be my enemy

by

Christopher Brookmyre
By the same author


QUITE UGLY ONE MORNING

COUNTRY OF THE BLIND

NOT THE END OF THE WORLD

ONE FINE DAY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT

BOILING A FROG

A BIG BOY DID IT AND RAN AWAY
THE SACRED ART OF STEALING


Be my enemy

or,

fuck this for a game
of soldiers


Christopher

brookmyre


little, brown
A Little, Brown Book
First published in Great Britain in 2004 by Little, Brown
Copyright © 2004 Christopher Brookmyre


Blackjack written by Art Alexakis. From the Everclear album Slow Motion Daydream. Copyright © 2002 Evergleam Music/Montalupis Music/Commongreen Music/
Songs of Universal (BM1). Lyrics reproduced by kind permission of Art Alexakis.


The Heater words by Don McGlashan, music by Don McGlashan, Ross Burge, Alan
Gregg, David Long. From the Mutton Birds album Salty. Copyright © 1994 Warner
Chappell/Mana Music. Lyrics reproduced by kind permission of Don McGlashan.


Envy of Angels written by Don McGlashan. From the Mutton Birds album Envy of

Angels. Copyright © 1997 Warner Chappell/Mana Music. Lyrics reproduced by

kind permission of Don McGlashan.

The Heater and Envy of Angels also appear on Flock: The Best of The Mutton Birds. The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced,
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form or by any means, without the prior

permission in writing of the publisher, nor be

otherwise circulated in any form of binding or

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without a similar condition including this
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.


All characters in this publication are fictitious

and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.


A CIP catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library.


HARDBACK ISBN 0 316 72522 6
C FORMAT ISBN 0 316 72614 1


Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

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For Roger Dubar
Thanks: Marisa, Art Alexakis, Don McGlashan
When everything is simple in the white and the black
You will never have to see the grey anymore

You will never have to be afraid . . .
Please don't tell me that this isn't what you asked for . .
Be careful what you ask for


Blackjack, A. P. Alexakis
from Slow Motion Daydream by Everclear
Prologue:

Burial and Exhumation
November 11, 2001


'Bin Laden? A fucking charlatan.'

'Be serious for a minute/ Williams told him.

'I am being serious. That's my point. Everybody's so
reverent about this guy. Strip away all the mythologising
and hocus-pocus and what have you got? Patty Hearst with
a beard. Bored rich kid playing at soldiers. He's in the huff
with his family, for Christ's sake - the psychology's pitifully
mundane. If he'd been born into a semi in Surbiton he'd
have painted his bedroom black, got himself a Nine Inch
Nails T-shirt and hung around swingparks drinking cider
from plastic bottles.'

Fotheringham's rant was attracting admonitory glances,
more in disapproval of the growing volume and vehemence
than the content, which wouldn't have been clearly
discernible above the whipping wind. Raised voices were
not decorous at a funeral; they suggested that your thoughts
were not respectfully concentrated upon the memory of the
departed, even if, in Williams's case, that was not strictly
true. Nothing was more prominent in his mind than the man
they had just buried or the consequences of his loss, not
least the fact that Williams now had his job.

Fotheringham gestured apologetic acknowledgement and
Williams led him in the opposite direction to the dispersing
mourners.

'Bin Laden's about a lot more than thrill kills and power
trips/ Williams chided, measuring his condescension precisely.
'And there's three thousand dead people in New York of the
opinion that you should be taking him more seriously.'
'I'm taking him entirely seriously, sir. I just don't think it
will help us if we buy into the hype and start thinking of
him as some kind of formidable genius. Look at the Black
Spirit, if you need a primer. Remember what a bogeyman
he was? Turned out to be a fucking oil-biz wage slave from
Aberdeen.'

'Quite. Something, I should remind you, that we only
learned after the fact. Didn't make him any easier to catch,
did it? And besides, I don't think there's much ground for
comparison. For all his theatrics, the Black Spirit was essentially
just a mercenary, prepared to do horrific things on
other people's behalf if they paid him enough. Bin Laden
represents the possibility of ten thousand Black Spirits, all of
them prepared to do horrific things merely because it's
Allah's bidding. We've never had to face this kind of fanaticism
before: there's no fifth column to cultivate, no disaffected
factions to encourage, no waverers, not even anyone
we can bribe and corrupt. Just total, unquestioning, homicidal,
suicidal commitment to the cause.'

'With respect, sir, that's what I mean by believing the
hype. For one thing, there is no cause. Bin Laden's too smart
to marry himself to anything as cumbersome as a coherent
or even consistent political ideology, because such a thing
could be debated, held up to scrutiny, and, worst of all,
alienate potential followers. "The cause of Islam" is expediently
nebulous. You scream loud enough about Allah and
nobody's going to ask you to clarify any awkward specifics
before signing up. Through religion, Bin Laden can posture
as all things to all Muslims. But there's one specific he does
deliver, and that's the thing he needs more than Allah, the
thing that's really motivating your "unquestioning" footsoldiers.'

'What? The promise of all those virgins in paradise?'

'An enemy. Somebody to hate, somebody to blame. The
US, the Jews, the West. The Muslim fundamentalists aren't
looking to Bin Laden because he's a genius. They're looking
to him because he's the one who's currently got a team
together to give the infidel a kicking. That's his main leadership
credential: that right now, he's the one doing some
leading.'

Williams grimaced a little, his features hardening less
against the growing drizzle than in strain at tolerating
his subordinate's less-than-focused reflections. David
Fotheringham was tagged in Williams's mental files under
'Useful But Flaky', sub-section 'Intelligent But Scheming'.
He'd been indispensable as an infiltrator ten or fifteen years
back, boyish looks allowing him to pass for someone much
younger, combined with a sly talent for winning people's
trust. He wasn't out in the field these days, partly because
his knowledge and experience were more valuably applied
in managing the operatives who were, but also because there
were question marks over his ability to remain emotionally
detached. It was a charted symptom of chronic exposure to
his particular field of analysis: spend all your time identifying
potential threat and subversion and your instincts
could get a little defensive, to say the least. Revulsion was
a natural response, but hatred clouded your judgement.
Now that Selby was gone and Williams was in charge, it
would be up to him to harness Fotheringham's abilities: the
trick was finding a way of loosening his leash but keeping
him onside.

'Forgive me, Fotheringham, maybe it's the circumstances
this morning, maybe it's last night's whisky and maybe it's
just the damp, but I'm having trouble understanding why
one of my most respected intelligence officers is standing
before me doing a very good impression of trivialising the
biggest threat to security that this nation currently faces.'

'I'm not trivialising, sir. I'm saying these guys - Bin Laden,
Al Qaeda - are only as dangerous as they've been allowed
to be.'
Williams looked around the cemetery, thrusting his hands
into the pockets of his coat.

'Where are you going with this, David? It's fucking
freezing out here and I've a pressing appointment with a
sausage roll and a pint of bitter.'

'Are sausage rolls still mandatory at official funerals?'

Williams gave a small, stiff grin.

'Sausage rolls are mandatory at all funerals, even vegetarian
ones, and I couldn't half do with one right now. So
enough procrastination: what are you saying?'

Fotheringham took his own turn at casting a slow eye
across the headstones.

'Do you know the joke about the two hunters, out of
ammo, who come across a lion in the grassland?'

'Can't say that I recognise it so far, no.'

'Well, the lion clocks them, so one of them drops his gun
and just starts running. His mate tells him he's mad, there's
no way he can outrun a lion. The first guy says: "I don't
need to outrun the lion: I only need to outrun you."

'Al Q hit the Twin Towers because the Yanks made it easy
for them. I'm saying we should make it no fucking picnic
to be an Al Q operative in the UK: present ourselves as the
hardest option and let the rest watch their own backs.'

Tar be it from me to pour cold water on your enthusiasm,
but I'm obliged to remind you that counter-terrorism
isn't really your area of expertise.'

'No, sir. My area of expertise is idealistic half-wits looking
for some cause to make their lives seem meaningful and
their selves feel important. I've seen them of every stripe,
every colour, every political hue, and the one thing they all
have in common is, to use an appropriately jingoistic phrase,
they don't like it up 'em. For every truly committed suicide
bomber, there's two dozen easily-led romantics who'll go
looking for a new hobby if things start to get hot.'

'Meanwhile my sausage roll is starting to get cold.'
Williams began walking as directly towards the carpark as
the headstones allowed. 'I came here to bury a colleague, not
to listen to your head unravelling, Fotheringham. Sounds
like you should stay out of what you clearly don't know.'

'With every respect to his memory, I know our departed
boss has exited the stage not a moment too soon.'

Williams checked his stride, casting an eye towards the
dispersing mourners and the growing cavalcade of slowdeparting
cars.

'Gracefully/ Fotheringham continued, 'with his legacy
and dignity intact, before the likes of Al Qaeda exposed him
as an anachronism. They've changed the game beyond
anything Selby could recognise, ripped up our definitions
of the unthinkable and made it easier for the next nutter
along to contemplate atrocity. This isn't a war, not even a
cold one. You said it yourself, there's no generals to assess
or outsmart, no rifts or factions to exploit, and you don't
get to see troops massing before the strike comes.'

'Justin Selby was a man of honour and principle.'

'Unquestionably, sir. He believed in democracy and good
old-fashioned fair play. These fuckers don't.'

Fotheringham stopped and stood still. Williams ignored
his punt at dramatic effect and ambled onwards, charting a
straighter course towards the exit.

'It's time we started playing dirty too, sir. I'd like to see
how many of their "disaffected loner" recruits and so-called
fanatics remain quite so committed once they start picking
up their teeth.'

Williams shook his head. 'So a few public floggings,
maybe a beheading in Trafalgar Square, that what you have
in mind?' He walked backwards as he called out his disappointed
scorn, then turned again and proceeded in the direction
of that much-vaunted sausage roll.

Fotheringham stood his ground, undaunted by Williams's
departure.
'I'm talking about OFF 857.'

Williams stopped and turned around. OFF 857 was one
of MIS's more badly kept secrets, and it was no surprise that
Fotheringham should know about it. The question was,
given his ratified flaky status, how much he really knew, or
how much he'd merely bought into the myth.

'Did I hear you right?'

'Yes, sir. Since September 11th we've found ourselves
facing a real monster: multi-headed, poison-tongued,
murderous and entirely ruthless. I think the time is right for
us to unleash a demon of our own.'

Williams had to stifle a laugh. Ever since Selby's colossal
fuck-up in not burying it properly when he should have,
this was a story that had rattled around the organisation
down the years, in rumours, half-truths, speculation and
out-and-out bollocks.

'What do you know about OFF 857? Seriously. Do you
know what it stands for, for a start?'

'Omega File Prisoner 857. Imprisoned without trial,
detained indefinitely, in order to cover up his activities. Also
known as army sergeant Maurice Shiach, assigned to train
Territorials and student OTCs around the country. Originally
recruited as an informant by Special Branch in the
Seventies, investigating suspected extreme right-wing
factions in the TA. In the Eighties he was unofficially given
free rein to recruit and assemble--'

'Bollocks he was.'

'Just the way I heard it, sir.'

'That's the problem. There's so much hair grown on that
sorry tale, a lot of Boys' Own shit that people want to believe
in. What else do you know, from "the way you heard it"?'

'That he ran a prototype covert assassination unit, to take
out subversive elements without raising suspicion over the
motives of their deaths. Accidents, suicides. That's why I
brought it up. The people we're facing these days love to
have martyrs. It fuels their cause. This way, we could deny
them that while taking crucial heads/

'You believe we can enhance the security of our country
by killing certain of the people who live here?'

'People who are planning to undermine that security, yes.
If we'd popped Bin Laden coming out of Highbury one
afternoon, several of our citizens might not have died on
September 11.'

This was Fotheringham in full flake mode. He wasn't the
first to be seduced by the Shiach myth: who wouldn't like
to believe we had a secret unit who could almost invisibly
wipe out the people who threatened us? The reality was less
romantic, a repeat of it unthinkable. It was high time Fotheringham
was disabused of his misconceptions, though if he
seriously had the stomach for what he was deludedly
contemplating, Williams might yet be able to use that. If
nothing else, he had brought to the top of the agenda one
of the unsolved'problems Williams had just inherited from
Selby.

'You start with Bin Laden, but where do you stop, David?
Who's going to make that call? Me? You? Shiach?'

'Desperate times call for desperate measures.'

'We're not that desperate yet. Believe me, he wasn't some
007, licensed to kill. Shiach was a nightmare looking for
someone to dream him: someone feeling like you do now,
angry and frustrated and wishing you could just blow the
bad guys away. He was a psychopath in need of a cause to
justify his bloodlust, and Shiach was more interested in the
blood than the cause. He was little more than hired muscle,
impatient to provide the way if someone else had the will.'

'You mean the Architect?'

'Ah, you've heard that nonsense too. Shiach's own mythmaking,
that one. That was how he seduced his recruits:
told them about his silent partner who was in MIS, giving
the impression that what he was up to was sanctioned. Trust
me, what he was up to was entirely off his own back. He
was a self-deluding nutter, and the myths came about
because Justin Selby inadvertently fed his delusion by
covering the whole mess up.'

'What exactly did this mess consist of?'

'Shiach's "unit" murdered some lefty activist lawyer and
made it look like suicide. To this day, the widow doesn't
know any different. Nobody does. Selby found out, though.
He'd been worried about Shiach for a while and engaged
the time-honoured paranoid ploy of sending an informant
to inform on his informant. He got nothing from the main
man, but one of Shiach's TA recruits spilled his guilt-ridden
guts, and not a moment too soon, because it wasn't all clever
little suicides they were planning. That's the myth: that they
dreamt up subtle, invisible ways to make inconvenient
people disappear. Not Shiach. He wanted mayhem. Hide in
plain sight. The more messy and insane, the harder it is to
see the motive.'

'What happened to the recruit?'

Topped himself, ironically.'

'You sure he topped himself?'

'Oh, yeah. Shiach was locked up by then. I say ironically
because there were no repercussions for him, apart from his
own guilt, it would seem. Selby had to make the whole thing
go away, and he impressed upon the guy that there'd be no
murder case to answer as long as no-one knew there'd been a murder. But Shiach didn't just need to be silenced, he
needed to be stopped. That's where Selby screwed up. He
should have thrown the whole thing open to the cops, but
he was terrified of the political damage. You can say the
phrase "rogue element" as many times as you want, but
when you've got someone connected to both the security
and intelligence services wiping out dissidents and making
it look like suicide . . .'

'I can see the headlines, yes.'


10
'And you have to understand, the way Selby's mind
worked, he wasn't protecting a government or a political
party. He was protecting the very office of government,
because what credibility would that office have, home or
abroad, if we were perceived to be assassinating dissenters?
He had to cover up the whole thing, and he had to get rid
of Shiach. Me? I'd have given him a taste of his own medicine,
suicided the bastard. Unfortunately, Selby's stubborn
principles ruled that out. He considered what Shiach had
done an affront to everything he believed this country stood
for, which included not killing people just because you find
them inconvenient.'

'So it's true he had him imprisoned without trial?'

That part is true, yes. His identity has been effectively
wiped, his files sealed and the only thing anyone on the
inside knows is that he doesn't have a parole date. Selby
made him disappear in his own bloodless way, no doubt
feeding Shiach's delusion that he's some kind of martyr,
wronged patriot or detained secret agent. "Omega File
Prisoner 857". He must have loved that. Good job he
doesn't know what happened to Omega File Prisoners one
through 856.'

'What?'

'Nothing. There weren't any. It was Selby taking the piss
because he knew Shiach drove a white VW Beetle.'

