Sun Dance (58 page)

One journey to the jetty took all our belongings barring the crib, which I placed on the stone. Eilidh busied getting the Hilda ready. Footsteps back to the house went unnoticed. I stood in the kitchen, the wounds of this day would not heal. Tigh na Cala, House of the Haven, a shelter to birth, a presence at death; love and sorrow entangled. Evening shone through the window, patterned light crossed the floor, fell bright upon the mellow walls of age. I stepped outside and closed the door; never a lock or key, always a welcome. The mechanical arm dug a grave.

Round to the yawning crater I walked, surely he must be near the final bucketful. I motioned to the digger driver. He stopped his machine and after an obvious hesitation climbed down. “Sorry about this lot,” he appeared a trifle upset. “It's not your fault, but I'd like to show you something.” He followed me to the gable end, “Please save that stone. Just put it to one side, I'll be really grateful,” adding, “If its not too difficult, try and save that doorway lintel.” The driver glanced anxiously to where a township of huts was taking shape, “OK mate I'll try, if the foreman doesn't show up, he's a hounding bastard.” “Thanks,” I had no cash to offer him; somehow he didn't seem that type.

Thinking him a decent chap, “This is some operation,” I commented by way of a question. “Blimey, you've said it mate, it's all rush and hush with this outfit.” He sounded a Londoner. “You're far from home.” “Too fucking far,” he pulled a face, “the missus isn't well and I need the remoteness pay. I've worked in some corners but this bloody dump is the end of the earth.” I swallowed his opinion, “What's going to be built?” “Ain't got a clue mate, nobody's been told and the buggers are just as tight with the money.”

By now he'd become curious about me, “Hope this ain't your house.” “You could say it is, that's why I'm hoping you'll save this stone, and maybe the doorway lintel.” Shifting uneasily he shook his head in disbelief, “They're only old stones. Are you sure?” “Positive, please, if you can manage, I'll come for them soon, somehow.” A bulldozer was rumbling towards the house, with a quick nod the digger driver hurried back to his cab. I lifted the Eachan boy's crib from the stone. No looking back, I joined Eilidh aboard the Hilda.

Enough noise already echoed round the bay. To the ripples of a south east breeze we left the jetty under sail. Before the headland put the house out of our sight, the arm of a digger appeared high above its ridge. Jaws opened and began ripping off the roof, lifting rafters aloft, dumping the broken bones of our home. The squeal of grating metal carried over the water. Eilidh put her head on the gunnel and cried.

A bulldozer soon would put its blade to the walls, ground levelled, job finished. The pace of the elements had passed away; the days of haste had arrived. A single hand by single day would bury a thousand years without remorse.

Only memories would remain unbroken,

in the graves of those who belonged.

Running men reached his side as a kneeling Sir Joshua took aim for the third shot at a figure bounding down the steep hill face. “Stop, stop shooting, there's a woman and child!” one of them bellowed at him. “Give me the gun!” The sharp command was enough to halt a vengeance bordering on madness. Turning round, Goldberg, still on his knees, threw the weapon at his bodyguard, “You useless bastard, you've let that criminal escape, you useless, totally useless idiot.”

Two of the team of engineers helped a white faced Sir Joshua to his feet. The shrieking tirade went on unabated. Pointing to the lurid red marks circling his throat, “That, that madman tried to kill me, kill me. You saw him, you're my witnesses, attempted murder, murder no less, he won't escape, I'll, I'll…” his words stammered to a standstill.

The men glanced from one to another for several reasons, not least the newspaper headlines which would draw attention to operations on Sandray; none wanted to be drawn into the fracas. His Chief Engineer spoke firmly, “I think, Sir Joshua, I, er, indeed so far as we could see, a gun was pulled on the man and he acted in self defence.” Goldberg lashed out in a fury of words, “Bloody traitors, loyalty, wait- wait, you'll see..” and his words trailed into a babble of incoherence.

“Sir Joshua,” the engineer waited for Goldberg to calm down a little before saying very pointedly, “I think you should consider the publicity angle before taking action.” The quiet remark effected a surprising change. Goldberg felt his bruised throat. Little dark eyes hid below their heavy lids and loathe to agree with other than his own opinion, he snapped at the engineer, “Help me to the helicopter. I'm going back to London immediately. Just carry on as I've instructed.”

On hearing that transport was about to leave the island his bodyguard, clasping a broken wrist, spoke through the pain of his broken jaw, “Get me out of this place Goldberg, I need treatment,” Glaring up into the man's face the Nuen Chairman reverted to his business tone, “As from this moment you are dismissed from my service. From now on you are free to make your own arrangements. Contact your company, just as I shall to doing to obtain redress for your obvious shortcomings. They, I presume, will cater for your travel.”

