Knife Edge (2004) (11 page)

Everybody was talking at once, and men were crossing and recrossing the room to ask questions or share an opinion.

Ross tried to stay apart, clear his mind. This was no mere skirmish, no test of nerves.

He heard Houston’s boisterous laugh, saw him put his hand on Diamond’s shoulder. Was that an act, too?
Chalk and cheese.

He had telephoned her this morning. There had been no reply. She was probably at the sick quarters, or avoiding him, perhaps only now fully aware of what they had done.

He realized that Houston was beside him.

“Did you do that letter to young Ellis’s people?”

“This morning, sir.”

“Good. Good show.” He had not even heard him.

Acting a part? Or did he not really care?

He thought of the small room where they had first met. Her warmth toward him after his anger at the drunken naval doctor. Like some one telling him, helping him come to terms . . .

“See you in the mess, Ross?” It could have been anybody.

Diamond was in deep conversation with another suited man.

Don’t get him talking about golf.

He thought of the faces in the dawn light, the sound of shots, the unknown hand patting his shoulder. Men who would be depending on him, because it was all they knew, and they had no choice anyway.

And neither do you.

Sergeant Steve Blackwood heard the persistent drumming of rain against the shutters, the sluice of overflowing gutters. The expected storm had arrived.

It was mid-afternoon but the day looked dark outside, what he could see of it. Inside this new wing of the sick quarters all the lights were dazzling against the white paint and shining glass.

He hated hospitals, large or small, the way every one else knew exactly where to go, which direction to take.
You
were always invisible.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” A sick berth attendant in a white coat had appeared around a screen, with what looked like a chamber pot covered by a towel. “You can go right in. Number Twenty-two.” As an afterthought. “Not too long now.”

That was also the same.

The door was unmarked but for a number. There was no bell, either, so he pushed it open. At first he thought he had taken the wrong route. It was more like a cupboard, with racks of what appeared to be medical or surgical gowns, hanging like motionless ghosts.

He saw another door and a bigger room, brightly lit, with a large mirror on the far wall.

He heard a woman’s voice and saw her leg swinging up and down, the movement, like her tone, impatient, possibly even angry.

The door opened wider and he saw her sitting on a bed, with a telephone to her ear.

He said, “I’m sorry, Miss Diamond. I was told to come on through.”

She put down the telephone and pushed some hair from her eyes.

“Hello, Sergeant. Can’t you keep away from this place?” It was the smile he remembered, but it had not come easily to her. “Take a seat.” She uncrossed her legs and moved to another chair.

She had on a pale blue dress, unlike the semi-uniform shirt and slacks she had been wearing when she had visited him after
Taunton
brought them back to Hong Kong. And the legs were very nice . . .

She seemed more composed now. “It’s
Mrs.
Diamond, by the way.” She held up her hand so that he could see a ring. “But Glynis will do.”

Funny he had not noticed the ring before. The ‘hands off’ signal.

He said, “Just wanted to thank you for your kindness.” He moved his shoulder experimentally. “All O.K., nothing broken after all. I was lucky, I guess.”

“You all were.” She smiled. “I heard your Major Houston was here as well. He’s a fierce character and no mistake.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad. The bark and the bite. You know.” He saw her start as some one dropped some glasses in the corridor. She was very on edge.

He thought of Houston’s visit. Always bustling on to somewhere else, but no flannel. Straight to the point. “You’re being put up for a medal, Sergeant Blackwood.
Captain Irwin came to see me about it. Can’t say, of course, but you deserve a gong for what you did.”

He already knew who had made the suggestion: the lieutenant who had helped pull him from the water after the world had exploded, and had held his hand while he was waiting for assistance. He had still been able to look out for the two little Chinese kids who had almost been cut down by gunfire.

And the woman sitting opposite him cared about that same man. Ross Blackwood.

“I’ll be shoving off then . . . er . . . Glynis. Nice knowing you.”

She was on her feet, very calm again. Too calm.

She said softly, “Something big is going to happen, isn’t it? You don’t have to spell it out. I can see it for myself.”