'I don't follow.'

'Herbie's registration was OFF 857.'

Fotheringham laughed. Williams knew he could now
consider the myth officially debunked. The sausage rolls
would all have been scoffed by now, but it had been worth
it, as it looked like he now had the answers to two of his
inherited problems: namely yoking Fotheringham's loyalty
and erasing Selby's big mistake.

The bastard's been rattling around various prisons since
1991, out of sight while his legend gets bigger and wilder.


11
And now that Selby's gone, he's my responsibility. Out of
sight but not out of mind, it would be fair to say. There's
safeguards in place to stop him talking to anyone on the
outside, but nothing's perfect, and you can imagine the fallout
if his story ever did reach the public domain. It was a
risk Selby was prepared to live with for the sake of his principles,
but let's just say he was a better man than I.'

'I think I hear you, sir.'

'You still think certain individuals' deaths would benefit
our national security?'

'I do.'

'Well, I might just have a job for you.'


12
December 16, 2001


Shiach stared into the blackness ahead, above, below. Everywhere
but behind.

Behind, there were search beams, bright and penetrating,
sweeping the decks in automated arcs, while sirens, klaxons
and shouts rang pointlessly into the void. The ship was a
tiny island of noise and light, its rage and ferment an
insignificance amid this vast, indifferent nothingness. From
the edge of such nothingness, it was easy to see just how
small his world was, what little he would be leaving behind
if he chose to make the leap.

Somewhere within the cacophony, and despite the rush
of wind in his ears, he heard the shriek of metal that
announced his makeshift barrier had been breached. Two
guards emerged on to the rain-lashed deck, looking urgently
around and quickly spotting him as he gripped the rim on
the starboard bow. They shouted something, lost to the
night, then split up, preparing to move in cautiously from two sides.

Time to decide. Cold, unknowing blackness ahead; a
vivid, endless certainty behind.

He'd been offered a starker version of this choice before,
and in a way it had been available to him every day since.
Until now, there had been more reason to remain upon this
tiny world, even if that reason was little more than hope, or
even merely defiance.

'You could, of course, save both our consciences a lot of
trouble/ Selby had said, placing a jar of sleeping tablets and
a bottle of whisky down on the desk. The whisky was a cute


13
touch, deliberately archaic, Selby's revenge for Shiach telling
him he belonged in a bygone era. 'I know it should be a
revolver, but I didn't think that would be a wise thing to be
giving you.'

'You never had anything to fear from me, Selby. You're
the one who thinks we're on different sides.'

Selby didn't reply to that, just left the room and closed
the door, the last time Shiach ever saw him. He wasn't going
to stay and argue when he knew he'd made all the points
he needed to, especially as solitude would be more
conducive to the resolution he sought.

There would indeed be 'a lot of trouble' for the sake of
Selby's conscience; trouble Shiach had no intention of
sparing him, because his conscience was clear. No amount
of whisky was going to elicit any remorse for his past, but
it was more likely his future Selby thought he'd recoil from.
Imprisonment without trial, no sentence, no parole, no
judges to appeal to and no-one he could tell his story.
Leaving aside the fact that nobody would believe him (and
the stinging irony that he had been fastidious in wiping out
the evidence himself), there was the inescapable conundrum,
as Selby had so sincerely pointed out, that it would be entirely self-defeating. If he somehow managed to make the
truth known, he would achieve only the destruction of the
things he had sought to protect, and deliver everything into
the hands of the very people he detested. He would disappear,
leaving no trace of what he had done, to enter a world
where he could tell nobody who he was. There would be
no communication, no trace to be left for anyone to follow,
and in seven years he would receive a legal declaration of
his own death, but in reality there would be no such definite
end in sight.

The whisky and pills option was presumably supposed
to look that bit more attractive by comparison, and Shiach
would admit that for a bleak few moments it did. However,


14
the problem for Selby was that it wasn't a limited-time offer.
If he decided he couldn't take it any more, Shiach could
check out any time he liked, and every morning he woke
up alive was another day on which the world, the country
or even just the right minds could change.

That possibility was the price Selby would be forced to
pay for his principles, just as silence was the price Shiach
would be forced to pay for his. The difference was, Shiach
trusted Selby's moral resolve far more than was apparently
reciprocated, given the series of obvious MIS plants he sent
in to monitor him down the years.

At first he considered it deeply insulting that Selby should
think his agents wouldn't be spotted by a man of his experience,
but in time it dawned on him that perhaps it was
only the screws (and maybe even their own handlers) they
were supposed to deceive. It was Selby's way of letting him
know he still had his eyes and ears on him, no matter how
many years passed, no matter what changed in the world
outside.

The world on the inside changed little, even when it
changed completely, as upon the two occasions he was
moved to new prisons, each supposedly surpassing the security
of its predecessor. Like he could ever have escaped.
Escape was for lucky and audacious opportunists, exploiting
lapses and complacency, or for schemers who masked their
intentions behind a placid, anonymous face in the crowd of
a teeming population. There would never be complacency
around Omega File Prisoner 857, nor would any screw be
allowed to think at any time that he posed no threat. He
didn't have an iron mask welded round his bonce, but it was
still pretty obvious to the hired help that his was a special
and extremely sensitive case. Their lack of even casual inquisitiveness,
despite natural curiosity, was as telling as it was
conspicuous. He would occasionally ask them how much they
knew about him, but the most expansive response he'd ever


15
got was that they were told 'the information is on not so
much a need-to-know basis as a what-youdon'tknow-can'thurt-you
basis'. And that went right up the chain, within a
system that was too busy too strained just getting on with
itself to allow its functionaries to dwell long upon one little
mystery. Even an intrigued governor would have simply too
much else on his plate to get hung up on questions he had
no hope of receiving answers to. OFF 857, or less formally
'Prisoner John Smith', with all his added security considerations
(no visitors; no mail, out or in; no phone cards nor
ever to be unescorted in an area containing a telephone; no
recording devices; no blank paper; periodicals only to be read
- and replaced, intact, unmarked - under supervision;
etcetera, etcetera, etcetera) would send any intelligent mind
into bouts of speculation at first. Then soon enough he'd just
become part of the furniture, an albeit colourful permanent
fixture, but as such one that, like all other permanent fixtures,
everybody got used to.

Everything becomes banal in prison, even mysteries.
Whatever aura surrounds you when you walk in soon wears
off once everybody's seen you getting on with the same
routine as all the rest, day after day after day. There was
this strange unspoken code that you never asked about each
other's crimes. You could open up about your own, but you
didn't ask, recognising an invaluable right of privacy. Thus
he would not have been conspicuous for never discussing
why he was inside, if it wasn't that, whether they spoke
about it or not, everyone always knew what everyone else
had done. Everyone else except John Smith, OFF 857. Christ
knew what they guessed about him, but nothing they
dreamed up could be as disturbing as the truth.

He had suffered a gross miscarriage of justice, but he
couldn't complain that the state had got the wrong man,
and anyway he wasn't comfortable considering himself
some hapless victim. He would not disown his acts even if


16
he could seek absolution, so there was no journey of self
rediscovery to embark upon. And given that successive
governments would be deftly protected from knowledge of
his existence, he could hardly be considered a political
prisoner.

However, he had been incarcerated indefinitely and
without trial, for following what he believed in: for having
the guts to carry out the deeds necessary to protect the way
of life and freedoms enjoyed by the very people who would
most vehemently condemn him. That was the moral
cowardice of the unaffected. Easy to say over your Guardian and croissants: 'We must find better solutions than violence.'
Meaning YOU, some other bugger, must find better solutions,
while we'll be busy getting on with our comfortable
lives.

He was a prisoner of conscience.

He had acted - just as now he silently endured - out of
patriotism. There, he'd said it. Patriotism: a word devalued
by a million halfwits waving plastic Union Flags, who
bought a Piccadilly tourist-shop notion of what their country
represented. A word scorned by a million liberal malcontents
cutting off their noses to spite their collective face,
considering it untrendy to stand up for a country that
enshrined the very values that saddled their every high
horse.

Patriotism was about knowing what your country stood
for, and not being prepared to let anyone desecrate that, be
they enemies foreign or domestic.

Oscar Wilde called it 'the virtue of the vicious', but then
he was an Irish poof, so what could you expect? And
maybe he was right, but that didn't mean viciousness was
without virtue. If there's a cleaver-wielding rapist at the door
of your teenage daughter's student flat, would you rather
she owned a sweet-natured and placid sandy Labrador or a
snarling, one-hundred-and-eighty-pound black Rottweiler?


17
Humiliating as it was to recall, Shiach had never expected
to see out even one year. Selby would be reined in by a
superior, or perhaps Shiach's very existence within the
system would throw up too many awkward anomalies for
his secret incarceration to be sustained. He'd envisaged
secret meetings, confidential memos, factional lobbying and
wrangling over this vital and explosive issue. What he didn't
appreciate was that he had ceased to be vital, explosive or
even remotely important. The issue was closed when he was
locked away, and the entire point of the exercise was that
he would be out of sight, out of mind, gone and officially
forgotten.

And then, just two weeks ago, it happened.

'Smith, OFF 857. You have a visitor.'

The impossibility of this functioned on two levels. The first
was the official, being the conditions that stipulated he wasn't
allowed so much as a piece of paper and an empty milk bottle
with which to communicate to the outside world. This initially
made him suspect that Visitor' was a figure of speech, and
that some form of HM Prison Service officialdom was about
to make itself manifest, particularly given that it was around
two o'clock in the morning. However, the second level of
impossibility, militating even against this more mundane
scenario, was that his current accommodations were aboard LIMP Attendant, a converted Royal Navy medical frigate
presently afloat upon the North Sea a couple of miles east of
Grimsby There had been a few latter-day hulks converted in
recent years, mainly to alleviate overcrowding in onshore
facilities, but Attendant was commissioned specifically to be
the last word in escape-proof confinement. While the others
remained anchored in bays, really just floating cellblocks
cheaper than fresh construction, Shiach's home for the past
three years was fully seaworthy, only putting in twice a week
for supplies and highly vetted, closely monitored, one-on,
one-off visits to prisoners.


18
He was led to a secure, windowless room containing only
two chairs and a table. It wasn't the visiting room, he knew,
as according to fellow inmates, that had two-way mirrors
concealing an observation gallery, microphones monitoring
all conversation and triangulated video cameras picking up
anything the restricted perspective behind the glass might

miss.

A good place for someone to have an accident, he mused
as he stepped inside, two screws remaining in the corridor
behind him.

He took a seat and waited only a couple of minutes before
the door opened and everything in his world suddenly
changed. The MIS emissary had arrived unheralded in the
darkness, on a helicopter that no doubt officially never left
the hangar, to conduct a meeting that never took place, with
a prisoner who did not exist.

It was almost unsettlingly businesslike. He had a thousand
questions, but knew he could ask none. Facts and statements,
laid down flat. Conditions and parameters, time and
date, special instructions and then an on-the-spot demand
to accept or decline.

Not the toughest question he'd ever been asked. Accept
or decline. Take this one and only chance or rot inside for
the rest of your days, which were unlikely to be many given
that Mike Williams was clearly prepared to be more, ahem,
pragmatic than his predecessor when it came to eliminating
risks.

For yes, Selby was dead. Nothing lasts forever, and no
one lives forever either.

Accept, he said. To which Fotheringham responded with
one final stipulation, under the circumstances more difficult
than anything else he'd be required to pull off.

'When you leave this room, you look like you've been
kicked in the gut, that whatever you learned in here just
trashed whatever was left of your hope.'


19
He didn't need to explain further. Speculation about
himself and his status wore thin according to the law of
diminishing returns, but something like this incident was
bound to have the screws' jungle telegraph buzzing. It was
in his best interests to infer that his dark and secret burden
had just got heavier, maybe even unbearable.

What truly was unbearable was the ensuing fortnight.
Short time was the hardest time, according to those inmates
with a parole date to aim at. To Shiach's mind, few of his
days or weeks had ever passed quicker or slower than
others, but that had been when he had no reason to count
them. However, if there was one benefit, it was that when
the time came, he was entirely focused and ready, able to
act without thought or hesitation, deliberate to the point of
automatic.

Shiach always suspected Selby had screws working for
him - placed agents or otherwise - as well as the more
obvious plants among the various inmate populations, so it
was no surprise that Williams could call upon similar unseen
hands when the time came.

It didn't take mass orchestration; it just took enough orchestration: perhaps only three, even as few as two people
acting as instructed, more than likely ignorant of each other's
existence, let alone activities, and certainly ignorant of the
intended consequences. Even Shiach himself would never
know who they were, nor they that it was him they were
helping. Things happened that shouldn't happen, and things
happened that no-one could plausibly anticipate, far less
improvise spontaneously to take advantage of.

A fight broke out in the canteen, quickly escalating (and
thus revealing itself as a deliberate prelude) to a hostage
situation as four screws became isolated at the port end of
the dining area, next to the kitchen. Shiach had chosen a
table right at the back, accompanied as ever one-on-one by
a screw (on this occasion one Officer Doyle) because the


20
canteen area offered access to a phone via the kitchen. When
the intended nature of the trouble was revealed, Shiach's
escort knew not to present himself as a fifth possible hostage
and made for the starboard exit, which accessed the 'nonsecure
zone', the part of the ship housing staff facilities and
accommodation.

Shiach followed him to the door, which through a glass
panel he could see a screw unlocking from the other side.

'I've got no part of this,' he said, hands raised. 'Fuck's
sake, don't leave me in there. It's not as if I'm gonna go
anywhere, is it?'

Doyle stepped aside and ushered him through, before
getting the right side of the door himself. Having spent the
past fortnight giving off an air of almost desolate resignation,
Shiach knew he wouldn't inspire much fear, especially with
more pressing security issues to consider. And there was
always the matter of being several miles out in the North
Sea to allay those escape worries.

'We'll cuff this one and take him to the Rec room on B
Deck/ Doyle told his colleague. 'We're gonna need all hands
down here, so we need to lock him up someplace and it has
to be somewhere that doesn't have a phone.'

'Christ, does that matter so much right now?' the other
screw protested.

'Only if still having a job next week matters. Don't forget
this is OFF 857,' Doyle insisted, to Shiach's great relief. These
considerations had, he now understood, been accurately
anticipated by Fotheringham, who had briefed him on the
two locations he would most likely be taken. Individual staff
quarters were the most secure, but nobody was going to
leave a prisoner in there with access to their own property.
The entire admin suite was just a communications playground,
and the engine room was a massive no-no given
fire and other sabotage possibilities. Thus, it was always
going to be the staff showers or their recreation den, with


21
the toss-up being between them preferring the risk of him
squashing all their ping-pong balls to pissing on their towels.

He was cuffed, hands in front, and taken to B Deck,
keeping his head down and steadfastly maintaining his now
familiar expression of defeat as nervy and agitated screws
passed him hastily in the corridors. There was no time for
explanations, it being enough to see him escorted by two
colleagues for them to file the otherwise irregular sight
under The Least of Our Problems.

Doyle and his mate deposited him unfussily at the Rec
room, commitments elsewhere causing them to eschew the
expected lecture about what would happen to him if he
abused these circumstances. Instead, Doyle settled for:
There's a kettle, some tea, milk and stuff in the fridge. Help
yourself. Don't screw up.'

