October Song

by Ru Pringle

  Coira’s eyebrows go up as she understands.

  Oh.

  Numbed, she turns to look up through the open hatchway.

  Outside, the sun is obscured, but it’s still bright. A lone seabird flies past. Waves slop musically against the hull. Their motion makes the rudder creak, crockery in the cupboard rattle, and bits of rigging clatter against the mast, causing it to ring softly. She can still smell breakfast.

  Not real. Please. None of this is real.

  ‘Not too late to change your mind,’ she tells him. Her tongue feels swollen. She wonders if it would be humanly possible to swim ashore. With the sea temperature what it is here? No chance. And he knows that better than you do. Not that he’d allow her to. ‘I’m begging you, one last time. You don’t have to do this! Come on, Alistair, it doesn’t have to be this way. I don’t believe that the Alistair I used to know would do this. You were my compass. I don’t know what I’d have become if you hadn’t been there. Come with me.’

  He shakes his head.

  It’s a curious movement, as if something is wrong with his neck.

  ‘I can’t.’

  She nods at him. Rises stiffly, heart pounding. He’s going to do it. He’s actually going through with it.

  Despite herself, she can’t quite grasp the idea. Her legs don’t want to move. Her eyes are leaking, and she hates herself for it.

  She lingers at the steps.

  ‘Well.’

  She has so much she wants to say. Can’t say a word of it.

  ‘’Bye then. Alistair.’

  She turns to go.

  ‘If it makes you feel better,’ his voice murmurs behind her, ‘you got him.’

  She frowns, puzzled. Turns her head. ‘Who?’

  ‘The PM. Faulkner. He’s gone.’

  She grunts. ‘You think that makes me happy? Besides. Hardly seems to matter any more.’

  She clumps up the stairs and on to the deck.

  USING THE LONG, HOOKED wooden pole Somhairle pushes into your hands, you snag the object and guide it towards the RIB. It bobs away from you a few times, but eventually it’s close enough to the stern for Somhairle to lean out and grab it.

  It’s a clear Tupperware tub.

  Gaffer-taped to it is a spoon and what transpires to be a pair of sodden grey underpants.

  ‘Thalladh’s cac!’ Somhairle is chortling, waving his bottle. ‘Muire thadh! So that is what you’ve been chasing all this time? Well, now, you should have just asked. I’m sure I could have made you a much better sailing boat out of a pillowcase and some old cans of lager!’

  You ignore him. Inside the box, which has been sealed shut with more gaffer-tape, is an expensive-looking ’phone.

  You’re getting a very bad feeling about this. Clearly some kind of deception or decoy is involved – but what? It would help immensely if you knew who the ’phone belonged to. Damn you, Ainsworth.

  You find yourself angry. Hopping mad, in fact. This isn’t over-zealousness on your part – not this time. You haven’t been properly briefed. Again.

  One thing seems clear, however. Whatever the purpose of your new orders, something’s gone spectacularly tits-up. Delving through your drysuit’s neck zip, you retrieve your own ’phone from the pocket of the fleece liner.

  ‘Well, will you look at that? A visitor. Now what do you suppose they’ll be doing?’

  What now? For a moment you just wish the insanely annoying prematurely old man would go away. You turn to find him with a hand shielding his eyes, peering at the sky. The clear patches are now big enough for you to see that an aircraft is approaching from the south. A jet.

  It’s flying fairly low. Less than a thousand metres, you reckon. While its colour makes its shape hard to determine against the clouds from this angle, you’re fairly sure it’s a drone. You’ve been so absorbed in your baffling discovery that you hadn’t really noticed that its engine is clearly audible. If the moist air hadn’t given it a contrail, it’s likely neither of you would have seen it.

  You watch as it changes course.

  But no – what you’re seeing isn’t a simple course change.

  It’s loitering.

  There’s absolutely no logical reason to be worried. But for some reason, suddenly you are. In fact, your skin is crawling. You pull your stashed binoculars out from their nestling place between your bra and the drysuit’s clammy liner. It’s difficult to keep the plane in the viewing field. It’s moving fast behind broken cloud, and the boat is pitching about all over the place.

