Knife Edge (2004) (24 page)

What was Ross doing now? Right now? Talking with his fellow marines, perhaps? She imagined him down at the boatshed, inspecting the situation, damage, pain, injury or worse. He never seemed to reveal any doubt, any fear.

She tried to recall Clive’s plans for this evening. She had made a list. She needed to.

Suppose . . . And Ross’s response.
There will always be that word.

In that scruffy flat in Chelsea, the ironing board, his uniform hanging on a door. Suppose . . . She looked around the room again. Two pictures on the walls, sailing boats and a sunny beach. A notice telling her what to do in case of fire. She pressed her hand on the bed. Maybe she felt things differently after all these months. Larry would always be there, no matter what. But even now . . . She started as the telephone buzzed. Clive had probably changed his mind.
Thought of another guest to invite, or something else for the menu.

She did not know what she said, or how it sounded. Maybe because she had been thinking about him at that very moment. As if he had been reading her thoughts.

“I’m glad I caught you, Sharon. Reminded me of what you said when we got here. It bloody well is like Fort Knox!”

She heard the inflection in his voice, like a smile; she had first noticed it when . . . She pressed the receiver under her hair. There could be some one tapping the line right now.

“Just wanted to put your mind at rest. Not to worry. I’m going to try and see you tomorrow. I’m not sure yet.” He broke off, then, “I just wanted to hear you. Make sure.”

She said quietly, “You
will
be careful, Ross.” There was a click on the line. “I want to see you, soon if you can make it.” She touched her breast. Like this morning. She imagined she could feel her heart beating, and wanted to laugh. Or cry.

Somewhere far away she heard the shrill sirens, some unknown emergency. Police, fire, ambulance: normal enough in a sane world. But to hear it now was like being gripped by something beyond control. Other people endured it, because they had no alternative. But it was always there. She had been sitting in the minibus with Clive on their way to another location, and had stopped at some traffic lights. She had heard music, and had seen a band of uniformed musicians sitting on stools, playing popular hits to entertain the locals. She had watched the feet tapping, people stopping to listen and smile. It could have been anywhere. The musicians were either soldiers or Royal Marines, she could not be sure; it had been such a brief interlude. But she could remember the tune, being
pounded out in true military fashion. “Jesus Christ, Superstar”.

“Are you there, Sharon?”

She made an attempt to steady her voice. All she could remember now was that each of the musicians had been wearing a flak jacket. Like a warning. The reality.

She pressed the phone harder against her ear, until it hurt. She could hear his breathing. Feel his hands around her waist, where she had put them.

“Hold me, Ross.” She heard him say something, and repeated, “Hold me.”

She did not recall putting down the phone.

She looked around the dreary room again, almost expecting a rebuff.

Aloud she said, “I want you.”

Suppose
was silent.

Ross felt a hand on his arm, and tensed as the voice murmured,
“Wait.”
A pause; he must have been no more than a foot away, but he was invisible. Not even a shadow. “We wait for the all clear.”

Another voice said, “For Christ’s sake!”

It was midnight, or a little later. Ross waited for his mind and body to relax. Kill the tension. At the intelligence briefing it had looked straightforward enough. Two streets being demolished to make way for new shops and a bus garage. A face-lift, much needed in this part of Londonderry. Near the river. You could feel it. Smell it. He shivered despite the combat jacket and sweater beneath. He knew the reason. Not the hour, or the dampness of the river.

There was no point in asking questions or moaning about it. The guide was hand-picked, an undercover policeman who knew the ground, the whole area, like the back of his hand.

He thought of his other companion, Lieutenant Peter Hamlyn, a commando from Special Operations. They had met for the first time at the briefing. He shifted his shoulders beneath the jacket and the weight of his holster. Maps, street plans, photographs. And names. It was as important as that.

Hamlyn was no newcomer. Probably in his late twenties,
solid and broad-shouldered, so that at first glance he appeared shorter than he really was. Up from the ranks, tough and confident. He and his party had arrived two days earlier, after a stopover in Belfast.
Acting on information received.
The decision had been made.

