October Song

by Ru Pringle

  Her expression looks weird, but she nods. He still can’t meet her eyes. ‘Target presenting high collateral risk. You need to be sure.’

  ‘Know what they found? In his bag?’

  She waits for him to go on.

  ‘Bread. Fucking bread. And Danish pastries.’ He punches the nearest window. He’s vaguely aware he’s taken the skin off his knuckles. ‘Danish fucking pastries! It was meant to be a suicide bomb. They told me it was a suicide bomb. And it turns out he had a rucksack full of fucking baking produce he’d robbed at gunpoint from a branch of Greggs.’

  Something’s fogging his vision.

  ‘He had a ’phone. So I follow protocol, like a good little soldier. I swipe the ’phone’s data straight to HQ, text the most frequent contact, and … I trick her into meeting me. I’m thinking she must be an accomplice. Possibly complicit girlfriend. Someone useful.

  ‘Know who it was? Do you know who it fucking was?’

  Coira’s shaking her head.

  ‘His sister. His six-month pregnant sister. Who he’d risked his life for, knocking off a bakery to get her a meal. Service took her in, of course. The whole “enhanced interrogation” treatment. Fifteen days straight. Then they threw her out on the street, with nowhere to go because the landlord of the dive she’d being staying in had already given it to someone else. Got nothing from her, of course. Except that her parents were both dead and she was pregnant because she’d been raped. By her stepfather.’ Alistair pronounces the word as though it’s poisonous. ‘Which was the reason they were in a dive they couldn’t pay for, stealing food.

  ‘I only found out later she’d lost the baby.’

  He’s vaguely aware of Coira’s mouth moving. He studies his hands. His knuckles are bleeding. He’s embarrassed to see darkened spots appearing on his trousers. He wipes his face dry with a snarl.

  ‘So, Coira. While I never agreed with or frankly liked your politics, one of the many things I’m considering just now is just what the “greater good” actually means. Along with my future. Even if I’ve a job to go back to …’ He inhales through his teeth. ‘It’s not something I can imagine at this moment. That’s why I’m here. I’m on sick-leave, officially. My boat’s where I always came, when I needed time. Even sailed her across the Atlantic, once. Before the blockades.’

  ‘Uh … wow.’

  He risks a glance at her. The anger in her eyes has gone. ‘The truth is, I … I don’t know where else to go. I should feel this is where I belong. Up here on the west coast. Except …’ He clamps his lips together. ‘I’ve spent most of my life near London now. And I thought, perhaps if I walked along some familiar roads, maybe looked at mum and dad’s old place – or if I could have found some old friends … you know, from before boarding school …’

  Alistair picks at his palms. ‘Who knows what I thought.’

  He finds a hand grasping his. Coira pulls his torn, wet knuckles towards her mouth. Gently kisses them. ‘Well. You found one old friend at least.’

  He feels an unexpected surge of warmth. It fades. ‘And then, Oban.’

  He feels Coira’s hand tense. ‘Yes. Oban.’

  ‘Can’t believe it.’

  She’s still holding his fist.

  ‘Think I need more wine.’

  ‘Alistair?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Aha?’

  He thinks she’s about to say something, but instead she fills her glass and hands it to him. She picks her way over the food and broken glass to fetch another from the cupboard, and fills it for herself. They sit on the same bench, contemplating their wine in silence.

  ‘What now?’ she asks, after a while.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Well, where can we go? What do we do?’

  He blows air down his nose. Chuckles softly. ‘Fuck knows.’ Her turn of phrase is rubbing off on him.

  ‘Separatists will be watching the roads north of Oban,’ she says. ‘Maybe south too. And we can’t sail south because of the navy. They don’t seem in much of a listening mood.’ Alistair manages a wry smile.

  ‘I concur with your evaluation, officer.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘One day at a time, I think.’ He flexes his good arm. ‘Listen – I, um, I’m really am sorry about just now.’

  ‘It’s fine. Me too.’

  ‘I just … I’m going through stuff. I’d expected to be alone.’