  Something about the plane’s shape has changed. It’s like something has opened up along the bottom. You’re not sure, but you think you catch a brief flash of something in the air ahead of it.

  Before you can look again, the aircraft is gone behind a cloud.

  Did you imagine it?

  You don’t think so. But what could …?

  Your mouth opens.

  ‘INTO THE WATER!’ you scream, launching yourself backwards over the nearest flotation chamber even as the words are leaving your mouth. You have a split-second glimpse of Somhairle’s silhouette, holding a bottle defiantly aloft as he raves something in Gaelic at the sky.

  Then you slam into the water. It closes over your head, and light – which until now you never realised could be a physical force – replaces everything.

  ALISTAIR WATCHES COIRA GO.

  There’s a constriction in his throat. Like a ball of food has wedged there. He watches her torso disappear above the cabin ceiling as she climbs the steps. She pauses for a moment before stepping into the cockpit. He has the impression that she’s looking around. Perhaps fixing the view in her memory.

  Then she steps outside and, one after the other, her legs disappear. He can hear the scuff and thump of her stepping up on to the side of the deck.

  His arm sags. The gun hits the table with a clatter.

  He grabs the top of his head. Rocks forwards and back.

  He can’t imagine living after this. He just doesn’t know what he’ll do. And she’s right, damn her. There are too many unanswered questions. He can’t just pretend they don’t exist. He might have, once, but now? He suspects it’s no longer in his nature.

  But, if he goes there … If he decides to accept what this means …

  What is there?

  Being a fugitive for the rest of his life? Homeless?

  Unimaginable.

  Where could the two of them go? How could things be better without – literally – a friend in the world, except each other?

  But at least … At least …

  He’s done the wrong thing, and suddenly he knows it.

  Fuck!

  It’s so clear. She’s turned him. He was sent to work her, and she worked him. He does believe her about the bombing. And the kayaker. When all’s said and done, he’s probably done worse for MI5. Be honest. Considerably worse. And now that he’s accepting all of this – now he’s shuffled the information into a rational order in his head, and looked at it squarely, without flinching – he finds that the feeling is liberating.

  Because, damn her, she’s right. Whatever the rights and wrongs of it, whatever terrible things either of them have done, what he feels when he’s with her is something … uncorrupted. It’s simple, really. He can think of nothing else in his miserable life he can say that about. It’s more important than anything.

  His heart beats faster. He pushes himself out of his seat.

  There’s a splash outside.

  No! Please, not yet!

  But … it’s not too late. He can steer the boat round and pick her up. She’d never make it to shore, but he has ten minutes at least before she’s dead. Assuming she hasn’t weighed herself down with something.

  Except, of course she’ll have used a weight! This is Coira. She’ll have been thorough.

  He lurches across the rocking cabin, gun held loosely to the side. He leaps up the steps. ‘Coira!’ he’s yell
ing. ‘Stop, Coira! It’s okay …!’

  He’s distracted by a distant percussive rumble – an explosion? – and a simultaneous glimpse of something in the water astern. It’s not Coira. It looks like one of the bags for his sails. At around the same time there’s a blur of movement in the corner of his vision.

  He feels a thump in his chest.

  The impact is heavy, almost enough to knock him down the stairs. He clings to the grab-rails, struggling for balance. What hit me? He feels very strange. His legs seem unaccountably weak. He looks down, finger tightening reflexively on the trigger of his pistol. He dimly expects it to go off into the deck, but there’s just a click. Then another, and another. He struggles to understand what’s happening. To understand what he’s seeing.

  Attached to his chest is an anchor. His lucky anchor. Or, at least, most of it.

  His ribcage is where one of its arms should be.

  He drops the gun. It clatters to the deck. Grabs the anchor as his knees give way.

  Oh no.

  The anchor won’t move. It’s like it’s part of him. He sees Coira’s eyes staring wildly. Forces his lethargic mouth to work.