In the hard light the ring gleamed like a challenge.

He said, “It had to come. That’s all I can say. All I know.”

The telephone rang and she snatched it up, and put one hand over the mouthpiece.

“Come and see me again if you can.” She blew him a kiss. “I’ll be thinking of you.”

He opened the door. She was already far away. It was hopeless, and maybe dangerous. A married woman with an influential husband . . . it had been doomed right from the start.

No more leave. It’s on. Clear your mind. No mistakes.

But as he closed the door he heard her voice.

“It’s me, darling. I knew you’d call. I just want to be near . . .”

He walked past the racks of gowns. Like ghosts.

All he could feel was envy.

Two days after De Lisle’s conference, final orders were received. Overnight, a ship had entered harbour and moored amongst the regular naval occupants.
Avondale
was a moderate-sized merchantman, or had been, but now she flew the blue ensign of the Royal Fleet Auxiliary. She was no stranger to Hong Kong, and like others of her breed was used to many roles, humping fuel and stores, naval or military equipment, and personnel.

Two big landing craft carried sixty Royal Marines of the Special Operations Unit out to the
Avondale
without fuss or excitement. They were just another cargo.

De Lisle was about to fly out again, but had decided to call the officers of Operation Ratcatcher together for a last, informal meeting. It was held in one of the sumptuous suites of the Mandarin Hotel, facing the harbour, and only a few minutes’ walk from naval headquarters. Ross Blackwood had seen the hotel several times from a distance; next to the Peninsula on the Kowloon side, it was said to be the best in the world. He had wondered idly about the people who stayed there, passing through Hong Kong, or perhaps just visiting for some special occasion. He had never imagined himself inside.

He mingled with officers of De Lisle’s own staff, Houston and Irwin, some of
Tamar
’s wardroom, and others
he recognized from other conferences. A table had been prepared and featured platters of exotic foods, several kinds of wine, and fresh flowers; it was more like a celebration than the eve of something which might backfire in all their faces.

There were a few women, the wives of some senior officers.
Doing the right thing.
He saw Piggott buttonholing Irwin in a corner, making a point by pounding one fist into the other. Irwin appeared to be listening, but his eyes were on the suite’s balcony, from which he would have seen the one-funnelled
Avondale
, hemmed in by harbour craft and sampans.

Ross had been expecting it, but he had tried to contain the feelings, wanting and dreading together.

He heard Chief Inspector Diamond’s voice first, and somebody else greeting him. “How are you, Jock, you old rascal! Heard you showed ’em a thing or two at the club!”

She was a pace behind him, smiling at some one, but her eyes were on Ross, across and past everybody else.

A sleeveless dress, a flower, perhaps an orchid, pinned in her hair. She looked lovely. And unreachable.

Houston said, “’Course, you two know each other.” He grinned at her. “You heard how young Ross here refused to budge until he had reunited a couple of local kids with their family? Wouldn’t damned well move!”

She was close now, holding out her hand. “I
did
hear.” She squeezed his fingers for a second, then dropped the hand to her shoulderbag.

He said quietly, “I’m so glad you came.” He did not use her name.
Like playing a part.
The dark eyes were very level, but where the shoulder strap of her bag tugged at her dress he could see, or imagine, her heart beating. Like his own.

A tray of wine thrust between them and a smiling waiter insisted, “All French, all good!”

She said, “I saw the ship. They told me about it.” She touched the glass with her lips, but the wine did not move.

Houston had returned. His glass was empty.

“I hear your husband’s packing the job in when this lot’s over and done with. Back to the police in the U.K., is it?”

Ross saw the pain in her eyes, and she hesitated as if to brush something off her arm.

“No. His time is up in the Branch, although they offered him an extension.”

Houston was staring around the room. “Should think so, too, after all the work he’s put in with the local force and Intelligence.”

She said, “He’s been offered an appointment with a big security firm in London.” But she was speaking to Ross.

Some one passed a folded paper, obviously torn from a pad, to Houston, which he opened around his glass.