  ‘I’m sorry for arguing.’

  ‘I’m going to get a good night’s sleep. I think we should be under way early tomorrow. I parked us here to hide our mast from our friends on Iona, but they’re only a few klicks away. Nothing’s to say they won’t come looking.’

  Her forehead scrunches up. ‘Was it me who got you into this mess?’

  ‘Truth is, without your help, I don’t think I’d have survived today.’

  She seems to accept this. ‘How are we for food?’

  ‘What’s left is mostly tinned. But there should be enough for a month.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘We can try throwing lines out if we want something fresh. Or I’ve a net. Know any jellyfish recipes?’

  She smiles a little. Becomes serious again. ‘Alistair?’

  ‘Aha?’

  ‘Thanks. For everything.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  HE ISN’T QUITE SURE how they end up in the same berth.

  He has vague recollections of tired discussions of sleeping arrangements; of excuses about it being cold and there being only one duvet, but at some point they’re lying beside each other and he can feel her subtle musky scent permeating his brain and making him soft-headed and incredibly aroused in exactly the way it used to do, and then it seeming natural that their mouths meet – hers hot, hungry and generous, and her kisses even better than he remembered – and then their bodies are undulating together, until they are making love with a fierce urgency they had never shared in their previous lives with each other, and which might have shocked them both if they weren’t so engrossed.

  His arm burns, but in some obscure way it seems to remind him of how awake he is, in that moment. At some point her period starts, and he finds the sheets drenched not just with sweat but with dark blood. If anything it turns him on even more, and she seems as oblivious to it as she is of the recently stitched wound his fingers and his kisses have found in her groin.

  Sooner than he’d have chosen he feels himself building to his climax, but he doesn’t care: he goes with it, grunting and clutching her, and to his delight she responds, locking eyes on his own which are carnivorous in the moonlight, raking his back with already broken nails and snarling and moaning as he feels her contractions intensify.

  They come – to their mutual surprise – almost exactly together, and it’s like a bomb made of fireworks, cocaine and a five-hundred-piece orchestra detonating in his brain and every cell of his body.

  CHAPTER 39

  ______________

  Decision

  BEYOND THE FILTHY GLASS of the caravan the sky above Kerrera brightens steadily to salmon pink. Low contrails from military jets glow a bronzer hue.

  It’s been a colder night than of late, and you slept in all your clothes. Now you’re lying wide awake, watching. A lone car, a hybrid at least twenty years old, rumbles up the road yards from the window, returning a few minutes later. As the sky turns bluer, a gang of men in dirty outdoor wear stroll down the road, trailing puffs of blue tobacco smoke. You hear their low conversation, but not what they say. They look like farm labourers. Even so, you’re glad you hid your appropriated car in scrub further up the caravan park.

  You stare at the ceiling for a while. Then you sit up, looking again through the algae-dimmed window. Among the thistles and dock plants of the overgrown lawn, a crow is pecking the eyes from a rabbit with myxomatosis. Though the rabbit is still very much alive, it isn’t struggling much.

  It strikes you that life itself is a lingering form of de
ath. That, given enough pain, having your eyes pecked out might seem a form of release.

  Decision time. At least you’ve had plenty of time to think.

  You walk to the car, fling your jacket and holster in the boot, and check the battery reading. The charge isn’t great – thirty-nine percent – but it should be enough. You plug your ’phone into the USB socket in the dash and take the single track road winding up the hill towards the back of Oban, turning into the drive of the bleak little farmhouse you’ve been visiting for your meals.

  The farmer’s wife is called Lina. One of the few black people you’ve seen up here, she has become increasingly friendly, even flirtatious, during your visits for food. You’ve seen no sign of her husband yet. You assume he’s away milking things, or digging shit, or whatever it is farmers do when they’re not reminiscing about subsidies. Feeling nihilistic and reckless, you decide to push back and see where it leads. Barely minutes after finishing your fried eggs and kale, you’re enjoying a less nutritional but much more satisfying second breakfast as she lies moaning and shaking on the kitchen table with your head between her slick, musky thighs.