  ‘But … you’ve won, Coira. You’ve won.’

  CHAPTER 65

  ______________

  Stornoway

  THE PLANE SERVING the Isle of Lewis from Glasgow is an ancient, square-bodied Shorts 360 with high wings and twin turboprops. Essentially a bus with wings, it was probably flying before Lorna Ainsworth was born.

  She takes a last look round the airport. It’s just rained, and puddles mottle the concrete. The airport buildings have seen better days, and were little more than utilitarian sheds even when they were built. Sunlight is breaking through the cloud now. Shafts of it play across the dark humps of the Campsie Fells on the northern horizon, highlighting thickets of slowly spinning wind turbines.

  She takes a deep breath and climbs the folding stairs.

  Inside, the seventeen-strong squad are already strapped into their seats. She hasn’t even been introduced to most of them, but they’re supposedly reliable, have been scanned for recording and communications devices, and have yet to be briefed on their mission. The officers she does know – Sara Bojko, Shegen Tomlin and Derek Planter – look as nervous as she feels.

  She’s acutely aware of the risks of using a public flight like this. However, she’s discussed it at length with Sebastian, and they both agreed it was a better option than a private flight or a Service helicopter. At least this way they can’t be shot down without public scrutiny, and they’ve been careful to book the flights in such a way that the rosters look civilian. The pilots are a potential weakness – a plane full of people with guns and body armour will be an obvious magnet for gossip – but arrangements have been made to contain both until the operation’s finished.

  ‘This is your captain speaking. This is flight BE6821 to Stornoway airport, blah blah blah …’

  Lorna finds herself zoning out the captain’s voice. It’s a while since she last saw field service, but she can’t remember being so gripped on a mission. She knows the reason, of course. Worrying has been a mother’s prerogative since the dawn of time.

  Something about this time, however, feels different.

  The turboprops begin to spool up, the sound of their blades increasing in pitch until it attains a steady, flatulent buzz. There are clunks and thuds from below, presumably as the kit bags and cases of carbines and rifles are sealed in the hold.

  The plane begins to move.

  ‘Ye ready for this?’

  The voice is Derek’s, from across the aisle. She turns, and some of what she’s feeling must have been in her face, because his features fall comically.

  No, I’m not. Not at all. In so many ways.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Bet ye’ll be glad tae get this wan wrapped up, eh?’

  You have no idea.

  She wonders what’s awaiting them. What it means that Alistair’s ’phone signal has failed, and whether she should worry. Whether she can expect a reception committee. Will it be armed men, or will everything just suddenly explode? Or will it be nothing at all? Just … her and the squad, waiting at the waterside, watching that wretched toy boat of Alistair’s sail in. Seeing him step up on to the pier, hearing him dispense instructions to her men in that quietly assured voice of his, describing how he’s handcuffed and sedated Keir below. Coira Keir – the mop-topped little girl who’d been her Alistair’s guardian angel. Sometimes his demon, too.

  The buzz of the fans rises to a scream and the plane begins to move.

  When she sees Alistair, she’ll hold him. She won’t care who’s watching.

  And she’ll tell him that if he wants to leave the Service, it’s absolutely fine with her.

  CHAPTER 66

  ______________

  Victory

  IT HAD ALWAYS SEEMED a little convenient to Coira that she’d found the stash so easily, during a convenient spell on the boat alone – and that it had all been secreted together, in a single place, so helpfully packaged.

  It was what, in her old job, she’d have called a “surfeit of evidence”.

  And so, she’d searched further. Found the pistol after noticing how thick the top of the table was. Experimented with the handcuffs, which weren’t standard issue, and found that if she squeezed them a certain way they popped open.

  Knowing a pattern when she saw one, she had checked the L85A2, and tried firing it. Found the assault rifle wasn’t even shooting blanks, but duds, with a tiny piece of metal jamming the firing mechanism for good measure. She hadn’t found the live ammunition yet, which was a little worrying. She had to assume it was still aboard, but doubted she’d be able to locate it before Alistair got back. She could only hope there wasn’t a tracker built into the boat itself.

