Knife Edge (2004) (25 page)

He had not told her about his work with explosives.

But I will. Next time I see her.

“Want some char, sir?” A hunched shape came out of the shadows.

He took the mug, lukewarm.

“Magic,” he said, and then, “Time, is it?”

The marine slithered down beside down. “Be light soon.” His teeth were white in the gloom, and faintly chattering. “Glad to be doin’ somethin’.”

Twenty-one years old. What kind of future could he expect?
Cut, cut, cut
, all the bloody politicians could think about. If there was another war, who would carry the can?

He pushed it to the back of his mind. Today was important. He thought about the photographs, the mug shots they had all been shown. Hamlyn had made sure that everybody got a good description, too. Barry Fallon from Sligo. An old hand at the game, who had done time in England, but got off with a short sentence on some technical point in the defence. It had still been a murder, whatever they said. And Jack McGee from Armagh, who had begun life right here in Derry.

But how good was the information?

He said, “I’d better call the Major.” He thought,
not that he’ll need it.

He recalled their meeting in this stinking cellar. No pretence, no airs and graces. Probably surprised the hell out of some of the others. Especially the ones who knew it all.

He had often wondered how Ross Blackwood had felt about the loss of the old house, all because of some bloody new motorway that had to go through, demolishing history. He thought of the solicitor’s letter, the money which had been sent to him, without strings; his rightful share, it had been explained. Not the lawyers’ doing, he was sure of that, but the man’s, the officer who had become his friend, and who had raised the roof until his medal had come through. Not a fortune, but if Mary
agreed to marry him they would not have to exist on a warrant officer’s pension.

He knew Ross was wide awake, watching him in the faint glow of a solitary police lamp.

“All set?”

“Yeah. It’s a wonder this place isn’t flooded out!”

“Have a sip of this.” It was a hip flask. “Officers’ perks!”

Brandy, Scotch; it went down so well he could not be sure which it had been. But he was aware of the warning. Ross was not so calm as the face he showed to others.

These same men had listened to his quiet words when he had arrived. Even the hard cases had been impressed. And the lieutenant, Hamlyn. A good enough officer from what he had seen and heard, but a man who would come down on you like a ton of bricks if you failed to measure up.

He wondered if Ross still thought about that other young lieutenant. Mister
follow-my-example
. Blondie.

Obeying orders. And dying in terror. The greatest kind of courage.

“Good stuff.”

Ross was on his feet, checking his pockets, his watch, his holster and ammunition, automatically. Like the drill.

“It’ll take a while to occupy positions, Steve. We’ll stand-to in fifteen minutes.” He half turned as the toilet cistern rattled again, and grinned. “Not before time, by the sound of it!”

Steve watched him. Hong Kong, Malaysia, Singapore. He could remember the woman in Hong Kong, older than Ross in more ways than one. The pompous husband who played golf whenever he could.
And I’m still here. The lucky one.

The lights were coming on. Time to move, let the eyes adjust to the dawn, when it came.

He followed Ross out of the canvas shelter, feeling the way. Accepting it.

It was now.

Lieutenant Peter Hamlyn raised himself on his toes to peer over yet another stack of new, plastic-wrapped bricks. Everything was wet, and there were puddles like lakes in the open sites where buildings had once stood. He wore grubby white overalls over his combat rig, and his beret was wedged through his belt. Just in case there were other eyes on the move. There were two night watchmen, sealed in a little hut with the telephone. And the undercover policeman. A weekend they would all remember, no matter what happened.

He moved on, using some fallen planks to cross over another muddy pool. It was deeper than he thought, but he made himself stand still as water soaked over his boot and into his sock. He looked at a wedge of concrete, pale in the dawn. New foundations. He pictured the map in his mind, noting distances and bearings, moved again, and saw the gleam of the river. Like a sliver of metal.

It was still cold, but the sky seemed clearer, offering a jagged horizon for the first time. Buildings, windows like empty eyes, shapeless lumps of timber and metal: a hive of activity on any working day, but now still, dead, only the river making it a lie.

