Nocturne (35 page)

‘
No.
’

‘
You promise?
’

‘
Of course.
’

‘
Thank Christ for that.
’

He lay back on the sofa, his eyes closing again, and for a second or
two I had an overwhelming urge to tell him about the baby. Then I
wondered whether the news might tip him over again, destroying this
closeness between us, and the moment
passed. After we
’
d gone to bed,
he said he was sorry about the restaur
ant, what had happened, the way
he
’
d lost his cool. Three days later, Gary,
myself, and Sarah from
Portsmouth Social Services were toilin
g up the southern approaches to
Am Basteir.

The recce was a blast. We were on Skye for barely four days yet at the
end of it I felt like I
’
d been shaken inside out, like an old rag doll, then
made whole again. That far north, in late June, it hardly got dark at all
and we scrambled up peak after peak listening to Gary explaining the
way it would be for the kids he
’
d select.

From his own old maps and notebooks, he
’
d compiled a list of
climbs, ranking them in order of difficulty. At the start of the month,
he
’
d concentrate of basic fitness, getting them up to speed, getting
them used to the
6.00
a.m. starts, and cold showers, and all the other
delights of life under canvas. With Brendan
’
s blessing, he
’
d hired three
mates for the month - all ex-S
AS - and between them they
’
d monitor
each boy
’
s progress. Only when they were all, in Gary
’
s phrase,
‘
run
in
’
would they start on the climbs. By day ten, with luck, they
’
d be into
serious ropework and the final week should see them tackling the
peaks that would ask the really hard questions.

In all of this, the emphasis would be on teamwork, and the better I
got to know Gary, the more obvious the logic of Skye became. Taming
a beast like Am Basteir demanded a level of trust and mutual reliance
that literally put your life in the hands of the next guy down the rope.
That was the only way Gary wanted it. That was the only way, he said,
that his lads would slot the Yanks when
it came to the shoot-out on the
Brecon Beacons.

On the plane back to Heathrow, we talked about the kids using
cameras. I
’
d be taking a professional crew up to Skye to shoot the
training sequences but Gary - as practical as ever - suggested we give
two or three of the kids little camcorders. That way, under the kind of
physical pressures they
’
d have to cope with during the game itself,
they
’
d have a chance to grab their own pictures. If the results were as
terrible as we expected, then Brendan, bless him, would have to let me
solve the coverage problem some other way.

Back in London, over the next week, I kept in daily touch with Gary
while he sorted out eighteen lads from Portsea. The six extras he
’
d
decided to recruit in case of accidents or homesickness. The latter
sounded highly unlikely but as Sarah pointed out, delinquency was
often the other face of acute insecurity, and we
’
d be foolish to accept
some of these kids
’
toughness at face value.

Between them, our little band had amassed three
A4
pages of major
and minor convictions. They
’
d take
n to calling themselves
‘
The G-
Force
’
, a quiet compliment to Gary, whom they clearly worshipped.

Star of the G-Force was Dean, who at seventeen h
ad five convictions
for twocking
motor cars without their owners
’
consent. His favourite
had been a Golf GTI belonging to a local solicitor
’
s wife. He
’
d left it
upside down in a field of growing wheat after rolling the car at
95
m.p.h. Questioned afterwards, he
’
d blamed the accident on the
police. Had they not pursued him with quite so much vigour, the car
- he said - would still be in one piece.

By now, it was mid-July. Two and a half months of non-stop work
had left me totally exhausted and I
knew
the time was coming when I
had to take a break. I was doing my best to eat sensibly, and lay off
the alcohol, but every article I had time to read about pregnancy
seemed to stress how much the experience took out of you. Rest, of
course, was the answer, but it was difficult to slip away. The
programme seeds we
’
d planted back in May were beginning to
blossom and someone had to be there, day after day, tending our
little plot.