Shiach nodded rather pitifully, like he'd barely have the
motivation to make a cuppa, never mind get up to mischief.
Satisfied, they withdrew and locked him in. The lock was a
sturdy, modern, five-lever fixture, indistinct from those in
the secure zone apart from there being only one fitted to
this door. However, the door was not his intended means
of exit. The interiors of the staff decks had been remodelled
with far less concern for containment considerations,
meaning that many of the partitions consisted of no more
than gypsum board and wallpaper mounted on aluminium
frames. The shower room's walls were constructed of sterner
stuff to support the necessary ceramic coverings, but the
changing area would have offered a joint-equal point of least
resistance.

He folded up the ping-pong table and flipped down its
castors, then got his shoulder behind it and rammed it into
the wall. It took only two attempts for the whole table to
smash through into the corridor.

Water began pouring from the sprinklers as he emerged
behind the table, accompanied by the sound of fire alarms


22
k


to add to the emergency klaxons already ringing around the
tub. It was possible the inmates had set something ablaze
in the kitchen, but also a tactical consideration that the
screws had activated the system to make things cold and
uncomfortable for the miscreants, dousing spirits rather than
flames. Whoever did it, for whatever ostensible motive, was
quite probably obeying secret orders, because either way,
the upshot for Shiach was that the exterior deck access doors
were automatically unlocked for evacuation purposes.

The cold of the sprinklers' output was a reminder that
things weren't going to get any more cosy from here on in,
but having been numb for more than a decade, it was exhilarating
to feel anything at all. Nor could he afford any time
to ponder what was ahead until he had made sure of getting
there, which became complicated by the unexpected investigatory
reappearance of Doyle and partner at the end of
the corridor. The chancers had evidently been in no hurry
to get back to the fray, and so hadn't got as far away from
the Rec room as he'd anticipated when he began his demolition.
Shiach pulled a lever to unfold the table sideways
across the passageway, the ends of either half tipping the
walls at about thirty degrees to the horizontal, then he
turned and ran for the door to the stairwell.

He lunged up the stairs three and four at a time, pausing
in front of the door to the exterior deck so that he could
remove a fire extinguisher from its strapping. The door,
unlocked by the fire system, opened outwards as he plunged
the handle, but not without the stiff resistance of the wind
whipping rain against the metal. Shiach barrelled through
and narrowed his eyes against the downpour, letting the
door slam heavily behind him. He took the steel cylinder
he'd lifted and wedged it between the door and the lip of
the first of four short steps leading on to the open deck. It
hardly constituted an insurmountable barrier, but it would
buy him the seconds he needed.


23
He picked his way carefully across the slippery surface
towards the starboard bow, staring out at the night, a prison
the only visible vessel offering safety amid dead black nothingness.

When you leave this room, you look like you've been kicked in
the gut, that whatever you learned in here just trashed whatever
was left of your hope.

Who would be asking questions if an apparently
depressed and possibly desperate prisoner seized the
moment to end it all, given that he didn't officially exist and
had been legally dead for years anyway?

The next step was literally a leap of faith.

Yes, he'd been here before all right, but unlike Selby's pills
and whisky, with the two screws cautiously closing in, this
one was a limited-time offer. Its options were also more
clear-cut. Rejecting the pills and whisky was easy, because
it bought time and time offered possibilities, time offered
hope. Fotheringham had been dangling a whole new future
in front of him, the very possibility he'd been holding out
his hope for. If it was actually just bait, then it meant the
end of hope. Either way, there was nothing left to live for
on this ship.

Fotheringham was down there with scuba gear and handcuff
keys, a speedboat floating unseen half a mile away, or
Shiach was about to erase himself for Mike Williams's
convenience. He pulled at the rim with his fettered hands
and hurled himself into the darkness, betting on the former.
One of them would be right to have trusted Fotheringham,
and the odds were it would be the one who had known him
longer: the one who knew him as the Architect.


24
Friday, October 25, 2002
Margaret Thatcher's Rotting Corpse


'You know, I kind of miss the Eighties/ Parlabane said,
gazing disinterestedly at the passing countryside.

'Mmm,' Vale replied. 'Mobile phones you could ram a
castle drawbridge with. Ghetto blasters bigger than the
actual ghetto. Big hair, big shoulderpads, big eye makeup,
and that was just the men/

'What would you know about it? You probably spent most
of it in dingy Eastern European hotel rooms, peering through
grimy windows at trilbies and Trabbis.'

'Indeed. You really nailed the experience there; unsurprising,
I suppose, in one so informed.'

'Fuck you.'

'But I did catch the odd glimpse of life in the West on
those sixteen-inch, black-and-white East German televisions.
Believe me, you've never really seen Dynasty until you've
seen it dubbed into Polish with Czech subtitles. Came as
quite a shock to hear Linda Evans didn't actually sound like
a shot-putter in drag.'

'Don't knock the big hair and shoulderpads. I can get
quite fetishistic about those if I let my mind wander. Probably
because that's what the women I fancied were wearing
when I had no chance of anything more than a Christmas
kiss from an elderly auntie/

'So is that what the good lady doctor togs up in for a
special treat on your birthday?'

'Don't go there.'

'Mister P, I do believe you're blushing. I can picture it
now. The intermingling erotic musk of Boots hairspray and


27
Poison perfume, A Flock of Seagulls on the stereo--'

Parlabane slapped the dashboard.

'Ah, see you were doing well there, but you blew it with
that Flock of Seagulls remark.'

'How so?'

'You picked it up from Nineties American movies, proving
you really did spend the decade in that dingy hotel room.
Every fucking American movie that harks back to the
Eighties goes on about A Flock of fucking Seagulls.'

'To give them their Sunday name.'

'It's become a self-reinforcing myth. Anyone who remembers
the Eighties - and by that I mean anyone who didn't
spend it cooped up in a Berlin B&B stroking his telescopic
sight - would know that A Flock of fucking Seagulls blipped
onto the radar screens for about a fortnight, mainly because
of that stupid cunt's ridiculous hairdo, then failed to trouble
the chart compilers ever again. But any time a Yank
scriptwriter needs a quick Eighties cultural reference, bang,
there it is, remembered from the last movie he saw that
mentioned the fucking Eighties, and thus the myth lingers
on.'

'And do you genuinely feel this strongly about it, Mr P,
or were you simply trying to get me away from speculating
further about the more embarrassing aspects of your
conjugal rites. Because I haven't forgotten.'

'Keep your eyes on the driving, Tim. You've already got
us off-track in our conversation. What I meant was, sometimes
I miss the ideological simplicity of back then. No grey
areas, no middle ground, just them and us, the good guys
versus the bad guys, on every issue. East versus West, left
versus right, rich versus poor, the Tories versus the miners,
the Tories versus CND, the Tories versus homosexuals, the
Tories versus Bob Geldof. I mean, you really knew who to
hate in those days. Now it's too muddled, so I just hate
everybody in case I miss anyone out.'


28
'Maybe it's the ideological simplicity of yourself you
miss.'

'You having a go?'

'Would I? No, seriously, I've been there too. The world,
politics, conflicts ... it didn't all become more complicated,
it was always that way, but when you're younger you don't
know enough to appreciate that. The more you learn, the
more you understand, the greyer the tones get. You're not
missing the Eighties, Jack, you're missing your youth, and
the comforting certainties of ignorance.'

'Maybe, maybe. But I can't refrain from observing how
that sounds pretty ironic coming from a Cold War veteran.'

'Not ironic at all, if you think it through. In fact, I believe
you've just reinforced my point. The Cold War might have
seemed a very black-and-white ideological conflict to you,
and clearly in many ways it was, but remember that my
field of operations was entirely in the grey area.'

Turning agents and all that?'

'And all that, yes. An appreciation of just how flexible
this apparently rigid divide really was was one of the most
crucial means of surviving it.'

'So is that how agents ended up getting tapped by the
other side? Too long sleeping with the enemy, looking at it
their way, losing sight of those comforting certainties.'

'Well, only for those who forgot the most crucial rule of
survival: don't bring politics to work. Your job is to play the
Us versus Them game. If you start thinking too much about
what makes them them and us us, you're either going to be
ripe for turning or a mindless zealot, and neither make the
most effective agents. The former lose their purpose and the
latter their judgement. You couldn't afford to be an extremist
in my line of work.'

'Must have made for an interesting perspective upon the
people you ultimately worked for at that time.'

'I ultimately worked for you, being the ordinary Brit,


29
something else it paid never to lose sight of. It didn't matter
what I thought of Thatcher or Reagan any more than it
mattered what I thought of Carter or Callaghan. Just because
you disagreed with the Poll Tax and detested Margaret
Thatcher--'

'Detested is a little inappropriate/ Parlabane said. 'Maybe
closer to say I spent the entire Eighties wishing I was pissing
on her rotting corpse.'

'Which, to underline my point, still didn't make the KGB
nice people.'

'Agreed, but my point was that there were extremists at
the top of the command chain. Margaret Thatcher being the
topical example. My understanding of politics may have
been less sophisticated back then, but even looking through
the retrospectoscope doesn't change my perception of
someone who really did render the political world black and
white. She cultivated division as a matter of policy, talking
about whether you were "one of us" or "the enemy within".'

'And you miss that, that's where we came in, yes?'

'Yes. No. I mean... Fuck, I don't know. Maybe I'm starting
to feel my age, but I wish I was still as sure of what I believed
today as I was back then; or even just as sure of what I
hated. Believe me, Tim, it's tough being a bleeding-heart
liberal in a world full of bampots.'

'Or as Bertrand Russell had it, "The problem with the
world is that the fanatics are so sure of themselves while
the wiser people so full of doubts.'"

'Elegantly put and impressively remembered. See, that's
what I love about your generation. You know these things
chapter and verse and can pluck them from your skull on
cue. What can we quote? Song lyrics, sitcom gags and philosophical
soliloquies that sound pseudo-Shakespearean until
you remember they were spoken by Jean-Luc Picard.'

'My generation. Cheeky little twerp. But to my wisdom
and knowledge I'll add good grace and accept your


30
compliment. That said, I think you're selling your generation
short. It shouldn't devalue the words you remember
that they derive from popular culture rather than high art.
The second usually starts out as the first, and time filters
the dross/

'You know, I can only take so much of you being so damn
reasonable. It's winding me up.'

Vale laughed, a sonorous, chesty cackle that was part
tormentor and part amused parent. It rattled around the
inside of the Land Rover like a trapped bat.

'You're bored, aren't you, Jack?'

'Out of my fucking skull, Tim.'

He laughed again. Nailed. There wasn't much you could
hide from Vale. The guy was born to be a spy.

Ts journalism getting too much like working for a living
these days then, Mr P?'

'Why do you think I accepted this ridiculous assignment?
At least it's getting me out of the office to do more than
watch some New Labour blowhards having a circle-jerk.'

'You accepted the assignment because you were flattered
by the invitation.'

'Why would I be flattered by some bunch of self
publicising charlatans thinking I was the right guy to beta
test their holiday camp?'

They had your number, Mr P. Flattery doesn't necessarily
need to take the form of praise. Being specifically requested
for a junket involving precisely the kind of nonsense you
are on the record as detesting was all but guaranteed to get
your attention.'

Parlabane said nothing, and couldn't help a resentfully
embarrassed bashful smile. Vale was on the nose, as usual.
The self-publicising charlatans' efforts to hook him had
been transparent, but they had also been irresistible. It had
been Maria Secular, the Saturday magazine editor, who'd
received the invite, but only as a conduit towards


31
deploying the name upon whose attendance the junket was
conditional.

'Fancy this, Jack?' she'd asked, smirking a little as she
waved it in front of his desk with clearly no intention of
handing it over until she'd had her fun trickling out the
details. '"Work hard, play hard, and by Monday morning
you'll know who you and your colleagues really are.'"

'What is that, the latest motivational missive from
management?' he asked. 'I know exactly who my colleagues
are. The scum of the earth. Oh, did I say that out loud?'

'It's not from management. It's from a company called
Ultimate Motivational Leisure. They're having a junket to
hawk an upmarket team-building course, or "experience"
as they call it. Posh digs and yomping through the hills to
make ageing execs feel all up-and-at-'em.' She put on a
cringingly duff American accent, the kind it was politest and
most humane merely to pretend wasn't happening. "The
ultimate test of what you're made of, the ultimate journey
of self-discovery, the ultimate vision of what you could
become." Plus canapes and a turning-down service. Tick box
for vegetarian dining option.'

Parlabane reached for the letter, but it still wasn't forthcoming.

'Why is everything "ultimate" in the world of marketing?'
he asked, feigning ambivalence about the true question at
hand, viz, why she was brandishing this thing at him. 'I used
to put it down to some pre-millennial culminatory thing, but
the dawn of a new century didn't seem to extinguish this
absurd need to claim everything as the last word. Nobody's
selling good experiences or even great experiences: it's
always ultimate experiences. Sounds pretty final to me. If
only. "The ultimate shaving experience": I'd buy that if it was
true. "The ultimate reality TV experience, then we promise
to fuck off and make something that won't have Lord Keith's
coffin burrowing rapidly towards the Earth's core."'


32
'I saw one on holiday advertising the ultimate bungee
jump experience/ Maria told him. 'Can't say it filled my
head with thoughts of safety and assurance. But these guys
are making some ballsy claims for what can't amount to
more than an activities weekend in the Highlands.'

'Of course they are. They know their target market.
They're not pitching to Herbert Grey-Suit who's looking for
somewhere a bit different this year for the sales conference.
They're after the high-end macho types, guys who want to
think they're facing some challenge that not everybody
would be up to meeting. But I'll bet we're talking seriously
posh digs, because the same target market will also want to
indulge their self-image as the refined and cultured elite
who need and appreciate the finer things. Easier to hurl
yourself face-down in the mud or wade across a ford if you
know there's a claw-foot bath waiting for you at the end of
the day.'

TVIcKinley Hall. Recently refurbished. STB Four stars.
Taste of Scotland award. There's an uncanny prescience to
your cynicism.'

'I'd hardly call it that. But as you're dwelling on the
quality of the accommodation, I'll call on the same powers
and predict this is the part where you ask me if I want
to go. Your own supernatural gifts should be sufficient to
divine my answer.'

Maria cocked her head to one side and assumed a deliberately
transparent I-knowsomethingyoudon't-know
expression. He imagined she liked to think of herself as
'coquettish' in such moments, when in fact she was treading
precariously close to frenzied strangulation. She'd been
brought in to 'lend a lighter touch' to the weekend glossy;
so light, in Parlabane's opinion, that it surely separated itself
from the rest of the paper of its own accord and floated into
readers' bins without their fingers soiling its delicate pages.
The editor, however, saw it differently, mainly because Maria


33


it
had lent a lighter touch in precisely the way he had hoped
and anticipated: namely, filling half of it with fashion
spreads of youthful female models (who would otherwise
be described in solicitous email spam as 'barely legal teens')
invariably in diaphanous garb. The ed's thinking was that
it appealed to female readers 'because women like pictures
of clothes', and as far as the male reader went, there'd be
no complaints 'as long as you can see their nipples', something
never in doubt when you were shooting outdoors and
braless in Scotland. Most depressingly, the ed was probably
right.

Parlabane didn't dislike Maria, but it amused him, indeed
amused both of them, to play up to the images of themselves
each perceived the other as harbouring. It was probably
also known as flirting, or from Parlabane's side as close
to it as his sexual self-consciousness would allow in the everlasting
aftermath of a tabloid newspaper informing him (and
everybody else) that he had been cuckolded by 'a smouldering
young doctor'. The story had been part of a far more
elaborate stitch-up that landed him in prison and certain
others in the ground. People had died, careers had been
ruined, a conspiracy was unmasked, a killer jailed and
Parlabane had lost several feet of intestine in the process of
getting to the truth, but the main thing anyone remembered
was that his wife had shagged some surgeon bearing,
according to the cheque-book testimony of a former
conquest, 'a very big scalpel, if you know what I mean'. Yes,
dear, there are partially developed foetuses who know what
you mean. That's one holding the tape recorder.

