October Song

by Ru Pringle

No, she needs a cool head for what lies ahead. Not one where the sight of an army face makes her want to stab it. She’ll funnel her rage into the one small piece of meaningful defiance she still has a hope of achieving.

  Escape.

  CHAPTER 26

  ______________

  Signs

  LORNA AINSWORTH steps from the helicopter clutching her chic little hat. She’s elongate, dignified and as hard as whinstone. As the machine’s counter-rotating rotors whine down, she motions you to a plastic table and chairs someone’s set up at the side of the car park. A local entrepreneur has been quick to capitalise on the disaster. All day, his tiny white trailer has been serving the police and other investigators with venison burgers and Quorn sausages with fried onions and chips. The table is sprinkled with their greasy remains.

  Sitting, Ainsworth produces a slim vacuum flask from her woollen longcoat and pours it into two natty little folding teacups. Without asking, she passes one to you.

  ‘Good work so far. I’m glad you’re okay.’ She takes a sip from her cup. Noticing your expression, she says, ‘It’s jasmine tea. Don’t know about you, but I’ve been hitting the coffee a little too hard lately. Try some.’

  You leave the tea where it is.

  ‘How did you know she’d head to Craobh Haven?’

  ‘Strictly speaking, I still don’t. Is there information you’re not telling me?’

  She seems unfazed. Puts down her cup. ‘There may be a connection between Keir and yesterday’s bombing.’

  ‘That seems obvious. The question is, what? This was no IED. It has the hallmarks of an air strike. Not only that, it was massive overkill. The kill zone extends more than a kilometre from the buildings in places. It’s like someone wanted the area erased. Which raises a heap of interesting questions. I can’t think why any foreign power would target a small, private marine facility. Besides, if this had been an incursion into UK airspace, we’d know about it.’

  Ainsworth produces a vaper and sucks on it with an elegant sense of need. ‘Can’t fault your reasoning.’

  ‘So …?’

  She tucks wind-ruffled strands of red-dyed hair behind an ear. ‘You know all we do at the moment. It’s being looked into.’

  ‘And meanwhile, Keir is escaping.’

  ‘What makes you convinced she’s still alive?’

  ‘No identifiable remains yet, and the crime squad have accounted for most of the bodies.’

  She nods, looking away. ‘They’re more efficient than I gave them credit for.’

  ‘The Service needs to start using some of their gear.’ You raise a hand. ‘In my opinion. There is still a chance we’ve missed Keir’s body, but it’s slight. Besides, she’ll have wanted an idea where her contact was before revealing herself, and her caution and the timing of her journey means she won’t have approached until after dark. I’m guessing she came in behind Lunga …’ you indicate the large island forming the west side of the bay ‘… then approached the marina in the shelter of those little islands there.’ Again, you point. ‘This is supposition – but I think she watched as the strikes took place. Then retreated.’

  ‘Have you evidence?’

  You shrug. ‘It feels like what she’d do. I checked the islands for signs. Nothing except debris from the explosions. I went to Luing, the big island, but an armed migrant insurrection seems to be ongoing there. Word is, they have locals and families from the transmigration programme locked up in some of the old farmhouses, and have been executing them.’

  Ainsworth looks genuinely shocked. ‘Christ.’

  ‘I’d intended asking for sightings of Keir, but I’d need armed response or Service tactical squad backup. With snipers.’

  ‘You’ve done well.’

  ‘Why is this woman worth all this manpower? You got the man behind the bomb.’

  Ainsworth pointedly doesn’t answer your question. ‘Assuming she’s still alive, what, in your opinion, will she do next?’

  You throw your hands up, finally letting your frustration show. ‘How do I know? If I’m wrong – if she’s got herself a boat – she’s already in the wind. It’s chaos round here, and getting worse. Anywhere west of Loch Fyne is like the wild west.’ You meet her formidable gaze. ‘Anything that claims otherwise is propaganda. You’re sending agents into the field improperly briefed, at the risk of their lives. Ma’am.’

  You expect a crisp put-down, but she just looks tired. ‘We’re all a little ragged at the moment,’ she says. ‘My apologies you weren’t better briefed.’