  Head much clearer, you’re walking back to the car when part of the ruined barn near the farmhouse door grabs your attention. As you look closer, an idea is beginning to germinate.

  Armed with a rectangle of lead flashing pulled from the rotting roof timbers, you drive to a corner overlooking the sound. The lead is heavy but malleable, and it’s not long before you’ve fashioned it into something resembling a Chinese hat. You make sure your ’phone has satellite signal, then experimentally hold the hat over the top.

  The signal disappears. Smiling with satisfaction, you dial the number.

  ‘Has there been any response to my message?’

  ‘You’re to hold fast.’ The voice is Carla’s again, with its upper-middle class Edinburgh twang. You can hear your own teeth grinding. ‘No new orders. You’re to wait …’

  You move the hat over the top of the ’phone. It’s a hell of a weight, and a little tricky to manoeuvre while the ’phone’s against your ear, but almost immediately Carla’s voice breaks up.

  You move the hat away. ‘Hello?’

  ‘…’ello? You’re breaking up. Are you still hearing me?’

  You can hear just fine. ‘I didn’t catch that. Did you say “Proceed? Proceed with tracking the suspect”?’

  ‘No! I said no new orders …’ Again her voice disintegrates.

  ‘Are you receiving? I think someone’s using jammers round here. I can’t hear …’

  ‘… said ORDERS ARE TO … … … NOT … … … … UMSTANCES!’

  ‘I’m not picking you up clearly. Did you say, don’t wait?’

  ‘Hello? Are you hearing …?’

  You leave the hat in place a good long while this time. You can barely stop yourself sniggering. ‘Listen, I can’t hear you clearly. I have a thin lead. I’m going to follow it.’

  ‘NO! … … What I … … … Hello?’

  ‘I can’t hear you! My understanding’s that you’ve told me not to …’ you use the hat again ‘… off. It’s therefore my intention to …’ and again ‘… the nearest person I can find with an inflatable … … … really very hard … … … in the back of my car.’ This is more fun than you’ve had in days, Lina’s kitchen included. ‘Then … … north-west, up the … … and see what I … … call again if I can find somewhere with better …’

  You sever the connection. Hold your breath for a few moments and turn off the ’phone.

  No going back now.

  You sit motionless, conscious of little but what’s going on inside you. Your heart sounds like a kick-drum. It’s an eerie feeling, knowing you’re about to contravene orders. But exhilarating as well. You’ve never wandered as far off the book as you’re about to, and you’re acutely aware what’s at stake. If you play this wrong – maybe even if you play it right – you’ll be kicked off the Service.

  Then again, it was drummed into you from the beginning that field officers must be able to think and operate independently, basing difficult decisions on incomplete or conflicting information. And the more you’ve thought about your orders, the more convinced you’ve become that something back at HQ is deeply wrong, in some way that’s connected to the bizarre events that have dogged this operation. You’ve no clue what it is yet, but you simply can’t bring yourself to wait on the sidelines until whatever it is reaches its conclusion.

  Once you’ve captured her, maybe Keir can provide answers.

  You release a great, long, loosening breath and drive the car back to the farmhouse. Lina is waiting, leaning against the frame of the kitchen door, arms crossed.

  ‘Back for more,’ she says. You’re not sure whether it’s a question or a statement.

  ‘Going to be a long few days,’ you observe, striding towards her. ‘I could do with a second helping.’

  She turns. You follow her into the shabby old kitchen, where her arms go around your neck. She’s quite tall. You find yourself looking slightly up into a pair of candid brown eyes.

  ‘I get lonely,’ she says, simply.

  ‘I understand.’

  And the truth is, you do. More than you care to admit.

  ‘Thank you,’ she tells you. ‘For this.’

  For a moment you look away. When you turn back to her, you’re wearing a smile.

  ‘First,’ you say, ‘there’s something I need to ask. Something I’m hoping you can help me with.’

  CHAPTER 40

  ______________

  Lucky

  IT’S THE SECOND NIGHT Coira hasn’t had bad dreams.