'Aren't you curious as to why I'd even be thinking of
offering something like this to you?' Maria asked.

'You mean to me in my capacity as an investigative journalist
with better things to do than write advertorial guff
for your Travel pages, or to me in my capacity as a cantankerous
cynic who thinks any company bearing the word


34
Ultimate in their name should be summarily asset-stripped
and its named directors forced into alternative careers as
performers in coprophile fetish hard-core videos?'

'Vividly put, as ever. But I mean to you in your capacity
as the person named specifically on the invitation.'

Parlabane grabbed in vain for it once more. 'Where?' he
asked, less incredulous than intrigued.

'Mr Parlabane has struck us as precisely the kind of glib
and opinionated hack who turns a profit denigrating things
that he knows little about and which secretly pique his
numerous insecurities. For that reason, we would like to
challenge his prejudices and expectations by throwing down
the gauntlet and telling him to smell the glove.'

'Aye, very good. You were doing well until the glove
remark. I saw Spinal Tap on the telly at the weekend too.
What does it really say?'

"'Glib and opinionated prick." Nah. It's a formal press
release apart from a header paragraph which does request
you specifically and exclusively. I couldn't think why, so I
phoned the PR company up, and they did have the right
guy. They know you're the resident hatchet-man and they
know you've been through a few scrapes in your time, so
they thought you'd have an interesting perspective.'

'Interesting sounds too gentle a word.'

'Oh, they're aware you're likely to slag them off. The girl
was a bit coy here and there, as if they're quietly confident
you could be in for a pleasant surprise, but they're ready
for a kicking.'

'So why waste the freebie on me? Can't they get some
chinless wank from the Daily Mail?'

This was Parlabane's revenge for the 'glib and opinionated
prick' remark. Maria's ex bidey-in now worked at the Daily Mail. He'd have referred to the guy as her ex-lover,
but it was impossible to imagine anyone on that paper being
in possession of a functioning penis.


35
'If some chinless wank from the Daily Mail trashed the
new Tarantino movie, would it put you off seeing it?'

'No, it would be the best recommendation I could think
of.'

'Well, it cuts both ways. Presumably a thorough panelling
from you would be just the thing to convince those high
end macho types you were talking about that this is the kind
of experience that would blow their hair back. And in the
unlikely event that you write something positive, they can
say look, even a complete prick like Jack Parlabane thinks
we've something to offer.'

'Was it the Daily Mail remark?'

'Yes.'

'Good. So either way, they get what they want. What do
you get?'

'Good copy, I would hope. Come on, Jack, it'll be fun.'

'It will not be fucking fun.'

'Well, at least you'll be able to have fun saying how little
fun it was.'

Parlabane thought about it, or at least pretended to. He
was sold way back, on the flimsy and admittedly pathetic
basis of the offer's implicit ego-stroking, for even backhanded
compliments were compliments nonetheless. There
was also the element of challenge being less intentionally
presented by a company negligently deluded into believing
there really was no such thing as bad publicity.

The downside was actually having to go on the fucking
thing, to say nothing of the prospective company of the kind
of twats who would sign up for this crap voluntarily. It was
for this reason that he told Maria he'd do it on the condition
that he could bring his own photographer. There was
no way he was putting himself through something like this
without an ally, and he had just the man in mind.

'Who?'

'A friend of mine.'


36
'Does he have much experience taking pictures? Maybe
a CV or a portfolio I could take a look at?'

Parlabane thought about Tim Vale's CV, at least the little
he believed he knew for sure about it, and his photographic
'portfolio'. It would have been a dream to see how coquettish
Maria's face looked across the light-table as he laid some
of Tim's work down upon it for her evaluation. 'This is an
extreme-range telescopic-lens study of two middle-ranking
Politburo members engaged with a Finnish call-girl in what
is technically referred to as the spit-roast position. What do
you think of the composition? Do you think there's too much
glare off this subject's arse-cheeks? And here we have an
earlier work, an infrared sequence of a dissident being
tortured by Stasi agents in a lock-up in Leipzig. Yes, those
are wire-cutters. Oh, and mustn't forget his more minimalist
period, as typified by this microfilm of documents pertaining
to the true extent of the Chernobyl disaster and its projected
economic and infrastructural ramifications.'

He settled for: 'He knows what he's doing.'

And lo, it came to pass, that the pair of them were chugging
up the A9 in Vale's well-weathered ancient Land Rover,
the unrepentantly shoogly and rugged pre-Freelander type
that was seldom seen without at least two sheep or four
squaddies hanging out of the back.

'So how come you're bored? I thought you were doing
rather well these days. Didn't you win an award or something
like that?'

'Oh, Christ, everybody wins an award these days in
Scottish journalism. I was right up there in the pantheon
alongside Best Fixed Odds Prediction Compiler.'

The think Story of the Year or whatever it was probably
carries a little more weight than you're allowing.'

'More weight than I was comfortable with. Blowing the
lid off Moundgate turned out to be something of a mixed
blessing in terms of career moves.'


37
'I take it, getting you out of jail and off a murder rap
appears in the credit column here/

'Granted. When I got out of jail the first time, I was practically
unemployable, despite what I had to offer in terms
of the things I do best. Then the second time, after the big
story broke, everybody wanted to hire me, and now I'm
practically unfireable despite no longer offering the things I
do best. That story made me famous; famous enough,
anyway, in circles where I was most effective only if I was
anonymous.'

'But didn't you do that big undercover thing last year
about the Big Firm or whatever you call them?'

'The Old Firm/ Parlabane corrected. Vale was referring to
his through-the-looking-glass discovery of how either side of
the Glaswegian footballing fault-line perceived the other.
They didn't consider themselves extreme - they each hated
the extremists on the other side. Each had painted a picture
of the other lot's intolerance and extremism in beliefs and
attitudes, but Parlabane had failed to find much evidence of
these beliefs or attitudes actually being held. In effect, he
found a lot of angry folk who thought the world would be
a better place without people like them, but them, the people
as described, didn't exist, and the tragedy was that their world
wouldn't be better if you could make them see that. They
needed an enemy to project their anger and loathing on to.

'It was hardly undercover/ he went on. 1 just went to a
few games, drank in a few pubs and earwigged a few conversations.
It's easy to be anonymous among football
supporters, especially the loud-mouthed numpties who
want to believe the world is full of folk who agree with
them. But these days there isn't a PR office or ministerial
advisor who doesn't know exactly who I am.'

'You made yourself the story, that was your mistake. Same
as the spy game, Jack: when you make it about you, you
end up exposed.'


38
To be fair, there were other parties scheming pretty hard
to make it about me too. Beadie, for one.'

'And you played right into his hands.'

'Guilty. The consensus is that I subsequently redeemed
myself, but in practical terms much of the damage was
irreversible. I've got a bigger salary, lots of clout around the
paper and more editorial freedom than I could once have
dreamed of, but I can't help feeling like the pipe and slippers
are upon me. Ratified respectable status. Ach, I don't
know. Mid-life crisis shite, complaining about nothing,
ain't I?'

'Sounds like it, old chap.'

'I mean, nobody's tried to kill me for more than three
years. I should be pretty pleased about that. But part of me
takes that as a sign of slipping standards.'

They both laughed, Vale bending forward over the
steering wheel, his eyes narrowing as they did in moments
of the greatest mirth and sincerity. Some people looked
younger when they smiled, but when Vale did, his age
simply seemed frustratingly indeterminate in a different,
sunnier way.

'Seriously though, old chap, you've batted an impressive
innings in that particular field. But there's glory also in
having the judgement to know when it's time to declare.'

'I know you're trying to annoy me when you start using
analogies pertaining to that bloody awful game.'

'To quote your fellow Scottish journalist, Bob Crampsey,
I consider it a day wasted on which one passes up the opportunity
to mention cricket. However, my point remains
sincere. How many people have tried to kill you, Jack?'

'I don't know. I've never felt like counting them up.'

'Perhaps it's time you did, as an exercise in perspective.
What you have to bear in mind is that the scoreline someone
in your profession would - and should - normally be looking
at is zero, apart from psycho ex-lovers and the like, which


39
don't strictly count as we're only looking at attempts caused
directly by your work. Let me start you off with a big one:
the then Secretary of State for Scotland, Alastair Dalgleish.'

'Nah, strictly speaking, Dalgleish didn't personally try to
have me killed. It was Roland Voss he had killed, and I got
in the way of the mopping-up operation. I'm not sure how
much Dalgleish even knew about my involvement until it
was too late. It was his ex-security-services hired thug,
George Knight, who tried to have me killed; Sarah too, and
Nicole who was holed up with us at the time, ironically for
her own safety. Ah, yes, George Knight. Charming individual.
Would have been a shoe-in for Home Secretary if
Thatcher had been aware of his gifts.'

'So that's one: and oh dear, see? We've exceeded that
"normal journalist" baseline already and we've only just
begun. Who else?'

'Okay, let's see. Stephen Lime. He really did personally
try to kill me. Sarah too, again. Sad how intemperately some
people can react when you burgle their office, haxor their
PC and derail their murderous plan to score a swift few
mill.'

'Quite. That's two. And then there was the PR guru type,
Mr Beadie, which makes--'

'No, we have to go back before we can go forward.
Someone tried to kill me in LA, but that one'll have to remain
anonymous: the prick with no name.'

'You didn't even know his name and he wanted you dead?
That should tell you something: sounds like the homicidal
equivalent of casual sex.'

'No, I meant it was a hitman but I never knew who sent
him. Could have been one of ... let's say I pissed off a lot
of people over there, so it wasn't exactly a narrow field.'

Thus you further my promiscuity analogy.'

They didn't all want me dead, Tim. I hope. Just one of
them. So him, or maybe even her, then Lime, then Knight.'


40
'And I'm assuming - nay hoping - Beadie was the last?'

'Yes and no.'

'Ye-- How can he be yes and no: he either was or . . .'

'Lime tried to kill me again while I was in prison. I wasn't
sure whether he counts twice.'

Tor the purposes of what I'm trying to demonstrate, then
yes. It's attempts we're counting.'

'In that case, you'll have to notch up another for Beadie,
then. He only put up one contract, but there were two
attempts to scoop the pot. I'm pretty sure he was also planning
to kill Sarah, if you're keeping a tally of subsidiary
murder attempts.'

'You bloody well should be. That's three times your wife's
life has been in jeopardy because of your activities; few of
which, I should add, would be recognised under even the
most liberal definition of the word journalism.'

'Nah, only twice. The first time was as much her own
fault as mine. And she was only my wife for the last one.'

'Oh, you're clutching at straws now. And no amount of
pedantry changes the fact that there have been repeated
attempts on your life and Sarah's, all because of things
you've done for the sake of a byline.'

'That's a bit trite, Tim. There was a sight more at stake
and you know it. I could as easily say you did as much and
a lot more - for the sake of a pay cheque and a pension.
Neither of us was doing it merely because it was our job.'

'True, but only one of those jobs was supposed to involve
covert surveillance, burglary, computer hacking and butting
heads with professional assassins. Granted, you got away
with it - even saved a few more lives than just your own,
and hats off to you for that. But as I said, there's a wisdom
in knowing when it's time to declare.'

'I have declared, Tim. Why do you think I'm reduced to
looking for my kicks on this pitiful excursion?'

'But I'm sure I heard the good doctor Sarah say you


41
received a death threat only last month from some of those
lovely Countryside Alliance types/

'More like six months ago, maybe a year. All I did was
suggest that the Kite mark should be temporarily withdrawn
from Barbour clothing until it had been investigated whether
there was a link between wearing it and certain, em, shall
we say, neurological symptoms. Anyway, death threats don't
count. You should see how many the sports editor gets. It
doesn't take much to have the monobrows reaching for the
green-ink biro and their double-spaced scribble-pad. You
need to pose a lot more of a threat before someone genuinely
attempts to rub you out.'

'I can understand your perverse pride in that, Jack, but I
hope you appreciate that pride is all it's worth. I think you
should be grateful to have snagged a spot in the comfort
zone and survived to enjoy it, given the number of enemies
you've made and the ways in which you made them. Don't
worry that the grass is growing under your feet just because
you're not collecting any new ones. And if it's bothering
your ego that nobody's taken a punt at you recently, I'd
recommend you find an alternative source of self-esteem
pretty damn pronto.'

'It's cool, Tim. You can spare me the counselling. I've
already had that particular dark night of the soul. The
reasons for my past behaviour have been long since laid
bare and dissected. Insecurities projected into isolationism,
ego-driven desires to humble those who make me feel small,
id-driven thirst for visceral thrill-seeking, to say nothing of
a self-loathing manifested in a conditioned and channelled
but nonetheless dangerous self-destructive streak. I'm down
with the self-analytical shit, daddy-o. I am well aware of
how insane some of my past deeds were, and of my less
altruistic reasons for doing them, but that doesn't stop me
missing it all now and again.'

'You're missing your youth, Jack, that's all. And who


42
doesn't? Do you think I want to be eating cold cabbage soup
in a Bucharest basement tonight, blowing on my fingers so
they're not too stiff to pull the trigger if my contact turns
out to be setting me up? Do I buggery, but I still sometimes
find myself wishing I was back there, wishing I was that
person again, when what I'm really wishing is that I was
twenty years younger. You don't want to be breaking into
buildings, circumventing surveillance and playing dodge
the-Dobermann just to get a story for a newspaper that'll be
wrapped round a deep-fried haggis by the end of the week,
do you?'

Parlabane thought about it.

'I guess it should tell me something that it's the mention
of deep-fried haggis that's got my juices flowing more than
the B&E.'

'Exactly, old chap. And you certainly look like you could
do with some junk food. I've never seen you look so disgustingly
healthy.'

'I know. I got into a bit of a cycle after the stabbing. Started
exercising more than I ever had before just to prove to myself
that it hadn't done me any permanent damage. Plus I have
to get my adrenaline fixes legitimately these days, so I've
upped the ante on the rock-climbing. Physically speaking,
I'm a disgrace to my profession.'

'Well, I just hope it doesn't extend to being on the wagon.
I'm told this place has a rather choice wine list and I do believe
our expenses are being met by our publicity-seeking hosts.'

Trust me, Tim, if I was on the wagon, I'm damn sure what
we're about to encounter would blooter me straight off it.'

'Oh come, come. Shake off that nasty cynicism, Mr
Parlabane. It's the only thing holding you back from all the
joy life has to offer. Let's have some full-blown Positive
Mental Attitude.'

'Yes, sir, Mr Vale. I'm opening my mind wider with every
mile closer you drive.'


43
'Well, that's the carpark dead ahead, so you better hurry
it up.'

'I'm getting there, really I am. I can feel it starting to
channel through me. There are no problems, only solutions.
There are no strangers, only friends I haven't met yet. I am
ready to learn, ready to be moulded. I'm feeling empowered.
I'm feeling pro-active. Goddammit, I'm feeling ready
to stick some David Gray on the stereo and scatter my shrivelled
cynicism like ashes as the new me rises like a Phoenix
from the ... oh fuck, who are these bastards?'

'Looks to me like our fellow constituent ingredients in
Ultimate Motivational Leisure's great team-building recipe.'

'Not a promising start. I haven't met any of them yet and
I already want to kill that one there for wearing shades on
his brow in October, and at the very least disembowel
whichever one owns the BMW X5 with the "Fair Fuel for
All" sticker. If those petrol bills are starting to bite, maybe
you should consider driving something that gets more than
two miles to the gallon and costs less than FORTY FUCKING
GRAND.'