  It was then just a case of figuring out what to do.

  She wanted to offer him every opportunity. But if he didn’t take any of them – well, she couldn’t take chances. Without a usable weapon, her options were limited. He was both stronger than her and more highly trained. She had little chance against him in a fair fight. So, she would have to keep the tactical advantage. Try to steer him in the direction she wanted him to go. And then surprise him.

  Hoping his pistol would give him a false sense of security, she had left a bagful of rope on deck and stashed the anchor under the spray hood beside the cabin hatch. As soon as she’d come out on deck she’d thrown the bag overboard, then waited, pressed into the corner beside the hatch, until she saw his head emerge.

  Then she’d swung the anchor with all her might.

  And now, looking down at him, with his eyes seeming confused and hurt more than anything as they dart between her face and the anchor lodged in his chest, she feels like she’s going to break apart. He keeps repeating ‘But Coira – you’ve won.’

  She doesn’t understand why he’s saying this. She helps him to sit.

  ‘No!’ he’s saying. ‘No, no, no, no! This is all wrong.’ His breathing is growing laboured. ‘I was coming … to tell you. That everything’s okay. Shouldn’t be … like this. Can’t you see it, Coira? You’ve won.’

  ‘Won?’ She grabs his arms. They’re shaking. ‘Alistair.’

  ‘Coira. You were right. Nothing matters any more. Oh shit.’

  ‘No Alistair … Oh … Oh …’ She feels his chest either side of the anchor. She doesn’t know what she hopes to achieve by this. One entire hook of the anchor, at least twenty centimetres, is buried inside him, near where his heart should be. There’s no blood around its entrance point, but bright arterial red is already colouring a corner of his mouth.

  ‘Not your … fault. Should have decided … earlier. Such an idiot.’ He swallows. Looks puzzled. ‘I thought my pistol felt … wrong.’

  ‘Alistair … please. Don’t speak. We’ll get help. I’ll sail to Harris. They can get you to a hosp
ital. It’ll be all right.’

  He snorts at this, causing blood to foam between his lips. ‘I think … we both know … that’s not going to happen. Aaah, Christ.’

  ‘Lie still!’ She feverishly unfurls the jib and points the boat towards the coast of Harris. Having tied off the tiller as described in The Complete Sailing Manual, she hauls up the mainsail. Soon the boat’s doing eight knots, according to the LED, slicing through the gentle swell.

  ‘You’ve … learned well.’

  ‘Always a quick study, me.’

  ‘MI5 … really wanted you … working for them. I’ve seen … your files.’

  ‘Fuck MI5.’

  ‘Coira … Coira … Coira. I’m sorry.’

  She can’t take him apologising to her like this, and feels her face screw itself up, her teeth grinding as she tries to fight what she knows is coming. Uncontrollable sobs possess her as she tries to coax the boat as fast as it’ll go towards the nearest inhabited place. She feels his hand weakly brush her leg and grasps it as fiercely as she can, as if by force of will she can prevent him slipping away.

  She tries to remember what she saw on the chart. Her state of mind is interfering with her normally reliable visual memory, but she thinks her best chance of help is probably the village of Leverburgh, a couple of kilometres up the islet-studded channel separating Harris from the islands of Berneray and North Uist.

  Come on!!

  Alistair is rambling gently. He keeps apologising, but not a lot else he says seems to make much sense. His breathing has taken on a bubbling sound. She wills the boat faster. Watches the telltales for the slightest sign the sails aren’t at their most efficient.

  Travelling by sail suddenly feels unutterably slow and stupid.

  CHAPTER 67

  ______________

  Confession

  ‘CLEARING YOUR DESK?’

  Sebastian looks up and finds a familiar figure beetling over him. He closes the zipper of his nylon holdall. The bag doesn’t contain much. Essentially his personal ’phone, his tablet, a packet of mints and a few low-grade classified folders. The ops room is quiet. The few of the team who are still here are pretending to be absorbed in their displays, but he knows they’re listening intently.