He said, “From
Avondale
. All our lads have embarked.” He refolded the paper. “I’ll tell De Lisle.”

Ross heard Diamond’s voice. He was coming over.

He said quietly, “I am so
sorry
. I wanted . . .”

Diamond touched his arm.

“Well, at least we know what to expect, eh?” He put down his glass and frowned at something. “Just a moment.”

Ross saw that a thin silk bra strap had slipped from beneath her dress and fallen around her arm. Like the one on the floor after they had made love.

Diamond tucked the strap out of sight.

“That’s more like it.” He retrieved his drink and wagged it at Ross. “You’re a young chap, everything waiting for you. When you find a nice wife, do what I did. Marry one a lot younger than yourself!” He laughed. “Keeps you young,
you see?” He glanced at his watch. “Come along, Glynis, we’d better mingle for a bit.”

He took her arm and together they walked toward another group of guests.

Ross watched her shoulders, the angle of her head. She did not look back. She did not need to.

Houston had returned.

“De Lisle wants a chat with you, Ross. I think he’s going to vanish shortly.”

Ross felt the big hand on his shoulder, its suggestion of restraint.

“A word in your ear, my son. When you’re entering a mine field, tread
very
carefully!”

Ross looked across the room. Just for a moment he saw her face, before some one moved and it was lost to him.

She had put two fingers to her lips, like a kiss. Reaching out.

He saw Houston watching, waiting for him.

The mine field was still there.

Sergeant Ted Boyes sat comfortably on a rolled canvas canopy with his back against a wash-deck locker and contemplated the spread of another sunset. The sky was already patched with deep shadow, and a few early stars to mark the horizon from the sea. Around and beneath him the R.F.A.
Avondale
trembled to the engines’ regular beat, and the air was warm from fans or ventilators. Nearly five days since they had slipped their moorings in Hong Kong, on and on at a regular twelve knots, or so he had gathered from the brains up on the bridge.

He watched a cluster of gulls wheeling and screaming around the ship’s quarter. Always ready: one of the cooks had just pitched a bucket of gash over the side. Their presence showed that the land was close.

It was strange that during their entire time at sea, they had sighted so few ships of any size. Perhaps the captain had taken extra care to avoid any such encounter. The radar was always on the lookout, and at a guess the radio in constant control.

Sixty Royal Marines, commandos, needed a lot of attention. As Major Houston had said from the outset,
keep ’em fit, and keep ’em busy!
They had tried to do just that. Arms drills and inspections, self-defence and unarmed combat, and every kind of physical exercise. Nobody was excluded, and usually Houston himself was in the forefront.

Boyes gazed at the fading horizon. Singapore. He could see it as if it was in print. Houston had spoken to the whole unit as soon as the ship had cleared harbour. Until then, the ‘combined operation’ had been just another rumour.

Boyes had thought about it, but he was past surprise at this stage of his life. For some it was not so simple. Tempers had flared and a few scuffles had broken out, nothing bad enough to warrant the defaulters’ table. Not yet, anyway. The sergeants, all experienced N.C.O.s, had made sure of that. Others had settled down to write letters to family or girlfriends, to be left with the ship when eventually they disembarked. Homesickness was a constant companion, no matter what the hard cases claimed to the contrary.

He had gone through it enough times. He half smiled. Even for his own home in southwest London, Battersea, a council flat close to the busy Clapham Junction station, where the vibration of the express trains thundering over the points and bridges had made the cups and saucers rattle in his mother’s kitchen cupboard. Or in the summer when the windows were open, noise or no noise, and you could smell the pong from the candle factory in York Road. Or having a jar with the lads at the pub . . .

He felt some one beside him, near the guardrails.

“Hello, Steve.” He patted the rolled canvas. “Park your arse down here.” Sergeant Blackwood sat beside him, a cigarette cupped in one palm. “Nearly there, eh?”

Boyes glanced at the dark profile. Probably seen more close action than any of them, except Captain Irwin, or Houston. Was he bitter? Did he deeply resent still being an N.C.O. when his was such a well-known name?