a lorry and strip searched. His body was scanned from head to foot for hidden transmitters and listening devices. Such an undignified experience, he thought, and they hadn’t even offered me a cup of tea.
He heard the metallic sound of a key in a lock. A bright light illuminated the figure of a woman standing in the doorway. He heard a shrill voice with the slightest hint of a North American accent.
“I would like to apol
ogise for the treatment we have subjected you to, but we had to be sure you weren’t spying for the Government. I hope you understand Professor Burke, but there is much at stake. I am Itaridlë, the leader of the ELF.” She handed him his spectacles. The Professor clipped the legs of his glasses around his ears and pushed the bridge up the length of his nose. He said nothing in response.
Itaridlë approached him holding a paper cup of hot tea. She passed him back his leather satchel. She was small but with an athletic build, shoulder length brown hair, oval eyes and a perfectly symmetrical face. For an instant, he imagined that her appearance would befit his daughter. She was dressed in combat trousers, boots and a black tight fitting vest which revealed both her muscular shoulders and salient breasts.
“I think we should eat and then you can tell me all about this Silent Wave project,” said Itaridlë. The Professor nodded but remained silent and then he said, What about the detonation, am I too late?”
“No Professor Burke, the event has been delayed.”
“Thank God,” said the Professor, dropping his head.
He was led off to a canteen and offered a choice of foiled bags. He examined the labels. He chose one and looked questionably at Itaridlë. She took it off him, twisted the lid, and laid it on a deep tray. The foiled bag rumbled as if coming to life, then after a few more seconds, steam came from hundreds of perforated holes. They walked to a set of tables and chairs and sat down. The Professor opened the bag and indulged himself on the contents. It had been a while since he had eaten a warm meal. Itaridlë waited for him to finish his food. She cleaned dirt from under her fingernails with her combat knife.
After another cup of hot tea, Itaridlë took him back to the room. A camera was set up in front of the plastic chair. Professor Burke was asked to sit and begin his tale.
“You don’t mind if Inwë records you?” said Itaridlë. After his meal the Professor was in better spirits. He said,
“No, not at all. It will be a relief to get this off my chest.”
“When you are ready Professor. First of all state your name and who you worked for.”
“My name is Earl Burke, Professor Emeritus and ex-chief scientist at the National Oceanography Centre. During the last six years I have been employed by the MoDs to lead a project called Silent Wave. The project was originally designed to counteract tidal surges and tsunamis caused by ice shelf slips and marine hydraulic fracturing activities. After several years of research a Government agency, which I later found out to be connected with the MoDs, took over jurisdiction of Silent Wave. I would like to state, for the record, that at that stage I still had no reason to believe that they were planning to use my research as a weapon of mass destruction.”
Professor Burke withdrew a small box from his briefcase. He held his finger against a pad until he heard a beeping noise. A pressure valve on the box hissed before opening. He withdrew a microchip and handed it to Itaridlë. He cleared his throat and continued, “I received a recording of a wire tap from an old friend of mine who must remain nameless. The recording is a conversation between Myron Clone and Raymond McIntyre, Permanent Secretary of the Ministry of Defence and Surveillance.” Itaridlë nodded to the corner of the room. Lúthien came forward and took the microchip from the Professor and slotted it into the side of his notepad. The file opened and two men’s voices became audible.
McIntyre: Good day Myron, I won’t waste your time and get straight to the point. The Minister needs an update on Silent Wave.
Myron Clone: Would that be the Minister or would that be you who need an update.
McIntyre: I am the eyes and ears of the Minister, so let’s have it Myron, unless you want him to call you personally.
Myron Clone: Don’t get your pantaloons in a twist Donald.”
McIntyre: “I don’t wear pantaloons Myron, you must have me mixed up with one of your old Etonian school chums. The Minister is worried that this operation of yours is over budget and getting complicated. We believe you may also have a leak and the Russians and Chinese may have caught wind of it.”
Myron Clone: “I would dispute that Donald. I hand picked the team myself. Look, as I’ve said time and time before, most activities will be conducted underwater, therefore foreign satellites will be limited to observing surface activity only, which we will put down to fracking exploration drilling. The leader of the project team, Professor Earl Burke, has identified a general area to test the supposition: west of St Kilda which geologically ticks all the right boxes. There’s a history of shale gas drilling operations in the area, so we have good cover. The Islands already have had their fair share of military testing but with all the fracking going on in the region, it’s not unfamiliar with seismic activity.