  You nod, stiffly. ‘She could try heading west. But there’s no record of her being an experienced kayaker. I think she’ll limit herself to following the coast.’

  ‘The problem being there’s a hell of a lot of that round here.’ Ainsworth drags on her vaper.

  ‘Well, yeah.’

  ‘You seem to have been on the money so far. Give me your best guess.’

  You suck your lips. Lean back in your chair.

  ‘It occurred to me she might try heading north as fast as she can. If she made it as far as Loch Linnhe, all she’d have to do is land almost anywhere along the coast of Ardgour. It’s trackless, except round the old superquarry at Glensanda, and well inside separatist territory. If she goes ashore there, and the separatists hide her or help smuggle her out, then I think we’ve good as lost her.’

  Ainsworth considers this. ‘I think I hear a “but”. Is she likely to have a contact there?’

  ‘No. Craobh Haven may have been all or nothing, meaning she’s just winging it from now on. It’s possible she’ll have had some system set up for her to arrange a plan B. But I don’t think she has any way of contacting anyone. She left that car in a hurry, and we know she ditched her ’phone early. She’ll need to buy – or borrow – another. Or use the ’net. Besides – she’ll be hurting right now. We know she’s injured. She’ll be tired, lonely. Probably hungry. In need of something familiar.’

  ‘Home?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. She’s going to Oban.’

  CHAPTER 27

  ______________

  Marina

  THE MARINA ON KERRERA isn’t quite how Coira remembers it.

  She recalls swanky pontoons adjoining a rutted lane, a down-at heel toilet block, a metal barn opposite a dilapidated shed, and weedy hardstandings for boat storage and maintenance. The place had never really taken off in the way the owners hoped. Some ascribed this to mismanagement. She suspected the main issue had been the twenty-minute ferry ride needed to reach the tourist hotspot of Oban, with its genteel Georgian seafront, tacky chain pubs, and neo-Roman folly looming over the town like a kitsch Colosseum.

  Now the huge, twin-hulled charter yacht of the marina’s heyday is gone. In fact, the only signs that yachts were ever here are a handful of stripped-down hulls propped up onshore above the bay, and a lone section of aluminium mast projecting from the water towards the moon. A stagnant fishy aroma suggests birds and seals are the only regular visitors. All the pontoons still afloat are missing their boards. Probably ripped up for firewood or building, she thinks. The only source of movement is the water.

  In contrast, across the bay, Oban is a town of neon. Thumping bass rhythms from unseen bars and a clamour of raised voices carry over the harbour, growing clearer and louder when the breeze eddies. As the kayak drifts, she studies the shore through her binoculars. Gangs of people – men, mostly – are sitting or lying on the concrete tide defences, or staggering along the massively built sea wall, bottles in hand. Flotillas of heads bob in both directions along the street behind the wall. She can see woollen hats and baseball caps. No police or army headgear.

  It occurs to her that a seafront full of unruly drunk people might suit her needs quite well.

  Coira paddles to the bank near the skeletal remains of the gangway and clambers awkwardly ashore, dragging the kayak up after her. Her hands are agony. Each new spell of paddling strips off skin which is trying to r
egrow. She grabs her bag of clothes from the front hatch. Ears straining, she crunches as quietly as she can along overgrown gravel to the back of the old toilet block.

  Beyond the toilets is a structure like an old barn. Its twin doorways are gaping mouths, their half-closed steel roller shutters like brown teeth.

  She clicks on her headtorch as she ducks through the nearest opening.

  Inside is a rust-orange, cobwebbed tractor, its smooth-worn tyres crevassed like glaciers. Part of the roof has fallen on to it, and there’s a strong smell of damp and urine. Coira jumps as half a dozen feral cats scatter round her feet, yowling and spitting.

  She pokes around piles of old electrical equipment and a kind of mulch composed of plastic and rotten particle boards, but nothing is of use.