'Happy thoughts, Jack, remember, happy thoughts.
Whistle with me, come on.'

Vale coasted the Land Rover into the picnic-area-cumcarpark,
a wide oval of grey gravel and tree bark bisected
by the road, which narrowed at the far side as it exited
between two stone pillars. These each stood at the end of a
low wall, continuing as a dry-stone dike and eventually,
closer to the surrounding trees, wire fencing to denote the
outer boundaries of the McKinley Hall estate. There was a large brass plaque on the left-hand pillar, elegantly inscribed
with the name of the property, above a cluster of official
tourist-board attributes.

There were already four other vehicles parked in the area,
including the ostentatious urban wank-tank and a yellow
minibus, which was sitting in front of the pillars and


44
demonstrably preventing any vehicular progress into the
estate. In front of it were a gaggle of fellow initiants into
the rites and mysteries of UML, as well as a UML meeterand-greeter,
identifiable by his bright yellow company polo
shirt, bright yellow company rainproof jacket and the obligatory
clipboard. To the left of the vehicle, next to the side
sliding door, was a collection of light luggage.

Vale killed the engine. Parlabane sighed deeply, then
caught his eye and they both laughed.

'Those who are about to die salute you,' Parlabane
muttered.

'Speak for yourself. I'm here to get hammered on Merlot
and single malt.'

They climbed from the Land Rover and walked slowly
towards the gathering, Parlabane distantly wondering what
kind of noises a Geiger counter would be making around
those yellow togs.

'Good morning,' hailed Mr Obvious, before checking his
watch and correcting himself. 'Sorry, afternoon. Donald
Baxter, Ultimate Motivational Leisure.'

'I won't call you a liar for the sake of five minutes/
Parlabane assured him, trying his miserable best to seem
bouncy and outgoing. 'Jack Parlabane, The Saltire. And this
is Tim Vale. He's going to be taking the photies.'

Baxter extended a hand and shook each of theirs, briefly
but firmly. He seemed warm but not over-ingratiating,
which was a relief as Parlabane had set his cloying tolerance
to its lowest setting. The guy, close-up, wasn't quite
what Parlabane had been expecting. He looked passably
lithe for his late thirties and seemed comfortable enough in
what he was wearing to suggest he was no stranger to
sportswear, but there was something of the indoors about
his face, a pallid gauntness that spoke of cramped offices
and communal fag-breaks round the basement entrance. A
liberating career change, perhaps, God help us, from rat in


45
the office maze to life-embracing activities zealot. Or maybe
he would be handling the indoor headgames, all the 'If you
were a colour, which colour would you be?' and 'We're on
a desert island and we need to build a hut' stuff.

'You're here to slag us off/ Baxter said, grinning. 'Or that's
what everybody's expecting, right?'

'I'm here to give an objective and impartial account,'
Parlabane insisted, with the level of sincerity that normally
accompanied remarks such as 'We'll keep your CV on file'
and 'I won't come in your mouth'.

'Don't worry/ Vale said. 'I'm here to make sure he looks
like an arsehole in the pictures, so the piece will be fairly
balanced overall.'

'This is going to be written up for the paper?' asked a
voice. 'I hope you've the budget to clear the image rights if
I appear in any of the photos.'

It was the guy with the brow-dwelling sunglasses, which
turned out to be Oakley Magnesiums, and which were not
the only upscale designer detail about his person. He looked
like he was wearing Parlabane's mortgage. No question the
wank-tank was his too, which was an uplifting thought, as
it meant there was one fewer person present he already
wanted to kill.

'Rory Glen, The Reflected Gleam Agency/ he announced
himself. The accent was schooled in Edinburgh, that
marbles-in-the-mouth, speak-withoutmovingyour-lower
jaw drawl that was either taught on the Lothian Posh Schools
Official Syllabus or a post-op symptom of certain rugby
injuries. Parlabane detected a hint of something else to it
too, aspirationally trendy despite several generations of
tweed-wearing in the bloodline. 'And this is Elizabeth Ford,
also of Reflected Gleam. My, ehm, associate.'

Glen's ostensibly informal omission of Reflected Gleam's
represented hierarchy was, Parlabane interpreted, intended
merely to underline it. It was in the boss's gift to accord


46
such apparent parity of status, his privilege to pretend to
himself that he meant it. The woman acknowledged Vale
and Parlabane with a smile so thin it was eligible for a Red
Cross parcel drop, momentarily making Parlabane warm to
the poor bugger who had to work with her. It was almost
comforting to know there was someone present who wanted
to be here less than he did.

'We're in advertising,' Glen offered, which did not come
as a momentous surprise to Parlabane's ears. The guy
announced it with a contented confidence that suggested he
spent little time outside of circles where this was considered
impressive. Parlabane resisted the urge to say: 'Wow, can I
have your autograph?', remembering a period when he had
once been bursting to tell people he was a reporter (though
to draw a distinction, he had been half this guy's age at the
time).

'Have you got the UML account?' Parlabane asked,
switching to Best Behaviour Mode, a technique of affected
credulous sincerity that was an essential skill of his trade.

T'm not sure they could afford us/ Glen replied, laughing
heartily at his own stab at what just about technically qualified
as a joke. 'Nah, just kidding. We're going to do a deal
soon, I'm sure, but we both agreed Reflected Gleam should
sample the merchandise before we pitch.'

'So who's handled their PR so far?'

'Ian Beadie,' Baxter said, a glint in his eye as he looked
at Parlabane. 'Big House Promotions.'

'Ian Beadie?' asked Glen. 'But I thought... oh, I see. Big
House. Very good.'

'We're actually using a firm called Seventh Chime,' Baxter
went on. Glen nodded sagely in a way that divulged he'd
never heard of them and didn't want to admit it. Parlabane,
for his part, was glad Baxter hadn't expanded on the
unspoken significance of the Beadie remark, specifically his
inconveniently publicised part in it. The former tabloid


47
editor and self-styled PR Rottweiler was serving four life
sentences for various counts of murder, attempted murder,
conspiracy to murder, blackmail and attempting to pervert
the course of justice. As he had just admitted to Vale, certain
of those counts related to Parlabane, and their ultimate
failure had not come before he got to learn what a sharpened
steel ruler feels like when someone's using it to stir
your guts. It wasn't a period of his life that Parlabane was
very happy to recall, far less discuss with relative strangers,
and nor would it have made his fellow guests garrulous in
his company over the coming days if they feared he was on
some kind of sting.

'And have they sampled the merchandise?' Parlabane
asked.

'We're waiting for them, as a matter of fact.'

This confirmed something that had hitherto confused
Parlabane, mainly, admittedly, on account of his own expectations.
While Glen had wasted no time in announcing his
terribly impressive presence and introducing his visibly
reluctant underling, there had been no indication that the
rest of the gathering comprised the remainder of a Reflected
Gleam delegation, imminently about to be subsumed into
one dynamic corporate consciousness. Instead there was a
lot of shuffling of feet and nervy, polite eye-contact between
people who were clearly not yet comfortable together and
who were probably even less comfortable at the prospect of
just how intimate they might soon be forced to become.

'So this isn't all Reflected Gleam folks?' he asked. I'd
assumed, with it being a team-building weekend, that the
point of the exercise--'

'It's a little more than a team-building weekend, Mr
Parlabane/ Baxter interrupted. 'As I'm sure you'll find out.
In fact, this would be a good point to advise you to leave
your expectations in the back of the Land Rover. But you're
right. In future normal practice, the UML Experience will


48
be aimed at groups of people who work together. The point
of the exercise this weekend, this being a promotional undertaking,
is to demonstrate to our potential partners and potential
customers that if we can bind together people who don't
even know each other, then just imagine the effect on a group
of committed colleagues. We'll be waiting until everybody's
here before formal introductions. Saves a lot of confusion
and repetition.'

UML Experience. Parlabane could hear the capitals and
see the trademark.

'Is it part of the UML Experience to park a mile outside
the hotel?'

'Actually, it's more like two miles, the way the road winds
round the river, but yes. And at risk of bringing down some
of the scorn you've got primed and ready to tip, I'll explain
that it's for psychological reasons.'

'I had just assumed it was so we couldn't escape.'

'That's pretty close to the truth. When they enter the
estate, we want people to forget the outside world, leave it
behind along with their expectations and prejudices. Your
car is a big link to that, a visual cue every time you catch
sight of it. It can break the spell, if you like, which can be
damaging at certain more delicate points of the process. This
is one of those experiences where you only get back as much
as you're prepared to give of yourself, and the presence of
a vehicle that you know can swiftly return you to your
everyday life is likely to distract from that commitment. It's
also been proven by experience that people are more likely
to bail out when the going gets tough if they can do so
privately and unilaterally. You can bail out of here any time
you want, but to do so you will have to get one of us to
take you back across the river. You'd be surprised what a
barrier that can be. It's amazing how people can find an
extra something in their locker when the alternative is admitting
to everybody that they're giving up and running out.'


49
'How tough's the going going to get?' Parlabane asked.

'I can't say. You're all likely to find different aspects more
challenging than others - but you'll all be challenged.
Otherwise we'd just be wasting our time.'

'Wine list and haute cuisine notwithstanding/ Vale was
compelled to add.

'I'd take nothing for granted if I were you/ Glen
suggested. 'We might be on bread and water as a team
punishment, or have to earn our meals like on BB.'

'BB?' Vale asked, apparently baffled.

'Big Brother. The TV show.'

Still Vale offered a blank countenance.

'Don't tell me you've never at least heard of it?'

'Mmm. Vaguely. Can't say it captured my imagination.'

'Oh, you're not one of these prudish types who gets all
self-righteous about voyeurism and hidden cameras and
spying on people?'

'Each to his own, I suppose/ Vale said with a poe-faced
shrug. 'But I do find the idea a little distasteful.'

Parlabane, close to self-mutilation with his fingernails to
avoid laughing, reminded himself never to play cards
against the devious bastard.


50
Motivational Oratory (i)


'I appreciate more than anyone just how busy you all are,
so I don't intend to take up too much of your time, but I do
feel it appropriate to share a few words with you right now,
on what I feel will be a very important occasion for our
establishment.'

Sir Lachlan stood a few steps up on the grand staircase,
looking as ever like a timid and embarrassed senior relative
who'd been asked to make an impromptu speech at a
surprise birthday party. His dress was unusually sober,
perhaps because for once he would be taking something of
a back seat with regard to the hotel's meeting and greeting
duties; those, like a great deal else about the running of the
place this weekend, being deferred to the UML lot. He had
atypically eschewed the overbearing tartanry, sporting
neither kilt nor trews, though Alison's keen eye detected the
familial plaid on the inside lining of his waistcoat, which he
fingered nervously at the left-hand seam as he spoke. Now
that she came to think of it, this was as little tartan as she
had ever witnessed or even imagined about his person,
including pyjamas as observed during last month's
nocturnal false fire alarm.

When she'd first arrived she thought he was doing it (or
more accurately overdoing it) for the benefit of the tourists,
or as part of an affected Scottisher-than-thou image projected
by many members of the Caledonian upper orders, possibly
in compensation for sounding like they'd seldom left rural
Englandshire. In time she had become aware that it was not
so much a uniform as an all-over comfort blanket, and the


51
more he wore, the more self-assured he behaved. It was
unexpected, then, that on this day of all days, with so much
at stake and his anxiety levels correspondingly high, he
should be so uncomfortably in mufti, but Alison guessed it
was evidence that the hand - or rather tongue - of Lady
Jane had ruled the day. If so, it was a testament to the respect
in which he held her judgement, or fear in which he held
her wrath, that he was in obedience despite her absence, she
having left for London via Inverness first thing that morning.

Lady Jane had been to the fore in brokering the deal with
UML, she being the one with far more of an astute head for
business. With so much riding on the success of the promotional
junket, it had therefore been an inopportune time for
her mother to break her hip and require the presence of her
only daughter at her Kensington bedside. Lady Jane had
been forced to depart with all haste, muttering darkly about
the folly of octogenarian equestrianism, and leaving the
success of this arguably make-or-break venture in the hands
of her beloved but less than trusted husband. She had
dispensed a lengthy staccato of instructions to Sir Lachlan
as he carried her bags to the Range Rover, the last and most
impassioned of which was: 'Stay out of the way as much as
possible and for God's sake don't be strutting around in all
that bloody tartan. It's not a bloody theme park.'

So here he was, left to rally the troops before the guests
descended, almost bereft of his talismanic garb and more
than a little hamstrung by his wife leaving the staff under
no doubt that she shared their perception of him as a
bumbling idiot. The staff were gathered in the entrance hall,
the almost imposingly impressive sight that greeted guests
once they arrived through the wide double doors. The reception
desk was to the left as you came in, but the hall was
dominated by the staircase dead ahead, sweeping widely
up to a half-landing, from which it split in two and ascended
to the first floor. The ceiling hung two high stories above,


52
wood panelling flanking the walls, this height accommodating
a gallery on the first floor that overlooked the
entrance hall on all four sides. Pairs of crossed claymores
hung from the wooden panels, both a decoration and a testament
to McKinley Hall's survival of less civilised times. The
half-landing also bore arms: family heirloom rapiers and
cutlasses inside a display cabinet, about which Sir Lachlan
would joke: 'In case of emergency, break glass.'

It was an unquestionably grand setting, but given the
scarcity of their numbers and Sir Lachlan's nigh-apologetic
lack of presence, there was an uncomfortable intimacy about
it, like the meeting may as well have been taking place in
the kitchen. Granted, Sir Lachlan wanted to impress a sense
of moment upon them, but the palpable reality of the gathering
was a load of busy people obliged to listen to someone
who they all wished would just give it a bye, not least to
spare their mutual embarrassment.

'As you are all no doubt well aware, my family has
invested a great deal in the restoration of McKinley Hall,
and its transformation from a state of neglect into this proud
and beautiful building is to me a source of great . . . ehm
...' Alison winced in the tension of the silence as he groped
pointlessly for an alternative to 'pride', the poor soul doubtless
imagining scorn and criticism in the minds of an audience
who for the most part weren't actually listening. 'Pride,'
he eventually decided with an acknowledging smile. 'But
restoring a building is a straightforward matter in comparison
with the, ehm, matter of restoring a reputation, and it
has been the challenge of, well, all of us here, to make people
think ... the right thoughts about McKinley Hall. Rather
than the wrong ones, as they may have before.'

The right thoughts. Inspirational stuff. Adding to Alison's
empathetic discomfort was her knowledge of how
passionate and engagingly articulate Sir Lachlan could be
when he was talking about this very subject. His problem


53
was that he didn't do bullshit or business-speak very well,
something of which Lady Jane was excruciatingly aware in
laying the groundwork for playing host to UML. Alison
didn't know much about this team-building outfit, but had
garnered enough to guess that business-speak would be
their stock-in-trade, with bullshit never running low in the
supply cupboard.

'The right thoughts are that McKinley Hall is now a
magnificent country hotel in a splendid setting, with a
heady kind of atmosphere you can only find somewhere
steeped in ... history. A place with elegant accommodation,
unrivalled tranquillity and, of course, the finest of staff.'

It was an indication that he was barely treading water
that he had resorted to quoting the hotel's own brochure
copy, but this actually counted as a decent recovery from
the jolt of almost careering into the treacherous badlands
of '. . . history'.

