October Song

by Ru Pringle

  ‘And that’s how you justify slaughtering innocent people?’

  She gives a bitter little laugh at this. ‘Well, thanks for that little insight into your position in the scheme of things. Clearly not high enough to be kept in the loop. Because, if you had clearance, you’d know that the bomb we planted was a BAE IE-42. A smart anti-personnel device, with a kill radius of approximately one metre. Originally designed, I believe, to take out suicide bombers while minimising collateral. You familiar with those?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Zero collateral, if used carefully. That’s why we chose it. It was planted in a doorway to the car park at the back of the parliament building and detonated as the PM was leaving by the secure entrance. As the CCTV footage you’ve not been shown will make clear. I was the key, I suppose: being acting head of security for Police North Britain put me in a perfect position. I was never involved in any security operation round the front of the building, that day or any other – for the blindingly obvious reason that it’s inherently fucking insecure. At the same time, assuming of course that I wasn’t already under investigation, it’ll have been my position combined with my disappearance after the attempt that put me on MI5’s suspect list. Are you putting two and two together yet?’

  Alistair shifts his weight uncomfortably, keeping his face neutral.

  ‘The bomb that made the news,’ Coira goes on, ‘as I’m sure you know, was an IED with a kill radius that has to have been upwards of twenty metres. It went off at least seven minutes after ours. I know this because I never heard it, and it took that long for Faulkner and Coombes, who were close enough for me to see their expressions as they were blown up, to be taken to hospital and for me to leave the scene. Which leads me to think that …’ she starts crossing points off with her fingers ‘A: some powerful group within the British government, the civil service or MI5 knew in advance what we were planning, and when, and B: some element of the UK system – possibly the same people – wanted the prime minister out of the way, and an atrocity to galvanise public opinion against dissenters. They thought they could kill two birds with one stone. The prime minister isn’t popular, even in England. A lot of people would have cheered his demise. This group needed something that looked like an attack on ordinary people. So they staged a fucking indiscriminate bomb attack they could blame on those evil separatists.’

  Alistair finds that he is sweating.

  ‘And now you know this as well. Something you’re not meant to know. When they’ve been prepared to murder, what? – I’m guessing close to a hundred innocent people, so far, to create the pretence? How do you think your debrief will pan out, knowing that little nugget? Let alone working again with these duplicitous fucks, especially if there’s truth in what you’ve already told me about your job. You think they’ll just leave you walking around? When all it takes is a word from you to a blogger or one of the daily rags for this to be all over the ’net?’

  He keeps his breathing even. ‘I only have your word for something you’ve based on supposition. And let’s face it, you haven’t been entirely candid with me so far, have you?’

  ‘I withheld information. I never lied to you. I’m not lying now.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You deliberately misled me.’

  ‘I didn’t know I could trust you. You came close. You almost won me over.’

  ‘What gave the game away?’

  Coira compresses her lips. ‘Naturally suspicious, I expect. Polis and all that. Old habits die hard.’

  ‘Why did you have to kill the kayaker?’

  He can see this has hit home. Her head flinches back. She licks her teeth. Looks at the table.

  ‘Don’t play poker, Coira. You’d be taken to the cleaners.’

  ‘I …’ she’s actually stammering. For a moment he feels sorry for her. She pulls herself together. ‘He stabbed me.’

  ‘When you tried to rob him? Strange, that.’

  ‘He acted like he was trying to kill me. I just … reacted.’

  ‘He wasn’t one of ours, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s the truth.’

  ‘He had training.’

  ‘He was just a kayaker! Retired soldier or something. Who you murdered, Coira.’

  She swallows. Makes fidgety motions with her hands. Her eyes have deepened, somehow. Like they’re seeing things he can’t.

  ‘I can’t take that back,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen. But … it’s done.’

  ‘And here we are.’ He stares at her defiantly. ‘What are you going to do?’