  Next door, she has better luck. There are rusting tools, heavy-duty industrial or agricultural stuff mostly, but after digging around for a bit she finds a toolbox. Tacky with a paste of dust and the oil which has prevented parts of it rusting, it’s light enough to heave on to a bench. Inside, she finds a usable roll of gaffer tape, a hand-powered torch which glows when she squeezes the handle, and a retractable aluminium-handled Stanley knife. The knife’s blade has rusted away, but she unearths a plastic wallet of spares, sealed in oil. Having located a screwdriver she fits one, dropping the remaining blades and the screwdriver in her bag and stuffing the knife down the front of her wetsuit.

  She turns off the torch. Having waited a few minutes for her eyes to readapt to the darkness, she creeps back round the corner to the smaller, slate-roofed building, fingers literally crossed as she wills a toilet and laundry still to be inside.

  If they aren’t, she has some rethinking to do.

  The door is as she remembers. The graffiti and spalled roughcast are new. She pushes the door. Tries the handle, but it seems to be locked.

  She shoulders it, hard, and feels rotten wood yield.

  By the light of her headtorch, she can see the building’s in better condition inside. Mouse droppings pepper the floor and there’s a mouldy smell, but it’s drier than expected.

  She opens a white-painted cupboard.

  Inside, to her amazement, is an unopened catering pack of paper hand-towels and another of toilet roll, as well as a pile of neatly folded, clean-looking towels and a sachet of liquid soap for the toilet dispensers. The tumble drier and washing machine are all still here. As expected, all are inert.

  She goes next door to the toilet and turns on the taps.

  Nothing.

  Coira scratches her chin. Then she searches around outside for the electrical consumer unit, finding it eventually in the garage where she found the knife. Seeing the trip switches are all off, she experiences a twinge of excitement. Unfortunately, turning them on doesn’t bring appliances or anything else to life. Part of her is glad. What if any lights had come on?

  She has better luck with the water. Locating the master valve near the laundry door, she gives it a couple of turns, and is rewarded by a strong stream of – initially muck-coloured – water from the women’s toilet taps.

  She hangs the headtorch over the light above the mirror so that its light reflects on her face. Looking back at her is someone she barely recognises. She begins to wonder if she needs a disguise at all.

  Coira has always looked her age, in a fit, good-boned kind of way, but the face she’s looking at seems to have aged twenty years. It has sallow, puffy skin, and dark-ringed, sunken eyes with a hunted stare. Picked out by dirt, her wrinkles seem to have multiplied. Her prematurely grey hair is tangled in filthy ropes about her face.

  She swallows at the apparition, and gets to work.

  It’s worse when she takes the wretched wetsuit off. Her armpits and hard, biscuit-coloured nipples are raw, and where her loose neck-seal has rubbed she’s wearing a purple rash like a repulsive necklace. Bruises and cuts are everywhere. Combined with her flayed hands, it looks like she’s been tortured.

  She takes up the knife. Grabs a fistful of hair. Pictures what she has in mind, takes a deep breath …

  She begins cutting.

  WHEN SHE’S FINISHED she grabs the soap and a towel, and runs the shower.

  The water isn’t bone-chilling, but it’s cold enough. She forces herself to wash thoroughly, rubbing handfuls of stinging soap into her hair and massaging it into her face so hard that she sees stars.

  Then she’s towelling herself dry, feeling surprisingly invigorated.

  She gingerly approaches the mirror again.

  The change, she thinks with satisfaction, is remarkable. She runs fingers through her damp hair, adjusting. Her eyes are still sunken, but she looks forty-five again. Even slightly younger, with a hairstyle that could pass for the kind of bed-hair crop currently favoured by wealthier Edinburgh twenty-somethings.

  Her face, though, is still pretty distinctive.

  She puts on her clothes, wrapping a musty towel around her shoulders like a shawl, and takes a stack of hand-towels from the cupboard. She shreds one, packing the pieces between her lower gums and the inside of her cheeks. The dryness and chemical taste make her gag a little.

  Then she goes to the door and scrubs her cheeks, hard, against the concrete doorposts.

  She studies her handiwork, adjusting gobs of saliva-drenched towel with her fingers.

  Not bad.