McIntyre: “You do know the islands have a population right? It might be low but we need to know about your evacuation strategy.
Myron Clone: “I thought it was evacuated in the 1930’s?”
McIntyre: “It was but fracking brought people back to the island. It’s been repopulated, not a sizeable presence but they still need to be moved.”
Myron Clone: “I forgot, aren’t you from that neck of the woods.”
McIntyre: “Not even close Myron.”
Myron Clone: “Are you sure there are people? I was under the impression the island was deserted a long, long time ago.”
McIntyre: “Are you fucking with me Myron? Are you purposely trying to take the piss? There are ancillary workers on the island – they need to be evacuated. Make up a reason to move them and their families.”
Myron Clone: “I was aware of a small fishing fleet operating in the area but that was all.”
McIntyre: “Well consider yourself corrected.”
Myron Clone: “We would need to find a good excuse to evacuate the island and the media will have to buy into it.”
McIntyre: “The media are preoccupied with the riots. Make up a reason but make sure no civilians are in the area.”
Myron Clone: “There might be the odd Spanish trawler looking to vacuum up what’s left of the decimated marine wildlife but if they get hit by the wave, I’ll see that as a bonus. (Myron laughs) Hypothetically at least, most of them will be out of harms way but there’s always a bit of collateral damage. That’s to be expected.”
McIntyre: “No collateral Myron. The Minister wants it clean, do you understand.”
Myron Clone: “Without collateral, how can we really assess the wave’s effectiveness?”
McIntyre: “That’s your problem. Find a way. I’ll brief the Minister but I must say Myron, he is a wee bit concerned with the work you’re doing over there.”
Myron Clone: “I just remembered what association you have with that part of the world; don’t you have a brother who works for the Royal Coast Guard in the Outer Hebrides? I’m sure he will be fine. Is that what’s bothering you Donald? Are you concerned for your sibling?”
McIntyre: “That’s not an issue for me Myron and certainly not for you. I just smooth things out for the Minister and make sure people like you don’t fuck things up and get egg on his face. By the way, does Professor Burke suspect anything? You can’t afford any slip ups.”
Myron Clone: Not a thing. You know scientists, always with their heads in a microscope, analysing the small things when the bigger picture is unravelling behind them (snorting). So have you an update for me?”
McIntyre: “You will wait for the orders to be released. The new attack submarine is ready to take up its position at the test site, tactical airlift squadrons are on standby and the shot will take place at 19:00hrs on the 3rd of September. Weather permitting.” The recording ended.
Inwë stepped forward and whispered in Itaridlë’s ear,
“There’s no way that conversation is a wire tap. No way. I’m pretty sure it’s an inside job.” Itaridlë gazed at the floor then raised her head to look at Inwë.
“Can you analyse the original recording and let me know.” She handed Inwë the microchip and he left the room. Itarid
lë turned to Lúthien and smirked. She paced about the room, her boots scraping against the concrete floor and then she stopped and said to Professor Burke.
“You need to find out from your friend, the identity of the person who handed him the recording. That is our way in.”
“He wouldn’t say who gave him the recording and I couldn’t contact him now. I would be fearful of exposing him. I would imagine they will have him under surveillance, as they did with me, and as soon as I get in touch, he will be arrested.”
“Yes, that would be unfortunate, but we all have sacrifices to make Professor. His name would be very beneficial to our objectives.”
“I’m sorry Itaridlë. All I have to give you is the recording at this point in time. I must insist on my friend’s anonymity.”
Itaridlë stood with her hands on her hips and examined the box in her hands. Lúthien smiled and then said,
“We do have scanners that could extract the information with or without your permission, Professor Burke.” Itaridlë grabbed Lúthien’s arm and said,
“That won’t be necessary. I think the Professor has been more than helpful to our cause.” She turned to the Professor with an intense stare and said, “This is a pretty low standard of technology you are using here Professor. I take it you have the backed all this data up?” The Professor shifted in his plastic chair and said,
“The lower the standard of technology, the more secure the data in my opinion. For instance, I’ve even taken to writing with an old fashioned ink pen rather than a digital one, but yes the information is backed up.” The door opened and Inwë returned.
“As I thought, it is definitely an inside job. It’s not a wire tap; the sound wave frequencies are different. I made a copy as you requested.”
Itaridlë took the microchip from Inwë, placed it back in the box and passed it back to Professor Burke. She then turned to the two Elfs.
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 17