“Look here,” a hollow eyed Sir Joshua wearing an expensive silk cravat addressed the Chief of Britain's covert MI5 operations in a curt manner, “security has been breached at the site of our developement on a Hebridean island. I trust you are aware that the objective of our building programme must not on any account become public knowledge.” The officer stood looking over the Thames, his back to a visitor who'd arrived without an appointment. “Breached?” he commented, aware it might sound offhand, “Kindly explain.”

Annoyed at speaking to the back of a complacent civil servant, “I said breached!” Sir Joshua snapped, “The scientist MacKenzie whom I was assured some time ago would cause no further inconvenience has appeared at the site, no doubt as a result of the absence of adequate surveillance,” he chose his words carefully, “Unfortunately we lacked the appropriate means to detain this intruder. It represents an act of wilful trespass on a top Government restricted area, all our workforce are carefully vetted, none except my leading engineers knows what is being built, but this damned MacKenzie is clever enough to guess and take steps to alert the anti-nuclear lobby. We shall have Greenpeace and their suicidal antics to cope with, think what that will cost.”

The name MacKenzie instantly registered. Much to the senior officers regret one of his better agents had been lost on a failed mission to deal with this scientist. The MI5 chief frowned. Strangely his opposite number in the CIA recently alerted him to the case of a man, Anderson, also presumed drowned off the same Hebridean island. Later in the same conversation his American counterpart indicated they were following a lead on the smuggling of weapons grade uranium. He remained gazing thoughtfully towards the river. Should Goldberg be sounded out on the smuggling issue? Never forewarn any possible miscreant, no matter how unlikely they may appear. Say nothing.

The man's impertinent manner was testing Goldberg's patience, “I want all necessary steps taken to ensure there is no further intrusion. The safety of this repository and the deliveries of radio active material depend on your anti-terrorist security being one hundred percent.” The Ministry Chief spun round to face Goldberg, “One hundred percent, Sir Joshua?” Nuen's Chairman found his supercilious attitude intensely annoying, the man appeared to have little concept of the extreme dangers involved in dealing with nuclear waste.

He may be chief of a clandestine organisation but the man must be brought to heel, “I said one hundred percent,” Goldberg allowed the point stand alone before adding, “already certain unfortunate information relating to the storage of nuclear waste has reached the press.” Calculating eyes studied Sir Joshua, “Reached the press, oh I see, by what means?”

Slightly flustered and not wishing to mention any possible connection to the briefcase documents Goldberg blustered, “Should there be any further lapse in your security arrangements and my company's involvement again reach the media, then you will ensure that the various controllers of its outlets are suitably persuaded that we are building a relay station to cater for the electricity generated by the totally unnecessary and highly inefficient wind farms that will shortly devastate the scenery of these Hebridean islands.”

The chief of UK's service walked to the door and holding it open, “I appreciate your comments, Sir Joshua,” the sardonic smile was not lost on Goldberg and grossly affronted at being summarily dismissed, he paused only to say, “I shall be speaking to the Ministry of Defence later this morning by way of ensuring that the appropriate lines of communication between the two organisations are in place. I shall expect no further inefficiency regarding security.”

Nothing more was said, two men parted, the one making a mental note to contact the CIA with regard to smuggling, the other suddenly concerned to be in touch with his man in charge of the last shipment of nuclear fuel to the American base on Diego Garcia.

Strange, not to say uncanny, are the wavelengths of unspoken thought.

Outraged at being driven from home and objective, the deeper hurt of leaving Sandray had yet to come. Uppermost was our shock at flagrant disregard for irreplaceable habitats. Only crass ignorance could inflict such devastation, obliterate wild flower moorland and nesting sites without apparent concern. To those involved, Sandray must appear simply an insignificant island, remote and dispensable, ideal for some form of development, its uncontaminated state of no consequence, and what of those blameless dependent creatures? Not for us alone the hurt. We’d talked it through too often, coal, oil, wind, tide and nuclear, the more energy at man’s elbow the greater his lever on global destruction.

An island taken over, no information issued, no warning given, secrecy paramount, the public fooled, kept in ignorance by political expediency? Eilidh’s environmental work led her to suspect that the capital interests which dictate global destiny would soon engage in clandestine feats of geo-engineering. No consulting the masses before highly outlandish trials seeking to modify the upper atmosphere were undertaken. Deflect the power of the sun, hope to offset climate change, attempt the preservation of the unsustainable lifestyles of playtime planet. What future the young at the hands of the foolhardy in the reckless pursuit of elemental control?

A steady breeze, the headland cleared. Darkness and a winter crossing, we sailed from the liberty of self-determination and a lack of restriction. The love of nonconformity and free expression must have dominated the sea rovers who sought the edge of a known world. Wind and sea quivered though Hilda’s timbers. Could we but sail on and on, find another empty island, begin again, build a home with bare hands, be free? I fought back the tears of great longing.