He heard a soft footstep over his left shoulder. Sergeant Ken Norris, known behind his back as ‘Smiler’, because he very rarely did.

He had only been made up from corporal a few months ago. He was good at his work, but not an easy man to know.

He climbed carefully on to some ballast and stared toward the river. No bends here; it was almost like a canal.

And it
was
brighter, pale smudges of cloud where there
had been total darkness. He imagined his marines in their various hides, waiting and on edge, cursing the brains who had got them into this godforsaken place. Grubby, unshaven, except for the W.O.2, the other Blackwood.

He thought of the man in command of this unlikely operation. Part of the legend. Several well-known families had made their mark in the Royal Marines. Unlike himself: he was a first-generation marine. Both his parents were teachers at a local school. They had accepted his decision to enlist, but no more than that . . .

A tiny movement. He froze, his hand on steel. Ready.

But it was the last lookout. Their crack shot, Jock Marsh, from Glasgow, with an accent like a chainsaw. Narrow dark features and very bright eyes, like black stones, as he had heard one of the others comment. He was chewing gum. On parade it was entirely different. Today, he looked like something from a gangster movie.

“Quiet?”

Marsh shrugged. “Saw a police boat twenty minutes back.”

“Are you sure?”

Marsh tapped his waterproof cape, where his breast pocket would be.

“Checked the number.” He smiled, chewing busily.
One up on you, Jimmy!

Hamlyn turned his cuff. His watch must have stopped, surely . . .

Marsh said, “Early bird, sir.” Instantly alert, the unseen semi-automatic rifle taking shape under his stained cape.

Very quiet, but steady.
Put-put-put
, a small engine, maybe only an outboard.

There was to be a sailing regatta this morning. But not up as far as this. The police boat would have seen and checked, as a matter of course. Hamlyn calmed himself. There would
be a tug, and some barges. The only time they had to shift some garbage, and more building material. It was all in the brief. Nothing must interfere with the regatta. He turned his head slightly. Not close, very faint, but strangely moving. Church bells.

Marsh moved the gum to the other side of his mouth and scowled. “That’s
all
we need!”

Hamlyn ignored him, watching the slow-moving boat, taking on shape and personality as it passed two overloaded barges moored nearby. No wonder they needed a tug; one of them was so filled with rubbish and debris that it might have been aground. He groped for his binoculars, which were wedged under the overalls. A quick glance at the sky, brightening slowly, the far side of the river still faceless and in darkness. Two gulls, cruising on motionless wings, no doubt searching for food. But holding the light like still-life.

He pressed against the bricks and levelled his glasses. Somebody’s pride and joy, but not very beautiful. About thirty feet long, probably an old naval craft, like a cutter, sold off in their hundreds after the war. Conversions, they were termed by professional sailors. A low cabin roof, and two masts with half furled sails, a bright club burgee fluttering from the truck, a tattered ensign down aft. No headroom between decks. He focused on a solitary figure standing in the cockpit, presumably at the wheel. Bright red jersey, dark hair tied or plaited down her back. He almost smiled. Who cared about headroom with a companion like that? The smaller the better.

He heard Marsh mutter, “All right for some!”

Now there was somebody else. A man, climbing into the cockpit from the cabin. It was funny to think that this boat had probably been used for teaching seamanship to new recruits in those far-off days. Double-banked oars pulling
up and down, with an instructor marching between the new boys, calling the stroke, with a few harsh words to hurry things along.

The man wore a sailing smock and was staring at the shore. Hamlyn did not move; it felt as if he was looking directly at him, which was impossible.

He was saying something and he saw the girl reach out, and the immediate change in the engine sound. The boat was turning slightly, slowing down, and the man in the blue smock was moving across the deck, holding a backstay to steady himself.

Marsh said dourly, “What’s he up to? There’s fu—” He checked himself. “There’s nothing here!”

Hamlyn moved the glasses slightly. Another barge, half hidden by the partly demolished brickwork, filled with rubbish like the others. He remembered searching it in the darkness. It stank, too.

What was he doing? Stepping off the boat to relieve himself? The local authorities were getting very pusser about boat owners using the river instead of their cramped chemical toilets as directed.