  Or can’t remember them, at least.

  The noises of waves against the hull and the metal clatter of rigging is comforting somehow. Blinking sleep from her eyes, she finds herself in the confined space of the forward V-berth. Rather than claustrophobic, she feels cocooned by its snugness, although a splintered hole near the edge of the ceiling is a reminder of recent events. Sun shines through it, making a brilliant spot on the opposite wall. There’s a sagging yellow curtain over the plastic skylight above the bed. It’s lit up like a lamp shade, filling the cabin with warm radiance. She can strongly smell her period – can feel it, along with other fluids, dried sticky and crusty all over her – but, perhaps for the first time in her life, she honestly doesn’t give a shit.

  She feels like a coiled spring that’s unwound.

  Alistair is gone – he always was an early riser – but she can hear him moving around beyond the tiny room’s narrow wooden door. There’s a faint smell of cooking. Not eggs this time. It’s something thick and almost citrusy. She can’t quite tell what it is.

  She lies back. Breathes deeply. There was a point last night when she was certain she would end up either captured or having to make some kind of doomed escape attempt. But now …

  Now she has absolutely no idea what the future holds, or what she should do about it. Which she finds oddly liberating because, for the moment, events have conspired curiously in her favour. She knows a time of reckoning is coming. But it isn’t yet.

  Alistair’s revelation was a shock. She hasn’t made up her mind yet whether she entirely trusts him, but if he’s playing her in some way his acting is remarkable and his tactics distinctly odd. During her own years in undercover work, her instincts were something she found she could rely on, and the fact is, alarm bells aren’t ringing. The man seems the same maddening, unpredictable bundle of charm and aggravation that she remembers so well. She thinks maybe this is a good sign. That if it was an act, he would be less contrary, somehow. She’ll need to be careful, but …

  It’s a bright new day. The sun is shining, and, much to her surprise, she’s still alive.

  She throws back the sheets.

  Holy fuck. Looks like a murder scene in here.

  Wrapping a blanket round herself, she fumbles for the door and sits in the cramped little space of th
e heads. The toilet is simply weird. Its rim is the size of a dinner plate. Having done her business and used the little pump-handle to flush it outside for the fish to enjoy, she pushes aside the door to the main living area.

  She’s been half expecting Alistair to be cooking au naturel, and is slightly disappointed to find him once again in his pyjama bottoms. His blood-soaked T-shirt has been replaced with a black one bearing the image of a badger with demonic red eyes. The T-shirt looks threadbare, but clean. His hair is wet.

  ‘Hi!’ he says. A little awkwardly, she thinks. ‘Um … sleep well?’

  She nods. ‘What’s on the menu this morning, chef?’

  ‘Well, you might not believe this, but while you were drooling into your – sorry, my – pillow, I had a hand-line down. I caught a fish.’

  He’s right: it’s a surprise. ‘What kind?’

  ‘No clue. Ugly bastard. Think it’ll be good, though.’

  It is. He’s fried it in butter and lemon juice, and serves it on a bed of instant mashed potato sprinkled with herbs, and beans from a tin. There’s the usual pot of tea. She keeps the blanket close around her shoulders as she eats.

  ‘About last night,’ she says.

  He puts down his cutlery. Inspects the calluses on his hands. ‘Listen, about what happened …’

  ‘I needed that.’

  His eyebrows shoot up comically.

  ‘More than you know.’

  ‘Um. Well, me too, actually.’ He sucks his lips. ‘Look, should we be …? We didn’t … I mean, I don’t have condoms on board, and I doubt we’ll find anywhere selling morning-after …’

  ‘Lucky I’ve an IUD in, then.’ Alistair looks faintly confused. ‘No, not an IED – I’m not going to explode. You know? The coil?’

  Alistair’s face brightens. ‘Ah.’

  ‘Is there … a Mrs Skeates?’

  He looks at her. ‘You think I’d be out here by myself in a boat if there was?’

  They guffaw at that for a bit. ‘Just asking.’