Peter Mathieson, the chef, cleared his throat ostentatiously.
Sir Lachlan looked at him, a little startled, in fear
that this was a form of heckling or confrontational disrespect,
all the worse for its source being the person other than his
wife whom he held in most cowering awe. Then his face
visibly lightened in relief as he realised it was merely a
humorous prompt, and for that as close as he could have
hoped to get to audience rapport.

'And, sorry, yes, how could I forget, absolutely the finest
of food. Thank you, Peter. We have indeed so much to offer,
and with this weekend a very important opportunity to
demonstrate that. I know you're probably thinking that what
we all need now is for me to shut up so that you can get
on with preparing for this weekend, but I wanted to
acknowledge a few things, not least your efforts in what
have sometimes been trying . . . times. We had to lay some
staff off in the summer and I know the rest of you have felt
you're spread rather thin as a result. We didn't have the best


54
of luck and there's been times when I've felt the weight of

. well, I suppose you could say, the past was against us
here. But we've held it together, haven't we? And now we're
looking at what we all hope will be a whole new beginning.'

The weight of the past. That was what he meant by 'the
wrong thoughts', and what he had unintentionally stumbled
towards when he mentioned history. These were all
tentative references to something Sir Lachlan would never
directly speak of or even formally acknowledge, and his
staff would be skirting dismissal were he to hear them
mention it.

Alison had been working there a little under four months,
since leaving school at the end of June. Her sixth-year exam
results, supplementing what she had already garnered in
fifth, had earned her offers from a number of universities,
but having spent all of her nineteen years in Inverness, she
knew her restless feet would not be satisfied by mere relocation
to Glasgow or Edinburgh, exciting as student life there
would no doubt be. The limits of her world had been so
narrow that the desire to expand her horizons grew in
inverse proportion; so much so that she reckoned it was a
good thing she wasn't from Dingwall, as it might have taken
a trip to outer space to sate her wanderlust. As it was, she
would settle for the Far East to begin with, and see how
much farther east she could get before the money ran out.

That was why she was at McKinley Hall. With her name
not being Jacasta and her parents inexplicably having failed
to establish a six-figure trust fund for her further education
and gaap yaah, she was going to have to finance her travels
off her own back. It had therefore seemed a prudent - if a
wee bit ascetic - course of action to get a job that would not
only earn her some money but drastically curtail her opportunities
to spend it. The McKinley Hall estates appeared on
the Ordnance Survey map approximately four kilometres
north of the Middle of Nowhere, so the only jobs offering


55
fewer opportunities to go shopping and socialising were on
platforms in the North Sea, where the time-on to time-off
ratios were more forgiving. She slept there six nights a week,
sometimes seven when she couldn't be bothered with the
eight-hour round trip (minibus, bus, train) home to Sneck.
The plan was to stick it out until Christmas, then take off
into the great unknown in the new year with every penny
she'd accrued.

She'd started in July as a waitress, but like almost
everyone else in the place, found the definition of her duties
more and more blurred as the summer wore on. Unfortunately,
this was not because business was booming and the
place stretching to accommodate its guests. Tourism in the
Highlands was continuing to suffer in the aftermath of
September 11 (and more locally, the attack on Dubh Ardrain),
with the free-spending Americans just not travelling here in
anything like the numbers they used to. But this summer,
it had been a more powerful and even more merciless saboteur
that had done the damage. The weather had been utterly
bloody miserable, with the relentless rain and unseasonably
low temperatures driving the suffering natives abroad in
record numbers. So with the Yanks staying put and the Brits
buggering off, the tourist economy was like a weakened
heart pumping a depleted volume of blood: everyone was
suffering, but the more remote you were, the worse it got.
McKinley Hall, marketing itself on its isolation, was not best
placed to ride out the storm.

Staff were laid off and their duties absorbed into the
survivors' workloads, with eighteen-hour days not uncommon
to accommodate every whim of what guests the
place did attract. Neither the bar nor the kitchen would ever
close as long as there was a credit-card-holder still conscious
in the building. Alison didn't mind so much though, apart
from when her treacherous alarm clock made its implausible
claims that morning had come around again after what


56
felt like only twenty minutes' sleep. After months of relentless
study, some good, honest, physical hard work still
seemed like an easier option than picking up another Chemistry
textbook. Plus, a benefit of her expanded workload
was that over recent weeks she'd got to help out in the
kitchen, rather than just ferrying plates to and from the
diners.

The downside of this was that it was against the wishes
of the chef, who not only refused to teach her anything, but
harassed and abused her even more than previously when
she was only waiting tables. His problem wasn't that he was
being forced to accept the unskilled help of waiting staff in
order to keep the ship afloat (though that was hardly balm
to his inflamed ego), but that it was Alison who had been
given the nod to do so by Lady Jane. As opposed to Monica,
who'd got her jotters instead.

Monica had been there longer than Alison, so it was
natural that there would be some resentment about the
newer girl surviving the axe, but the more sober consensus
was that the decision was as unsurprising as it was inevitable
in this necessarily austere regime. Monica was, it was widely
accepted, in no imminent danger of death from hard work,
moaned constantly about what little she did get around to,
and her digits were rumoured to become spontaneously
adhesive in the vicinity of a cash register. Mathieson,
however, saw properties in her that he judged Alison lacked:
principally, big tits and being happy to let him shag her
without any complicating commitments such as acknowledging
that they were engaged in any kind of relationship.

Mathieson didn't go a bundle on Lady Jane, either, though
he was less directly vocal in expressing this. To be fair to
him (something Alison was far from wont to do), he did
have to endure from his boss a degree of attempted interference
that someone in his position might consider impertinence
bordering on provocation. Lady Jane fancied herself


57
as a cook, or more specifically 'the next Lady Claire
Macdonald, except with a half-decent dentist' according to
Mathieson. Consequently there were frequent battles, negotiations,
compromises and tantrums over the menu, as the
boss made her injudicious efforts at pulling rank over
someone she had hired for his greater expertise. Lady Jane
was truly steadfast and business-like in most of her dealings,
but perhaps it made her more reassuringly human that
she had this flawed compulsion, manifest in the catering
equivalent of teaching her grandmother to suck eggs.

In Mathieson's eyes, then, Alison was not only a usurper,
but an agent of the enemy: Lady Jane's spy. It was therefore
left to the sous-chef, Ger, to make use of her and give her
the pointers she required. This was how Mathieson got to
have his huff and eat it too: there was a desperately needed
extra pair of hands around the kitchen when it was most
valuable, but he knew her contribution would fall within
his assistant's remit. Thus he could keep up his aggrieved
objection performance without cutting off his nose to spite
his face.

It was difficult to get an accurate handle on the dynamic
between the chef and his right-hand man. Mathieson was
in his early thirties, something of an aspiring culinary superstar
who spurned no opportunity to give the impression that
he thought this particular gig was beneath him, an inauspicious
step on a career ladder that would inevitably lead
to very high places. Alison hoped he got there too, all the
way to celebrity chef, with his own publishing deal, TV show
and homicidal psychotic stalker. Ger was a few years older,
or at least looked a few years older in a hard-paper-round
kind of way. The first thing anyone was likely to notice about
him was the scar running up the right side of his face, from
his jawline to just below his eye, but having worked closer
beside him, she'd say that his real ruggedness ran deeper.
Like Mathieson, the skin on his hands was rough, callused


58
and riven with nicks, scratches and scars. Unlike Mathieson,
however, in Ger's case they continued along his forearm as
far as his rolled-up sleeves revealed. Alison had been fairly
terrified of him the first time she set foot in the kitchen, seeing
him picked out in profile as he perused the open fridge, a
fearsome blade gripped in his right fist, long straggly hair
secured for hygiene purposes in a thick ponytail.

In practice, she barely exchanged words with him for the
first couple of months, other than the minimum required to
receive and respond to orders, but had quickly learned that
in the McKinley Hall kitchen, his was not the presence to
dread. Mathieson doled out almost as much abuse to Ger
as to everyone else under his command, which she found
a little surprising, as it seemed the chef was placing a lot of
trust in the invisible barriers of hierarchy to protect him.
That most of Mathieson's barbs referred to criminality and
prison struck her, if true, to further underline the precariousness
of the chef's behaviour.

Ger, for his part, didn't say a lot to anybody, not even to
rebuff Mathieson's insults, none of which seemed to penetrate
anyway. He worked tirelessly, uncomplainingly and
with very little outward sign of stress. It wasn't that he
appeared to be tuning everything out, more that he was at
one with the place, no matter how frenetic it got. Alison
would sometimes catch a glimpse of him when things were
getting fraught, and he'd have this small, private little smile
about the corners of his mouth that suggested not mere
content, but that he might actually be getting off on it. In
that respect, he was a reassuring presence to be around,
because he made it all - the heat, the din, the chaos,
Mathieson's bluster - seem, well, not normal, but not something
to shrink from.

She only really got to know him when Lady Jane ordered
that the kitchen make more use of her. He talked more at
times when Mathieson wasn't around, though perhaps this


59
was partly down to Alison feeling more inclined to conversation
herself when the chef's presence wasn't putting her
on edge. Mathieson had always tended towards the crude,
overfamiliar and downright leery towards the female staff,
but now that she had been foisted upon him, he made a
point of staring at her tits or making remarks he clearly
hoped would make her uncomfortable. Ger tended to ignore
this, but it couldn't be said he didn't notice or failed to
respond: Alison was sure it was no coincidence that he spent
more time teaching her techniques, as opposed to assigning
her basic chores, when Mathieson was being obnoxious.
Given that this was his default condition, it had meant that
she'd very soon learned a lot, and the more useful she
became, the clearer it became to all that Mathieson wouldn't
be able to get rid of her.

As Mathieson's remarks suggested, Ger had been inside,
though he was not expansive about either this part of his
life or the preceding part that had put him there. 'I was a
bit mental when I was younger. And pretty stupit,' was all
he was initially prepared to reveal. Of his workplace
demeanour, he explained that he was a guy who knew he
was lucky to have a second chance. It hadn't been so long
ago that he could never have imagined himself having a
career, never mind imagined having a career doing this, so
he knew to count his blessings and get on with ensuring
he'd be doing it for a long time. When she asked him
how he put up with so much abuse, he laughed, a very
dirty-sounding cackle.

'I've put up with a lot worse than having to listen taste that
wee bawbag/ he said, smiling. 'He's a good chef, and he
sure knows it, which is why he's such a wanker. But just
because he's a wanker doesnae change the fact that he's a
good chef, and I can learn a lot from him. Course, when I've
learned everythin' I can from him, I'm choppin' him up an'
stickin' him in the freezer . . .'


60
However, despite this professed philosophy and
customary calm, she noticed that he was becoming occasionally
less sanguine in the face of Mathieson's excesses.
He wasn't confrontational about it, but instead of ignoring
the outburst, he would quietly warn Mathieson to calm
down, or 'cool the jets', as he preferred to put it. It made
Alison feel both a little guilty and a little excited that all of
these interventions had been when the vitriol was directed
at her. Mathieson, unfortunately, seemed to be taking note
of this growing allegiance, and it wasn't making him any
easier to be around.

The run-up to the UML weekend witnessed a rising
tension throughout the entire place, and it was Alison's experience
that whatever conditions prevailed elsewhere in the
hotel would be multiplied in their intensity in the kitchen.
This was exacerbated by an increase in the frequency of
Lady Jane's visits, as her fussing and concern over the junket
predictably prompted her to proffer some 'suggestions' for
the weekend's special menus. No-one was immune from a
sense of heightened anxiety, the words 'make or break'
having been used by the lady of the house, with all the
implicit ramifications for on-going employment.

The other phrase that had been used was 'new beginning'.
McKinley Hall had had a few of those in its time, and
even in its latest incarnation as a hotel there had already
been a supposed new dawn when it opened its doors to the
public. However, with the public not exactly flooding
through those doors, the overtures of Ultimate Motivational
Leisure had promised, if not a wholly fresh endeavour, at
least a chance to kick-start what had stalled.
McKinley Hall had been operating as though at reduced
capacity since the late-summer lay-offs, meaning that it
couldn't offer all of its rooms even if there were guests
enough to fill them. It was a short-term survival strategy,
and one that wasn't looking entirely certain of paying off


61
before UML came along and made a virtue out of it. They
wanted to take over the entire place for the duration of their
'Experience', but were not offering anything like as many
places as the Hall had rooms. They didn't want merely to
prevent the intrusion of non-involved guests: they wanted
the run of the place, access to every room and anything else
that might facilitate the scope they required to play their
little games and 'spring a few surprises'. As they would be
paying around two-thirds of what the place might hope to
make over a weekend at (thus far never achieved) full
capacity, their every request, however unusual, was acceded
to by Lady Jane. The plan was, all going well, for there to
be one UML weekend per month, with that likely to increase
as their reputation grew and business expanded. They
wanted their relationship with McKinley Hall, Lady Jane
reported, to be ultimately not an arrangement but a partnership.
UML couldn't think of a location more suitable for
what they had in mind, and it would be a great way of
spreading word of mouth about a hotel that was otherwise
suffering from being so far off the beaten track. A new beginning
indeed, but none of it would matter much if the promotional
premiere weekend went in any way tits-up.

But if Lady Jane was uptight about the weekend being a
success, her anxiety was, Alison suspected, quietly eclipsed
by that of Sir Lachlan. Given what she had learned about
the history of McKinley Hall and his family's relationship
with it, she understood better than her less curious
colleagues the extent of Sir Lachlan's desires that its new,
restored incarnation should be a success; to say nothing of
the depths of his fears should it fail. That was why, despite
knowing how mutually uncomfortable it would be, he felt
compelled to make his speech, and why he'd have made it
even if his embarrassed wife had been standing a few feet
away, glowering and tutting the whole time. So much had
been taken out of his hands recently, he needed to feel he


62
was doing everything that was in his power, even if he was
merely an enfeebled football manager who knows he's helpless
once his players cross the touchline.

'A whole new beginning/ he repeated, nodding to
himself. 'A brighter future, and the success that God knows
you all deserve. We've all had to work very hard of late just
to stay afloat, and I think we all know we're going to have
to work even harder to grasp this chance before us, but I
also know we're the people to do it. So let's look to the
future of McKinley Hall as it lies immediately in front of us,
with this, our first Intimate Motivation weekend.'

Alison closed her eyes for a moment, not wanting to catch
anyone else's look or be party to a smirk. Intimate Motivation.
That was what he'd called it every time, with Lady
Jane seething as she corrected him, and it always seemed
the harder he was trying to remember the right name, the
more the stress guaranteed he'd fluff it. When Alison looked
at him again, however, he had a twinkle in his eye, and not
just because the ordeal was almost at an end.

'And if you tell Lady Jane I called it that again, you're all
fired,' he said, to polite and largely relieved laughter. Thank
you, everyone. Now let's get to work.'


63
Purple Hail


Emily stood as near to the back of the semi-circle as she
thought she could risk without it being apparent that
she was trying to stand as near as possible to the back of
the semi-circle. She was wearing a heavy yellow shapeless
fleece with a thick-toothed zip, the kind of garment normally
only worn by women whose idea of fashion shopping was
a biennial trip to Mackay's. By rights the outfit should have
been completed by a pair of sta-prest burgundy slacks with
an elasticated waist, and beneath those a pair of pants that
came up to just below the sternum. She couldn't decide if
it was a consolation that everyone else was similarly garbed,
as although it was preferable not to be the only one resembling
an overweight shaved lemur, it was less than easy on
the eye to see this hideousness everywhere she looked.