Closer now, the boat still turning, making for the barge. He could see the girl more clearly too, leaning over slightly to gauge the distance. Her face was tanned. Used to boats. Her companion waved his arm, and he had picked up a rope fender, ready for the impact, if any.

Why else would they stop here?

“Tell the major.” Blackwood would think he was round the bend. What did it matter anyway? Suppose this boat was the means to the end? But the picture would not form. He repeated, “Move it!”

He trained the glasses again. The girl was standing on something, peering across the bows. The engine had stopped, and he could see the bubbles in the water, catching
a light which had not been there before. Another quick glance. Still no sun, but a window was shining somewhere. It would be soon now.

The man jumped on to the barge’s side deck, using the fender to take the contact, hauling a line after him to make fast. He looked back and called something. The girl did not move, or smile.

A hand on the shoulder. “Something up, Peter?” Calm. Even. No impatience or annoyance. Not like some.

“This boat alongside. What’s the point?” He sounded sharper than he intended.

Ross replied, “Saw it a bit earlier. Bound for the regatta, I thought.” He had trained his own glasses on the barge, but Hamlyn did not feel him move.

“He can see the boundary fence, and will know what’s going on here. There’s enough barbed wire to scare off the Red Army. It’s their boat right enough. They can lay hands on everything without looking.”

It was like hearing him thinking aloud. Hamlyn said, “They couldn’t carry much of a cargo in that, sir.”

Ross looked again. The girl had stepped down into the forepart of the cockpit by the cabin door. He saw her fully before she turned away again. Hamlyn was right. No room. No speed, either.

But more than that. The girl’s face. She was worried. He touched Hamlyn’s arm again. “Pass the word, Peter. Stand fast, but it’s a go.” He held his arm and added quietly, “That girl is scared out of her wits.”

He saw the question in his eyes. “A try-on, just to see if it’s safe to go ahead.”

He heard Hamlyn move away.
Probably thinks I have too much imagination. Maybe he’s right.
Pleasure craft came and went every day here. And it was regatta time. And it was Sunday.

Perhaps the plan had fallen through. Or some one had grassed, or had just been unable to keep his mouth shut. The explosives and weapons might have been smuggled to an entirely different location. There were a million
ifs
and
ors
filling his brain.

But the long-haired girl in the bright red jersey remained. He knew terror well enough to recognize it.

He tensed, and held his breath. Another man had climbed on deck and was preparing to jump across to the barge. A big, athletic figure dressed in a sort of track suit, and deck shoes. Ross levelled the glasses with extra care. He could see sunlight on the water. No time to take chances. But the face was fixed in his mind. Square, tight-mouthed. Thinning hair; not one of the faces he had studied.
But I will know it again.

He was standing beside the man in the sailing smock, almost touching him, saying something and peering at his watch. Looking at the demolition site.
At me.

He knew Hamlyn was coming back, the sergeant called Norris close behind him.

Afterwards he remembered that Hamlyn had his mouth open, an unspoken question hanging in mid-air. It was an explosion, somehow muffled, and far away. A sensation more than anything dangerous; you could barely feel it. He looked up and across the nearest wire fence. But the birds had heard it well enough. More gulls, slivers of white, scattered like feathers in the sunlight.

Timed to the minute. Every police car and ambulance would already be racing to the scene of the latest incident.

Hamlyn made as if to move. Ross said, “Stay!” Quietly, but it was as if he had shouted it. “It’ll be soon now!”

He saw Hamlyn flinch, caught off guard by the sound. Like a champagne bottle being clumsily uncorked. Their eyes met. Or a pistol fitted with a silencer.

When they looked again, the burly figure in the track suit and deck shoes was still standing on the barge. Alone.

Hamlyn gasped, “Jesus Christ, he killed him! Just like that! Can’t we . . .”

Ross kept his eyes on the barge and the boat alongside. Hamlyn was shocked, unable to accept what had happened.
That I’m doing nothing about it.
He stared at the figure on the barge, turning now, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. Unreal, as if he had imagined it. And what about the girl?