They had driven part of the way, then changed to an unmarked van that stank of fresh paint. There had been just that fleeting, timed moment, lasting only seconds, when the switch was made. Harwood had twisted round from the wheel, his hand hard, gripping Ross’s. Looking back, Ross recalled that Harwood had even managed to remove his glove, which was rare for him.

“Keep your head down, sir! Fingers crossed!” Then he was gone.

After all this time, he should be used to it. He was not.

On the first part of the journey Lieutenant Hamlyn had said little, feeling his way, testing the mettle or otherwise of the man beside him, whose behaviour might determine the margin between life and death.

Like Major Fisher. Ross bit his lip. No, not like Fisher at all.

He imagined the adjutant, Seabrook, alerted, and prepared for any unforeseen complications. But he had the feeling that the eventual arrival of the new commanding officer still took precedence in Seabrook’s mind.
Was I like that?

He heard a gate being dragged open, the security fence surrounding most of the area slated for demolition and redevelopment. The sound of feet, too, colliding with fallen brickwork or ballast. In the complete stillness it was like an avalanche.

Whispers, some one stifling a cough, and the smell of tobacco smoke. They had arrived.

“This way. Keep close. Mind the steps.” It was not just dark, he thought. It was black.

He moved forward. Funny the things that crossed your mind at times like these. Like Hamlyn’s words when they had been about to leave in the Land Rover.

“At least there’ll be one face you’ll know. Name, too.” Clearing the way. No room for friction.

It was Steve Blackwood, now a sergeant-major, a W.O.2 and explosives expert. Fate or coincidence, it was good to know he had won his own battle. One doctor had insisted that the bullet would have killed most men on impact.

He wondered what Hamlyn thought about it, if he thought at all. Two Blackwoods in one small team. But he had served long enough to know the full story; it was hard to keep a secret in this regiment.

More scattered bricks and then some scaffolding, a ladder leading nowhere, pointing at the sky.

Friday night, Saturday morning. If the facts were accurate, it would be tomorrow. Sunday, like that moment in the market when the thieves had blown the safe. And then the screams and the guns and the terrified children. And Sharon . . .

“Stop here.” The scraping sound of a heavy curtain, canvas, he thought; the tiny blink of a torch. And more steps.

He felt Hamlyn close behind him.

“Are you O.K., Peter?”

Hamlyn thought about it.
First names. No bullshit.
He said softly, “I could use a pint!”

This had been a pub. He remembered hearing the details. Rooms, stairways, doors. His foot found another step. It must be the cellar. The heavy curtain was down and he heard some one fastening it, or poking it into place.

The voice said,
“Now.”

The lights were small and hand-held, but after the total darkness it was like Earls Court.

Crouching and standing, there were no more than a dozen figures here. But as he waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the light, Ross thought the old cellar was packed, shoulder to shoulder.

Like all those other times, the same feeling, almost the same faces, the tension and uncertainty melting away. Hamlyn was speaking in the same matter-of-fact voice, while the figures, now individuals under the hard light, crowded closer, eyes on Ross, who was a total stranger to most of them.

One of them strode out of the shadows, face split in a grin.

“The old firm again!”

Ross gripped him by the shoulders and shook him gently. “Steve, you old bugger! I feel better already!”

“Yeah. The bad penny will always be ready to pop up.”

Everybody seemed to be talking at once. Hamlyn stood slightly apart, and Ross thought he saw him smile with relief or satisfaction.

His cousin looked much the same, he thought. The lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper, and his hair showed streaks of grey beneath the beret; hardly surprising for one who had at least twice nearly died in combat. In two or three years, he would be forty. In the Corps they said that after that it was time to roll over, or be promoted.

Ross said, “Sit down if you can find a place.” He looked around, taking his time, trying to see each face and assess the man behind it. He could see the remains of the pub cellar. Circular stains on the walls where barrels had been hoisted on racks for the beer to settle before being tapped, or connected to the bars on the next floor; a few crushed
Guinness tins. Some sort of toilet, too; the door was hanging open and he could see the scribbled graffiti even from where he was standing. Like pubs everywhere.
It’s useless standing on this seat/ ’Cause Chatham crabs jump sixteen feet!
Or the ubiquitous
You would think by all this wit/ that Shakespeare once came here to shit.