Best of all were the kids. Everett
’
s reports from Virginia were never
less than optimistic and Gary, quite out of character, was positively
gleeful about the progress of the G-Force. He was getting them
together on a regular basis down in Portsmouth, prior to the trip to
Skye, and they were basking in the attention that
Home
Run
had
attracted from the local media. An early location day in Portsea had
given me footage of the lives our kids would be shedding, and these
sequences - one could sense already - would provide the benchmarks
against which we could measure the flesh and blood effects of
Home
Run
.
In human terms, the thing was working beautifully and that, to
me, was the hinge on the door we were trying so hard to push open.

I tried the image on Sandra. We were into the third week of July. In
a couple of days, their summer term over, the kids would be heading
north. After a great deal of thought, I
’
d decided to request a freelance
director for the initial shoot on Skye. That way, with the minimum of
fuss, I could have a week off.

Sandra sat behind her desk while I finished my health check on the
dodgier parts of the budget. Brendan had flown to Los Angeles in
pursuit of yet another co-production deal, some other series this
time.
When I
’
d finished,
Sandra fired up the computer and scrolled
through the spend to date. I was quite right. We had money to spare
for a good freelance director.

She peered at me over the desk. The l
ast month or two she
’
d taken to
wearing glasses, the kind of severe half-moons you expect to see
perched on the nose of your local bank manager. They suited her
wonderfully.

‘
But I don
’
t understand,
’
she said.
‘
Why don
’
t you
want
to do it?
Why don
’
t you find the time? It
’
s your first shoot, for God
’
s sake. It
’
s
not like you to miss a chance like that.
’

I pointed out that we
’
d already had a day and a half down in
Portsea. I
’
d directed on that occasion and I was more than pleased
with the results.

‘
Then why not now? Why not Skye?
’

I told her I was exhausted. It was the truth but it sounded pathetic.

She was beginning to look interested. My bust was even bigger than
normal, another departure from the norm.

‘
I
thought you were super-fit?
’
She frowned.
‘
All those exercises? All
that running?
’

I wondered how she knew about the running. I
’
d never told her, and
no one else in the office knew either.
I shrugged.

‘
It must be the weather,
’
I said feebly.
‘
And it
’
s been non-stop since
January.
’

‘
The weather?
’

‘
No, the work. But the weather doesn
’
t help.
’
I gestured at the line of
wilting plants on her window sill.
‘
It
’
s just so airless up here. London
’
s
pure exhaust. It gets to you in the end.
’

Sandra was clearly unconvinced. Finally, she stood up, smoothing
the creases in her dress. She was thinner than I
’
d ever seen her,-a
collection of acute angles hung together by a tension you could
practically feel.

‘
You
’
re
pregnant,
’
she said abruptly.
‘
I
can tell.
’

I felt myself colour. I didn
’
t even deny it. She sat down again,
reaching behind her for the little fridge she kept stocked with Tango.
She produced two cans, pushing one across the desk.

‘
When is it due?
’

I heard myself telling her. It was like being in a dream. She could
have been my mother, so powerful, so all-knowing.

‘
Is it Brendan
’
s?
’

‘
Yes.
’

‘
Have you told him?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
Don
’
t you think you ought to?
’

Brendan, I was fairly certain, had susse
d it already. Partly because of
the weight I
’
d put on, and partly beca
use of the very obvious absence
of my periods. At the start, I
’
d toyed with
trying to fake periods but the
thought of walking around with a b
one-dry Tampax inside me was so
repellent that I
’
d never got round to it.

Sandra was still waiting for an answer. I told her I didn
’
t know.

‘
But you are having it?
’

‘
Yes, I
’
m afraid so.
’

‘
I
see.
’

I looked away, hearing the can open with an angry little fizz. She
’
d
be talking about marriage next, though that was the last thing on my
wish list. I
’
d already seen what marriage had done to Brendan. A coke
habit and psychotherapy I could do without.

I heard her sipping at the can. When I looked back, she was staring
thoughtfully at the screen.

‘
What about the programme?
‘
she asked.

‘
The programme
’
s fine. I can manage.
’

‘
No you can
’
t. You
’
re asking for a director.
’