In her hands she held a paintgun, or as Francis Campbell,
UML's liber-motivator, described the same object, a 'Kestrel
G4 semi-auto marker with compression-assisted power
feed, pro-performance nitrogen back bottle, precision
diamond-cut muzzle break and a chronometrically calibrated
restricted projectile velocity of 250 feet per second'.
She had also been issued with a spare cartridge, a pair of
protective goggles and a clip-on earpiece complete with a
thin, levered boom-mike. Oh, and of course, the yellow
fleece, which had been waiting for her on her bed when she
entered the room, compliments of UML.

Surveying the tooled-up lemon assembly and listening to
Campbell's interminable address, she had to concede reluctantly
to herself that Jack Parlabane had a point when he'd


64
questioned how all of this was going to make anyone a more
valuable employee. He struck her as the type of guy who
would be utterly insufferable when proven right, and worry
ingly struck her also as the type of guy who was, insufferably,
proven right quite a lot.

Parlabane zeroed in on her almost as soon as she and Kathy had arrived, for reasons that it had failed to occur to
him were entirely predictable and thus easily anticipated.
She and Kathy ran the PR firm that had been - albeit tentatively
- representing UML, so Parlabane, being here to rip
the piss out of the whole venture, would be tapping them
for anything he could construe as a negative comment. One
remark from her, even in an understandable moment of high
stress, suggesting she was having anything less than a richly
fulfilling time, was worth any number of paragraphs of
Parlabane's own vitriol. Forewarned was forearmed, but
neither was likely to deter his persistence, so she had already
resigned herself to seeing a lot of him over the next couple
of days.

He'd piled into the seat in front of her on the minibus,
cheerfully introducing himself and his photographer before
pitching straight to the top of his agenda by asking: 'So,
exactly how big a waste of time and money do you reckon
this kind of carry-on is, on a scale from making your own
crisps, to the Millennium Dome?'

'It's not costing me any money to come here, Mr
Parlabane, so that's a moot point, and I think the moment
to assess how well your time has been spent has to come
after you've spent it.'

'I meant in general: all of this corporate team-building
keech, like It's A Knockout without the funny costumes. All
right, fair do's if you get a kick out of playing daft games,
but is anybody here stupid enough to think it's somehow
gaunny make them work better when they get back to the
office?'


65
Emily had smiled and looked straight ahead, partly to
convey that she wasn't going to be baited, but equally so
that she could get a longer look at Donald Baxter, who was
driving. Kathy had sat up front next to him, it having been
agreed by the pair of them that they should split up and
mingle from the off, no matter how tempting it became to
circle the Seventh Chime wagons. With so many people
milling around, luggage being loaded and questions being
asked, she hadn't been able to make more than brief eye
contact with Baxter as he shook her hand. His face, though,
had seemed unnervingly familiar, not so much a spark of
recognition as a jolt of something much stranger. If it didn't
sound so ridiculous she'd have said it was as though she'd
known him in a previous life. She hadn't heard the name
before UML approached Seventh Chime, and his voice
hadn't rung any bells on the very rare occasion he'd called,
it being mostly Campbell who did the moving and shaking.
Her conversations with both had been as brief as they had
been scarce, the pair preferring email correspondence in
accordance with UML's stated belief in 'the electronic office'.
(They had exchanged no snail mail, and come to think of it,
Emily wasn't sure if she even knew their address.) However,
the moment she clapped eyes on Baxter, she felt not only
that she knew him, but that she had known him a long time. Unfortunately, she was at a loss as to where from, or just as
frustratingly, why she couldn't remember.

It was a happy by-product of her confused scrutiny that
she was coming off unflustered to the point of aloof towards
her would-be interrogator.

'Given that you might be relying on their goodwill and
cooperation over the next few days, Mr Parlabane--'

'Please, call me Jack if it would make you more comfortable.'

'You don't want me to call you what would make me
more comfortable. But as I was saying, do you think it's a


66
k


good idea to be insulting your fellow guests by implying
that they couldn't recognise and avoid a waste of their time
if they saw it looming ahead of them?'

'Isn't it more insulting to suggest that vacuous "proactive"
management-speak, or taking part in sub-drama
school role-playing games is gaunny make them perform
better at their jobs? Or that it makes you closer to your
colleagues to know that they caught you when you fell
backwards during one of those trust exercises - which I fully
expect to be engaged in before nightfall, by the way.'

'If it makes you feel any better/ she replied, 'if we are made to do one of those trust exercises you described, you
can rest assured I won't attempt to catch you.'

Parlabane's name was familiar, to say the least, even
before UML requested he be invited. It was part of her job
to know, or at least know about, as many journalists as
possible, and though he wasn't likely to be on her guestlist
for a new gallery opening, she'd been aware of his byline
and his reputation even before he became Ian Beadie's
nemesis. Granted, little she had heard about him prior to
that had been complimentary, but anyone Ian Beadie hated
so much that he'd tried to kill him couldn't be all bad.
Working at what might be termed the sunnier end of the
PR industry - parties, junkets and launch events, mainly for
fairly small, leisure- and media-based businesses - she had
thus far no occasion to lock horns with Parlabane, nor had
she imagined doing so unless his editor went insane and
made him the food critic. This was something she was
grateful for, and the reason she lobbied hard, if ultimately
in vain, against UML's wish to invite him.

Emily had imagined him to be bigger, somehow. Older
too, gnarled, nicotine-stained, beer-bellied and grey-skinned
from a lifetime under flickering striplights: the grizzled old
school hack to out-grizzle all old-school hacks. What she'd
seen standing by the minibus she had in fact taken to be


67
part of the UML set-up, as he looked lithely fit and had
something unmistakably of the outdoors about him. It
wasn't just that his face looked healthily weathered by sun
and wind beneath a dirty-blond mop that seemed likely to
shed sand if he shook it; some people (and there were a few
present) simply looked out of place away from their desks,
their phones, their bar or their favourite table, and he
conspicuously wasn't one of them. It probably enhanced the
impression that he was standing next to the infamous Rory
Glen, who had typically spent a lot of money on looking
the outdoor type, but who had succeeded only in looking
all the more like a yuppie on a weekend country break.

Parlabane's photographer was a surprise package too.
With Parlabane having cultivated - some might say hammed
up - his anti-establishment credentials through the self
image he conveyed in print, it seemed particularly incongruous
that he be accompanied (as a condition of attendance,
no less) by someone who could have walked out of a Noel
Coward play. He was another who looked cut out for whatever
the weekend might have in store, though she couldn't
decide if he looked fit beyond his years or facially aged by
his outdoor exertions. Neither could she decide of which
thespian Fox brother he most reminded her, nor explain why
she could as much picture him looking through a scope as
a lens.

'I'd argue that any social activity - the more pleasurable
the better - would bring work colleagues closer together/
offered Rory Glen. It was an intervention for which Emily
was grateful enough to offer a conspiratorial smile, even at
the potential cost of offering encouragement to a man whose
reputation for promiscuity was often denoted by the phrase
'ferret up a drainpipe'. 'Actually/ he continued, 'it might be
more accurate to talk about morale-building than team
building, if it's the latter you're so sceptical about.'

'So why not gather the staff and just go for a few drinks,


68
if it comes to the same thing?' Parlabane asked, turning in
his seat to take on Emily's ally. 'Why come all the way up
here with them?'

'Because you can get to have a few drinks up here too.
It's what else this weekend might offer - and what your
local pub presumably doesn't - that we're here to judge/

'So if we're not the bestest of buddies by the end of it, I'll
have proven my point?' Parlabane challenged.

Glen laughed, Parlabane too.

What else this weekend might offer. It didn't look promising
through the minibus window. Their vehicle meandered
slowly along a single-track road, its pace dictated less, she
suspected, by the driver's desire to showcase their surroundings
than by the tortuous bends and dips he was cautiously
negotiating. They had disappeared under a canopy of
greenery only yards past the gateway, the deciduous forest
testament to the remoteness and historical isolation of the
spot. Most tree life north of the central belt was planted
conifers, vast acres of them in file and column like a Roman
regiment. There was plenty of that too, only a mile or so
south-west, but the borders of the McKinley estate were
buffered by something darker and truly ancient. There was
a stillness about it that was like a distant, estranged relative
of tranquillity. This was the kind of woodland, she imagined,
where the darkest tales, myths and metaphors had
been born: treacherous pathways, primal temptation, ripe
carnal fertility and bloody, carnivorous death. If any of
Beatrix Potter's shower had ventured forth in here, their
heads would have ended up on sticks.

Maybe it was just the weather. They emerged from the
trees to cross a bridge thirty or forty feet above a wide stream
tumbling energetically over rocks, unwearied by the efforts
of carving this deep V into the landscape these past few
million years. It would surely have been a beautiful sight
on a bright, clear day, as would the woods with the sun


69
angling crystal beams through the foliage to the mossy floor.
Under heavy clouds and swirling drizzle, there seemed a
sense of harshness, even cruelty about the exposed isolation
of the place, though this was probably exacerbated by the
thought that she'd be spending a lot of time out in it. Such
landscapes were really best admired through a double
glazed window with a cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc in front
and a warm fire behind.

That would be happening at some point, of course, but
she was not without trepidation about what might come
first, what else this weekend might offer. Taking possession of
her first paintgun did little to assuage her doubts, and that
was before Campbell began his pep talk.

Within moments of the UML man opening his mouth,
she could sense Parlabane's glee. Having all checked in
and discovered their accommodation to be of a reassuringly
luxurious standard (diminished only by the sartorial
suicide note lying across the duvet), they were mustered
under order in a grand, high-ceilinged drawing room.
There was a glorious fire blazing in the cavernous hearth,
causing Emily to survey the room with much the same
longing she imagined Eve regarded the garden as the gates
closed forever behind her. Instead of a comfy chair and a
menu, she was issued with 'the tools of team-building':
equipment the efficacy of which looked at that stage in
some doubt.

Campbell stood before the fire, Baxter deferentially positioned
a few feet behind and to the left. Campbell looked
younger than his colleague, perhaps the youngest person in
the room, but had been introduced by Baxter as 'the motivational
genius UML head-hunted for this post from a shortlist
of one'.

'Good afternoon/ he began. 'And welcome to the UML
Experience. I have to say, I envy you your position because
you don't know what's in store, and I really wish I could


70
be in your shoes. I feel like a parent waiting to see his children
opening their Christmas presents.'

'Well begun is half done/ one of Emily's primary teachers
used to say, and from an 'enthusiastic pitch' point of view,
she couldn't fault Campbell's opening gambit. Nonetheless,
she'd wager that if old Mrs McQueen could have heard
Campbell continue, she'd have changed her proverb to 'well
begun is no guarantee that the rest won't be a complete
fucking embarrassment'.

'What is about to be engaged with here is essentially a
paradigmatic prospective assemblage intended to render a
dynamic orchestration of employee energistics across
multiple vertices. Through a system of nonapparent
motive vehicles, we will seek to initiate from within the
disintegrated participatory constituents an innovated
focus-drive generating a core-gravity that will channel
exertory critical impulses along complementary and bi
reflexive vortals . . .'

He looked up to a semi-circular gallery of jaw-gaping
silence.

'Or is that what you were expecting me to say?' he asked.
There was relieved laughter around the room, and a rather
too self-satisfied look on Campbell's face, like a cheap stage
magician overimpressed by his own trick.

'Okay, let that be lesson number one. If you have expectations,
we're going to mess with them. If you have assumptions,
we're going to debunk them. I'm not here to give you
any lectures or to presume to tell any of you how better to
do your jobs. Nor am I daft enough to preface what's about
to take place here by projecting a standardised outcome from
it. The only thing I can predict for sure is that you're all
going to learn a few things you didn't know about yourselves
and each other, and whether that helps you back in
civilisation, who can say ... though I'll be surprised if it
doesn't. The main thing to bear in mind for what lies ahead,


71
the absolute crux of the exercise, is that we're here to have
some fun, okay?'

Not bad, Emily reckoned, and he'd pulled off a good gag;
though she couldn't help suspect it had been coached rather
than natural. Campbell still struck her as someone who'd
have been more comfortable talking in management-speak
than taking the piss out of it. 'Projecting a standardised
outcome' had slipped in there fluently enough. And taking
the piss out of something was often a cheap way of buying
your indulgence in it: you make one joke about it and people
are less aware of how seriously you're taking it the rest of
the time. This suspicion was borne out by Campbell's subsequent
reference to their overdue mutual introductions as 'an
identity affirmation exercise'. It sounded second-nature to
him, but plenty of people laughed, assuming he was still at
one cool-ironic remove.

'Now, you were told as you entered the room that we
were issuing you with the tools of team-building. Can you
show me those tools?'

A number of paintguns were held aloft with varying
degrees of enthusiasm, ranging from Rory Glen striking a
macho pose, to cursory waves of the barrel, and of course
Jack Parlabane pretending to shoot himself in the head.

'Wrong,' Campbell announced. 'And we'll call that lesson
number two. You thought we meant the paintguns. We
didn't. We meant your colleagues here in front of you. They're what you build a team from. And we're about to demonstrate
that right now.'

They were each invited to come forward and introduce
themselves to the rest of the room, whereupon they were
required to thrust their hands into a black sack and pull
from it a strip of cloth, either red or blue.

Again, participation ranged from the self-conscious to
the over-assertive, with the conduct of the two Reflected
Gleam delegates illustratively calibrating the spectrum.


72
The invitation had gone out to 'Rory Glen and guest', so
it didn't reflect much of UML's gleam if Liz Ford had been
the RG staffer who most wanted to attend. Reading between
the lines, it was plausible to imagine a number of disappointed
male employees whose enthusiasm for the jaunt
had carried less lustre for Rory than the prospect of getting
into Liz's pants amid the conducive informality of a boozy


jolly
Emily, despite having hung back until almost the last,

announced herself with practised professional enthusiasm,
beaming to the room with her invaluable PR technique of
making eye-contact with everybody but focusing on no-one.
She delved a hand into the sack and pulled one of two
remaining strips from it. A swift tally of the assigned colours
told her the last would be blue also, and she observed with
a stifled groan that Parlabane was yet to draw.

'My name is Jack Parlabane,' he said, having ambled
forward with a tediously demonstrable lack of haste. 'I'm
from The Saltire. I'm here to have my expectations, assumptions
and prejudices thoroughly confirmed, and if they're
not I'll write that they were anyway, because I'm a journalist
and that's what we do.'

So that made two people who were pretending to be self
deprecatory.

Emily and Kathy had set up Seventh Chime six years ago,
both having worked most of their professional lives in the
assorted tiers of public relations. Emily's introduction to the
field had been as a press officer for an umbrella group of
voluntary organisations, legacy of her guilt-ridden lefty past,
while her fellow traveller Kathy, having studied drama, had
discovered a greater talent for publicising theatre groups
than for acting in them. They'd both seen the grotty and
glam ends of the business, each having had uniformly brief
corporate tenures and appointments at major media houses.
When they decided to go out on their own, it was so that


73
they could represent companies and organisations that they
believed in, or were at least not ashamed of. They'd both
witnessed the professional obfuscation their job could
require, and neither wanted to be the 'spokesperson' on Nezvsnight squirmingly trotting out the corporate line in
shamefaced defence of the indefensible, while at home a
million viewers gave their telly the finger. It would be fair
to put it that they didn't want to be representing the kind
of people who would have them locking horns with the likes
of Parlabane. What was it he'd written about Beadie?
'Personal contrition is realising you're in the wrong and
consequently making amends; corporate contrition is realising
you're in the wrong and consequently hiring Ian
Beadie.' Something like that.