  She looks away, out of the window. ‘The truth is, I haven’t figured that out yet. I thought it might depend on you.’

  ‘In what way?’

  He can see her breathing hard. She fixes him with her frank eyes again, but there’s something softer in them now. She’s pleading.

  ‘It’s not too late, Alistair. We could go away. The two of us. Make a new life somewhere.’ His look must have said it all, because she says, with eyes downcast: ‘I had to try.’

  ‘You don’t get it, do you? How can you still not get this?’ Alistair hears his voice rising. Does his best to keep it in check. ‘This new world of ours is not kind! It’s about strength. Unity. Rights of individuals, even nations, are not God-given. We kind of proved that when we voted to kick Westminster in the nuts and run off. What did we get for that? They gobbled us up almost on a whim. It was easy. How much worse do you think it’ll be for two lost souls drifting about without protection from any state?’

  ‘Unity? England dragged us out of the European Union! Can you actually hear what’s coming out of your mouth? It’s the same logic some low-rent mobster …’

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Coira, you’re living in fantasy land!’

  ‘And maybe I’d rather live there than the nightmare people like you helped to build! You chose this nightmare, Alistair, by supporting what felt comforting and familiar, even though you knew it was putrid to the core. And before you say it: yes, I’m prepared to die for my fantasy. At least I know exactly what I’ll be dying for. You’ve risked your life for your job. Could you say the same?’

  ‘I never kidded myself what I do is pretty. But I still believe it’s ultimately for the good. It matters.’

  She scoffs. ‘And who gets to define this greater good? You? Your boss? Our corrupt prime minister? For whose agenda? You already know part of your mission brief is bullshit. You’re being manipulated as much as I am. How much else haven’t they told you?’

  ‘No system’s perfect, Coira. That doesn’t make every part of it … worthless. This is the best we have! Christ, you were always like this! What’s the matter with you? Why can you never work with what you’ve got, rather than always wanting something different?’

  He’s lost control, he realises. God, she’s good. She’s got right under his skin. And here she is, carefully watching the results with those granite eyes of hers. It occurs to him that he’s not going to get anything more out of her. Maybe there really is nothing more to get.

  He loves her, he realises. More than ever. This tough, complicated, dangerous, maddeningly contradictory, fascinating woman. As fiercely as he’s loved anything; maybe more.

  Fuck it. Fuck everything.

  So unfair.

  ‘What will you do with me?’ he croaks. ‘You plan on killing me too?’

  She looks at him blankly for a long moment. Then she leans back, sighs and shakes her head. ‘Robinson Crusoe,’ she tells him.

  He looks at her, nonplussed.

  ‘There’s a small uninhabited island I’m going to leave you on.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Like I would tell you that. You should survive there for a few days. I think there’s a bothy you can shelter in, and I’ll leave you tinned rations and a knife. When the weather’s better you should be able to swim across to another island a kilometre away, wh
ere I believe there’s still a house. They should be able to get you back to civilisation.’

  Okay. Okay, okay.

  So, this is how it is.

  Time to stop the games.

  Alistair releases the handcuffs and slowly stands.

  Coira’s eyes are round and staring.

  She lunges for the rifle.

  FURTHER OUT, a good deal of the fog has cleared, although lingering wisps and lumps are rising to form low cloud, and banks of the stuff are clinging stubbornly to the coasts of Skye and Harris. The visibility between them is crystalline. Which is why you’re squinting through your newly-acquired binoculars in some confusion.

  According to your GPS, you should be a little over five kilometres from your quarry, which is drifting quietly north near the centre of the broad sea channel Somhairle calls the Minch. Ahead, you can see right under a big patch of lifting fog. The sail should be right beneath it, sticking out like the proverbial sore thumb, yet you can see nothing.

  You rub a hand distractedly over your face.

  You’ve been thinking that the only explanation is that the boat has somehow lost its mast. You’ve even begun to wonder if, suspecting or knowing they were being followed, its occupants could have taken the highly visible mast down deliberately, and are continuing under engine power.