He cleared his throat. A handful of marines, all volunteers. Trained, chased, and tested to the hilt. And for what? Others made the decisions. But they were left to carry out the actual deeds, whatever the final outcome.

Like all those who had gone over the top in Flanders in that other war, or the individual sniper in Burma and Malaysia crouching in some rice paddy or jungle; choice did not enter into it.

“You’ve all seen the local map and sketch-plan?” Some nodded; a couple smiled. Wondering perhaps about the man, the officer, in whose hands they were placing their lives. Most of them would know the surname, but he had seen the surprise when he and Steve had hugged each other. They might bear the same name, but rank was usually an unbreachable barrier in the Corps.

“Information tells us that explosives will be brought ashore from the river early Sunday morning. Mines, detonators, and very likely some weapons, mortars and that type of thing. Not a big cargo,” he looked around at the intent faces, “but deadly in the wrong hands.”

He had said enough. These men had trained, lived and worked together long enough to act as a team or as individuals. No ranks or badges.

“Sunday or not, there may be civilians in the area.” He touched his own holster. “They are not the enemy.”

Hamlyn took over, calling out a few names, adding a detail here and there about vantage points and concealment. He saw Steve Blackwood watching him, perhaps
remembering that other time when a young officer had overcome his fear to take the lead, and die.

Now, all they had to do was wait.

Steve Blackwood switched off the battery-powered razor and rubbed his hand around his chin. It would never match a proper blade and hot water, but it was better than starting the day like a scruff.
Starting the day.
He did not need to peer at his watch. It was four in the morning. He eased his legs to take away the stiffness, and put his mind in order.

Saturday had been endless, taking turns on watch, peering through the camouflaged hides, keeping out of sight in case somebody was poking around, or walking his dog, being suspicious of everything. He listened to rain dripping from one of the canvas awnings. It had poured for most of the previous day, and much of the night. Rain was the best policeman, they said. They could have it.

When people saw the marines on parade or walking in the street, they probably thought that the green beret went with the uniform. He moved again to ease the pain in his back: the reminder. If you wore the green beret, you had bloody well earned it.

It was still quiet in the pub cellar, and he wondered if there was any tea left in the thermos flasks. His mouth was dry; too many cigarettes, although he had tried to ration them.

He heard somebody move, the sound of metal, a voice lowered to a whisper. Two of them chatting to pass the time.

Waiting . . . He had known this same mixture of impatience and uncertainty so many times that he had lost count.

But you could never show it. The sergeant-major, a
warrant officer as in all three services, stood firmly between the brass and the other ranks. Looking back, he was surprised that he had become used to his promotion so quickly. Some of his friends in the sergeants’ mess had made a point of shouting, “Sir!” just to catch him out. It seemed a long time ago.

Now there was another sound. The
snip
,
snip
,
snip
of somebody checking the cocking lever on his semi-automatic rifle. He did not need to; it had already been tested. Just to make certain . . . That must be Jock Marsh, a crack shot. He had even competed for the Blackwood Trophy. He felt his mouth crease in a smile. You could never get away from that name in the Corps.

He turned his thoughts back to the job at hand. Why he and the others were in this partially demolished pub, at the back of nowhere. Maybe the rain had put paid to the operation. Or some informer had talked too loudly.

The plans, the photographs, might be hot air. It happened often enough.

He heard some one flushing the toilet; it was about the only thing that still worked here, but not for much longer, by the look and stench of it.

And after this? Another year, two at the most, and he would be out of the Corps. On the beach. He was lucky to have made it this far. But for his service, and the coveted D.C.M., what might he have done? And now there was Mary. During that last explosives course at Portland he had met her, working in a chemist’s shop in Weymouth. He had been in uniform and they had started to talk. Her husband had been a Royal, but had deserted her for another woman. It was surprising that she had even wanted to speak to another of the Globe and Laurel mob.