  The effect is subtle, but transformative. Her distinctive jawline is now heavier, in a way that seems to change the shape of her whole face. Not in her favour, but that’s fine: she’s not on a date. At least from a distance, her cheeks have the ruddiness of someone who’s spent their life outdoors. The scuffs have even disguised the small blemish on her left cheekbone.

  All I need now is a pair of green wellies.

  She finds them in a storeroom next to the tractor shed, along with a boiler suit. It’s a bit smelly and big for her, but she realises that – while not what she’d intended – she now has a convincing image. She can still do the accent, and she is now a salt-of-the-earth Argyll farming wyfie, hitting Oban for weekly messages and heavy drinking. If questioned, she probably has enough residual knowledge of the area to sound convincing to anyone from further south.

  The main flaw in her plans is the kayak. She can’t be seen in it, and she’ll arrive soaked. After some fretting and knuckle-chewing she begins scouting for alternatives, ever aware of the time all this is taking, expecting at any moment to hear an engine, or the crunch of feet on gravel.

  There are no boats in the sheds or the barn. That would have been too easy.

  She scours the shoreline and the bits of pontoon which are still reachable, but there’s nothing.

  She finds herself wandering up towards the marooned yachts. Balanced on their keels, prevented from toppling by rickety-looking poles, they loom around her into the dim sky, like a park of half-finished sculptures.

  Hang on …

  She picks up a twisted aluminium ladder. Leans it against the first boat, and climbs aboard. The wooden deck is rotten. She’s fearful of falling through, but there turns out to be plastic underneath.

  Nothing.

  She tries the same with the second.

  Again nothing. Just old beer cans, moss and some seabird’s abandoned nest.

  With the third, though, Coira has more luck. A crazy little aluminium dinghy is lashed to the deck, upside down in a compost of leaves and rotting rope. It’s as wide as it is long. There’s no engine, she sees with dismay. Then it strikes her that this is a disguised blessing. An engine would have been noisy, and even if it started okay, she couldn’t have relied on it. She finds a pair of oars in a creaking locker at the stern.

  She searches the other boats for something better, but there’s nothing.

  Wee metal bathtub it is, then.

  She cuts it free with the Stanley knife, using a length of rope to lower it as silently as she can to the ground. It weighs a fraction of what she was expecting, so she carries it towards th
e kayak over her head, like the carapace of a horseshoe crab. Having dragged the kayak inland and hidden it at the foot of a small hill behind a ruined stone wall, she has an idea.

  She returns to the toilet. Carefully winds and folds towels around her waist, bulking up her hips beneath the boiler suit. Checks herself in the toilet mirror.

  Looking good.

  Not.

  Coira pushes the boat into the water, sliding the oars into the oarlocks as she discovers one of her wellies has a leak.

  Stepping aboard with a shiver, she spins the boat clumsily around with the oars until her back is toward the lights, and begins to row.

  CHAPTER 28

  ______________

  Neon Town

  YOU WEREN’T JOKING when you told Ainsworth it was like the wild west round here. Oban these days has the feeling of a frontier town. Of a war between people clinging to respectability, and those not expecting to reach middle age who are seeking as much hedonism as their pockets – or other people’s – will allow.

  The result isn’t pretty.

  Since your original drive to Lochgilphead flash floods have washed parts of the road away, but even with the damage, and the police and army checkpoints, the journey from Craobh Haven took less than an hour. All this palaver trying to find someone in an area less than thirty kilometres by thirty.

  Waiting in the car, you sip coffee and mull over what the chief told you this morning.

  There’s much you still don’t understand. Four Service officers are in Oban now, awaiting Keir’s arrival. You have no idea of their names, or what they have planned. In fact, Ainsworth was opaque on the subject to the point of evasion. All she told you was not to get involved. Whatever that meant.

  She’d gone as far as to order you to stay out of the town. Which is why you left your ’phone, switched on, at the hotel in Lochgilphead, and have just been to the Chinese electronics shop to buy a disposable with an old-style pay-and-go SIM.

  Now you’re here though, you’re unsure how to proceed. You’re expecting Keir will have to come from the water, but she’s too canny to kayak straight up to the waterfront. And she has local knowledge. Which could make things … interesting.