  But you can’t hear an engine. Even accepting that the breeze will carry the sound away from you, you’d expect to have heard something by now. Besides, even mastless and hidden intermittently by waves, the boat should be visible on the horizon at this distance.

  Could they have sunk?

  No. That makes no sense either. The signal’s been moving north at a fairly steady five to six klicks for the past hour. Which, now you think about it, is slower than you’d expect if the engine’s running, but not out of the question if they’re having mechanical trouble. A current could easily move it that fast, you reason. But if the boat is sunk, surely it would be on the bottom by now? Unless, perhaps, it was floating upside down? But … weren’t yacht keels weighted so this couldn’t happen?

  Could the keel have broken off somehow?

  You’ve heard of this. Yes, on highly tuned racing yachts.

  Chewing your lips, you check for new messages. There’s nothing. Somhairle’s looking at you like a decrepit Labrador hoping you’ll throw a stick.

  ‘Keep going.’

  Your breath turns increasingly shallow as the signal source approaches. Your heart is thumping. Should not be doing this, you tell yourself. But doing what? Your orders were to observe, but not contact or engage. The fact is, at the moment there seems to be nothing to make contact with. Until you’ve worked out what, exactly, is going on here, you can’t see how there’s anything you can usefully ask or report.

  You watch the converging blip in disbelief. Two kilometres.

  The temperature dips as you enter the gloom beneath the low cloud. Just a few metres from the sea, it’s still rising, and doing its best to break up. Rents and tears in the cotton-wool ceiling allow glimpses of a sheet of altostratus that’s crept across the sky from the west.

  One kilometre. Somhairle’s looking thoroughly confused.

  ‘Are you quite certain that fancy calculator of yours is actually working?’

  The dipsomaniac might have a point. You zoom the GPS image close to maximum resolution. There’s no question about it: the icon representing your ’phone is closing on the target blip, rapidly and visibly. You squint ahead, into the brightness beyond the cloud. Still nothing.

  Something is very wrong.

  ‘Left,’ you say. ‘A bit more. No, that’s too much. Yes, that’s good. Hold your course. Slow us down, now.’

  You’re almost literally on top of it! According to the GPS, the signal is coming from less than ten metres away.

  ‘Something is in the water,’ Somhairle tells you. ‘Ahead of you there. To port.’ You peer in the direction of his erratic gesticulations. For once, he isn’t using a bottle as a pointer. ‘No, no – look. Chan eil, not at the horizon. Down there.’

  You’re faintly aware of what sounds like a far-off jet. You study the rents in the disintegrating cloud for a moment, then devote your attention to the water. As far as you can see, nothing is there but blobs of foam and the odd delicate blue jellyfish.

  But then, out from behind a wave …

  You lean towards the object.

  You don’t understand what you’re seeing.

  EVEN THOUGH COIRA SUSPECTS something is coming, it’s a shock when she sees Alistair’s hands spring free, and the unhurried assurance with which he stands up, rubbing and flexing his wrists. She grabs the rifle. Throws herself into the upholstered corner by the sink and points it squarely at his chest.

  ‘I’ll shoot!’ she yells. ‘Stay where you are – I’ll shoot!’

  He doesn’t seem that worried at the prospect. One of his hands moves unhurriedly towards the other end of the table.

  She moves the barrel left, towards the bulkhead. Pulls the trigger.

  There’s a dull click.

  That’s it.

  She tries again, but the gun jams.

  ‘Duds,’ he explains, pushing at the top edge of the table’s central plinth. Coira watches as a concealed drawer springs open. It contains packing foam, with a cut-out the shape of a handgun. ‘No firing powder.’ He digs in the cut-out with his fingers. Prises free a slim pistol and pulls back the pistol’s slide, checking that a bullet is chambered. ‘I swapped out the ammunition while you were on Rùm.’

  As he makes himself comfortable at the opposite end of the bench, she finds herself staring down the barrel of his pistol. She wills her mouth to move. ‘You … you really did have this all planned out. Didn’t you?’

  He nods.

  ‘In fact … Oh, I see it now.’ She slumps. Lets the rifle clatter to the wooden panels covering the floor. ‘This was your interrogation, wasn’t it? What happened just now. This has been the point of this entire fucked-up little trip.’

  He smiles, but his eyes just look sad.

  ‘Get what you wanted?’

  Alistair nestles himself into the corner. The gun doesn’t waver. ‘In a way. Slim pickings, to be honest. But – I believe you, for what it’s worth. What you’ve said is what I’ll pass on to mum and the others.’

  Coira takes a moment to process this. The final pieces of the jigsaw are finally crashing together. ‘Wait … Lorna – our Lorna – is … Lorna Ainsworth? You’re telling me your fucking mum is head of Edinburgh MI5?’

  ‘Kind of a family business.’ He says this almost sheepishly. ‘If it makes you feel any better, her husband is an absolute arse.’ His attention shifts away from her, towards the hand holding the gun. ‘Told you there was more to this than you knew.’

  Coira puts her head back. Closes her eyes. Recalls for a moment going round to Alistair’s for tea, during one of the periods when Lorna was home. Lorna smiling. Her shock of red hair, one arm out of the window, flicking the cigarette she always seemed to be holding. Mrs Skeates. Tins full of delicious fresh biscuits. Scones with home-made jam. She can still smell them.

  ‘So what now?’ She says it mockingly, doing her best to ignore the unwavering barrel pointed at her. ‘Going to torture me?’

  The smile he gives her is pitying. ‘Out of interest, how did you think you were going to escape? I report every morning using the ’phone. You’d already figured out that the moment I missed an update they’d come looking.’

  Coira sees no reason not to tell him. ‘You’ll find one of your plastic food tubs is missing. Along with some gaffer tape, a wooden spoon and a pair of your underpants.’

  He looks nonplussed. Then his eyes widen. ‘So … you made a little waterproof sailing boat for my ’phone. Out of a tub, a spoon and my pants.’

  He chuckles. Rises and peers out of the window, although the gun remains locked on her. It’s like he has a third eye or something.

&nbs
p; ‘Looks like we’re a good six kilometres offshore. Wind’s shifted – your raft would get blown right up the Minch. By tomorrow, it could be …’ she sees his mental gears go round ‘… somewhere between Stornoway and Ullapool. By which time … yes. With the wind like it is now, you could have sailed right out through the channel between Harris and North Uist, and into the open Atlantic.’ He shakes his head. ‘Good plan, Coira! You’re a piece of work, you know that? You really should have joined MI5.’

  ‘So glad I didn’t.’

  ‘Well, it’s a pity.’

  ‘You have a tracker on the boat as well? Hidden mics and Cameras? Nice little video of us in your bedroom to share with your chums?’

  He smiles faintly. ‘No.’

  ‘Is it even your boat? Or was that a crock of shite too?’

  ‘It really is my boat. Had her eleven years now.’

  ‘Going to kill me?’

  He purses his lips, his gaze shifting until he seems to be looking right through her. ‘Orders are to make sure you arrive in Stornoway. Then you’ll be taken to London for, um, interrogation.’

  ‘Are you going to carry them out?’

  ‘I can’t let you go, Coira.’

  ‘So you’re handing me in?’

  He’s looking somewhere near her knees now. She can see his fingers over-tightened round the grip of his pistol. ‘There is another option.’

  He says it dully, as though struggling to form the words.

  ‘Very much second best for my employers, but …’ His throat twitches. ‘The flak should be something I can handle.’

  He looks up. Nods at the hatch, teeth bared oddly as he twitches the gun towards it. His eyes won’t meet hers.

  ‘It shouldn’t be … It won’t be painful.’