Seventh Chime was in the information business, and their
philosophy was that it should always be about giving, not
concealing. She had nothing to be ashamed of, and neither
did UML. Even if this did turn out to be a pile of crap,
nobody was being deceived and nobody was being hurt, so
she wasn't going to let Parlabane make her feel like some
corporate whore just for earning her living. She respected
Jack Parlabane for what he was and what he'd done, but
right now he was acting like a petulant teenager taken under
protest on a family holiday. That he was drawn on her side
was a double blow. Not only did it mean this first part of
'the UML experience' would have to be pretty special to
unite the two of them in a team, but it meant she didn't
even get the satisfaction of shooting at the fucker.


'So did anyone catch the rules at all?' Emily asked. They
were standing around the hotel's outdoor tennis court,
their blue favours strapped tabard-style over the mandatory
yellow fleeces, headsets making them look like the
world's worst-dressed teeny-pop group. 'I was paying
attention, but I started feeling self-consciously girly around


74
k

all these boy-toys. We basically have to shoot the other lot,
is that it?'

As well as herself and Parlabane, the blue team
comprised Liz Ford from Reflected Gleam; Toby Seaton,
who ran some charity in Newcastle, the name or nature of
which Emily hadn't caught, and Joanna Wiggins, an IT
consultant from Liverpool. Though lacking any solid reason
to overestimate the calibre of the opposition, Emily was
predicting that the only team-building effect of this exercise
would be to bond the blue lot through shared adversity and
humiliation. During the brief gun demonstration-cum
practice session, the only person less accurate in their
shooting than herself had been Parlabane, who had consistently
failed to even hit the circular ringed target pinned
on a lamp-post twenty feet away, never mind get anywhere
near a bullseye. Toby had looked a little more gifted in
terms of aim and basic hand-eye coordination, but he also
struck Emily as so shy and unassuming that he'd be afraid
to splat an opponent for fear of offending them. And then
there was Joanna. She was the best shot of the group and
seemed the most cheerfully enthusiastic about the prospect
of the game at hand, but she was also, without wishing to
put it indelicately, likely to present the largest and least
mobile target.

'It's basic CTF stuff,' Joanna informed the group.

'CTF?'

'Capture the flag.' She pointed to the blue flag resting
against the net in the centre of the court.

'Ah.'

This is our base. There's a red flag in theirs. We have to
get hold of their flag and bring it back here, while stopping
them doing the same thing.'

'And if they get our flag to their base first, they're the
winners? So it's like a race.'

'It's not a race. The winner is the first team to bring home


75
the enemy flag while their own flag remains uncaptured. If
they get ours, we have to get it back here.'

'Got it, I think. '

'Also, if they get hold of ours, we have to channel all
efforts into a cross-steal before we even think about recovering
our own flag.'

To create a stand-off/ Parlabane suggested, to Joanna's
approving nod. 'Buys us time.'

'And you all know the drill about getting hit?'

'I caught that part, yes. Like I said, I was paying attention,
it was just . . . Sorry, doesn't augur well, does it?'

'Between the rules and learning to work the guns, it was
a lot of information at once/ Toby assured her. It would
have sounded patronising to the point of sarcasm from
anyone else (well, from a specific one else), but there was a
sincerity about Toby bordering on the apologetic. The phrase
'big drink of water' leapt to mind when she looked at him,
but this was an uncharitable thought symptomatic of her
growing discomfiture. It wasn't looking good for the UML
experience that her first response to the situation was to
develop irrational hostilities and begin identifying faults and
weaknesses in her team-mates. So far she had subconsciously
dissed Fatty, Weedy and Sarky before a shot had
been fired. It was only a game, for God's sake. Get it together,
girl.

T'm lost too,' confessed Liz. 'But it's always worth bluffing
a while in the hope that someone else elicits a recap.'

'Agreed/ said Parlabane. The trick that's let me snooze
through a thousand press conferences. Sounds like you're
the one distinguishing yourself as leadership material,
Joanna.'

'Bollocks I am. I just know about it from work. Online
CTF games are what office networks are really for. Why do
you think the IT folk are always last to leave the building?'

'You serious?' Liz asked.


76
'Semi. We work late to get the job done, but it's a good
way of winding down afterwards.'

'I thought that's what Shiraz was invented for/ Liz
argued.

'Granted, but tell me any other circumstances where you
can shoot your boss and still keep your job/

'Now I see where you're coming from/ Liz said with a
nasty smile, holding her gun at arm's length and peering
along the barrel. 'Rory Glen, there's a paintball here with
your name on it.'

'Just remember your boss can shoot back/ Joanna warned.

There were a few sage nods and 'mmm's as they contemplated
the unknown quantity that was the opposition. The
two teams had been given their weapons-and-rules briefings
in separate locations, the reds by Baxter and the blues
by Campbell. This was not only so that neither side would
begin the game knowing the location of the other's base,
but also to mask either team's individual strengths and
weaknesses. Emily wondered whether it was also intended
to make each side assume the other to be far less useless,
but couldn't realistically envisage the perception being
mutual.

'Rory'll be very, very up for it/ Liz mused, as if having
pondered the same concern.

'Your mate Tim's going to be pretty handy too, isn't he?'
Emily asked Parlabane. 'Let's face it, he's a press snapper.
He's got to be adept at sneaking around and taking shots
at people who haven't even noticed he's there.'

'Fair to say/ Parlabane replied. 'But he can't shoot film
and paint at the same time. Or rather, I should say pixels
and paint, but either way, he's got a job to do, so that should
be a bit of a handicap. Plus, he's old. Even if he's hiding in
a bush, you'll hear him wheezing from twenty yards.'

'Why do I suspect you wouldn't be saying that if he was
in earshot?' Liz enquired.


77
Parlabane grinned.

'Didn't look that old to me/ she added. 'Distinguished,
maybe, but not exactly decrepit.'

'Distinguished. He'd love that.'

'You tell him, you get a paintball in your mouth from
pointblank.'

A horn sounded from somewhere above, one of those
compressed-air portable klaxons. Emily looked to the hotel
building. Campbell and Baxter were visible on the single
tower that protruded from the central rear of the building,
standing behind a safety rail on the turret. Campbell
was holding the klaxon, and both were in possession of
binoculars.

'So that's how they play referee/ Joanna observed.

'No, this is how we play referee/ said a voice in Emily's
ear. They all looked at each other, indicating identical experience.
'Your comms systems are now active. Red team use
channel one, blue team channel two, channel three is for
UML and emergency use only. Due to the nature of the hardware,
there is, unfortunately, nothing to prevent you monitoring
each other's communications other than the spirit of
fair play. And remember this above all: we can hear everything.
Happy hunting.'

'Christ/ muttered Parlabane. He didn't say it - he couldn't say it, that was the point - but there was no question he
was pissed off that he could no longer go ripping into UML
without being overheard.

'Is it too late to talk about tactics?' Liz asked Joanna, the
thought of taking on Glen evidently having sparked the
group's only thus-far stated will to win.

Till stay back and guard the base/ Joanna replied confidently.

'Is that your role when you play online?'

'No, I usually attack, but when I play online my avatar's
a six-foot blonde with pneumatic tits, legs up to her armpits


78
and the waistline of an end-stage anorexic smackhead. The
real me's a trifle less nimble, but I'm also the best shot, so
it makes sense I stay put and repel boarders.'

'Fair shout,' Parlabane said.

Toby and Elizabeth--'

'Liz, please, everyone.'

'Toby and Liz, you both did actually hit something in
practice, so you're the scouts.'

'Scouts?'

'You hang back in neutral territory,' Joanna instructed.
'You attack in the second wave, but your first priority is to
get their flag and it's your job to intercept ours if they get
away with it.'

The second wave?' Emily asked, wondering how she'd
missed the role of their predecessors.

'Yeah,' Parlabane explained with an unexpectedly bashful
laugh. 'You and I are the first wave. Also known as cannon
fodder.'

'And you doubted UML could make you feel a valued
part of a team,' Emily told him, her levity borne of relief. It
sure took the pressure off to be given a role she felt confident
about fulfilling.

'Okay, one last thing/ Parlabane said, pulling down his
protective goggles. 'Assume they're earwigging our transmissions.'

'Really?' Emily asked. She didn't mean to sound naive, but wasn't sure how everyone else would respond to an
unenforceable rule, whether the Corinthian spirit would be
deemed more conducive to engendering trust across the
whole group. 'I thought the rule was that we didn't. Just
because there's no way of restricting the channels doesn't
mean we should--'

'Assume it/ Liz agreed. 'Rory'll be listening. He'll want
every edge he can get.'

'And what about your pal?' she asked Parlabane. 'He


79
r


struck me as the gentlemanly type, snapper or not. Wouldn't
he have some views on fair play?'

'Indisputably a gentleman to the last. And his view as
such would be to crush us proles using every advantage at
his disposal.'

'Some friend.'

'Who? Him or me?'

'Both.'

'Fair shout. Let's go.'


Emily felt a strange sensation, a repeating shudder that came
in waves, pulsing through her and causing the hairs on her
neck to tingle. There was a tightening in her stomach too,
and an inexplicable desire to stretch her toes and fingers, as
though they would better conduct whatever it was as it
passed through her system. It took an involuntary giggle as
she ran headlong and gasped for breath to explain it to her:
she was enjoying herself.

It had been a slow burn, starting as it did from the
unpromising baseline of reluctance and mild embarrassment.
However, what began as an overall nervousness about
mere participation progressed to become a growing, tightening
tension as she and Parlabane stalked on quiet feet
under the cover of the trees. The silence nudged up her pulse
as the on-going lack of sound became almost excruciating,
taking her back more than quarter of a century to games of
hide-and-seek-in-the-dark, when she had almost willed
someone to catch her, if only to burst the rising balloon.

Toby had reasoned that the enemy base must be in the
woods to the east: there was only open hillside and bare
rock to the north; the hotel and its formal gardens formed
a pre-described boundary to the west; and tellingly, Baxter
and Campbell's turret vantage point offered only a limited
view to the south. For reasons of fairness, Joanna ventured,
it would be in some kind of open space but with limited



80
points of entry, matching the pros and cons for attacking
and defending their tennis court; perhaps a picnic site or
play area. But whatever and wherever it was, the game
would be won and lost in the thick of the woods.

The giggle came as she ran, upon Parlabane's signal, across
a few yards of open ground to the cover of another tree, the
pulse and tingle sparked by her fear and expectation of the
sight of an enemy or the sudden impact of paint. He put his
finger to his mouth, but it was as much to cover it against
the sound of him giggling too. Visual confirmation that he
didn't appear to be having an especially unpleasant time
prompted her to realise that thus far she had actually been
the one most apprehensive about UML's ability to deliver,
made manifest in her spiky but professional hypersensitivity.
UML, she now understood, didn't need or expect her to play
guard dog against Parlabane, and maybe Campbell wasn't
quite so crazy to have invited him.

I'm shaking like a leaf/ she confided in a whisper.

'That's a point,' Parlabane replied, not only whispering
but averting his boom mike with one hand.

'What?'

1 can see some leaves that aren't shaking, even when
there's a bit of wind. Look.'

He was right. Ahead and to the right there was some
foliage that seemed oddly still and uniform, but only if you
were looking for it.

'I see it.'

'It's a camouflage screen. Dunno where the base is, but
we're on the right track. This is where UML expected the
action to--'

He cut himself off and put a finger to his lips again, then
signalled Emily to follow him. She watched him pick his
steps delicately across the ground, his footfalls absorbed by
the moss-cushioned earth. He was heading for the far end
of the screen, gesticulating to Emily to make for the near.


81
r


Barely daring to breathe, she ventured forward slowly,
putting each foot down softly and on specific spots, like she
was treading a path through the strewn toys of a sleeping
child's bedroom. The concerns of such stealth were so automatically
consuming that she had to remind herself to have
a glance up now and again, her absorption momentarily
reminding her of Elmer Fudd silently inching his way
through the forest while failing to notice that Bugs Bunny
was doing likewise about six inches behind him.

Parlabane held a fist aloft, which she eyed quizzically
until it occurred to her that this signal meant 'stop'. She did,
taking the moment to survey her surroundings, or 'check
her six' as Joanna had advised. They were mere feet from
the screen, standing about six yards apart. Parlabane held
up three fingers. She nodded, feeling another ripple through
her stomach and a ridiculously disproportionate sense of
heart-thumping apprehension.

Parlabane put one finger down, then another. Emily held
her breath.

One finger remained.

'Blue team, report status,' said a male voice loudly in their
earpieces, startling the pair of them and causing them to
turn away from the screen. Parlabane reflexively swept his
weapon around as he scanned the area. There was nothing
to be seen and no further sound to be heard. He held a hand
to his chest and began laughing again, as silently as he could
but helplessly nonetheless. Emily was a few moments longer
in recovering from her heart's attempt to eject through the
top of her skull, but found herself equally tickled by it.
Remembering himself, Parlabane took a step forward and
looked behind the screen, doing so casually and with none
of the deliberateness of his approach, like he was checking
there was milk in the fridge. Still laughing, he shook his
head to confirm there was no-one behind it.

'Jack here,' he said quietly, for the benefit of the mike.



82
'With Emily. Status is two changes of trousers required. We
were kind of in the middle of something. I guess I should
have requested radio silence, Toby.'

'It's not Toby/ replied the voice.

Parlabane and Emily looked at each other, which was
understandable, but at a cost of neither looking the right
way as a second, unnoticed camouflage screen toppled
forward opposite the first. Parlabane reacted and dived to
the floor as Rory Glen and Kathy emerged from their cover,
firing rapidly from a distance of twenty or thirty feet.

Emily not only froze to the spot, but even forgot she had
the means to retaliate. She heard whizzing sounds and soft impacts, but felt nothing, and it took a long, incredulous
moment to deduce that this meant none of the shots had hit
her. Parlabane was rolling and scrambling across the ground
towards the cover of a tree, arced paint splats following his
progress like a comet tail across the camouflage screen. In
the excitement of the moment, they had reacted to the moving
target and fired at him, taking their eyes off the sitting duck
(or frozen turkey) for a crucial half second. When they did
return their attention to Emily, she had recovered from her
paralysis and was charging for the cover of the screen, her
progress assisted by Parlabane now returning fire, which
required Glen and Kathy to take evasive action of their own.

She picked herself up from a bundle into a crouch,
panting and laughing, the ridiculousness of it all being
faded from significance by an unexpected competitive edge
that felt natural enough to have its roots in survival instinct.
A voice in her head was telling her there was nothing to
be so worked up about, the worst that could happen was
she'd get hit with a paintball and knocked out of the game,
but right then, that actually sounded pretty disastrous. She
wasn't bothered about winning - yet - but she was damn
sure she wanted to be playing. It was a pure, uncomplicated
and innocently exhilarating experience, the kind of


83
[


thrill you weren't supposed to get after the age of about
thirteen. After that, you had sex, booze, drugs or power to
trip on, if you could get them, but on this evidence there
still remained an appetite somewhere in her psyche that
those weren't designed, intended or remotely able to
satisfy.

To her left she could see Parlabane, huddled against a
paint-blotted tree, pinned down by enemy fire a few yards
from cover. She leaned around the screen, a wood and wire
mesh construction supporting green camouflage-patterned
canvas, thousands of leaves adhering to a tacky coating on
the outside. Kathy was shooting from a kneeling position
as Rory moved carefully sideways, intending to widen their
triangulation of fire. Shouting to get their attention, she
began pulling the trigger as fast as the bolt allowed it to
recock, getting off five shots before retreating. She didn't hit
anything, but when she peered around again, she saw Rory
scurrying back towards the toppled screen to help Kathy
pull it upright in front of them. Emily splatted a few shots
against the screen in order to keep them there, as Parlabane
hurtled on swift and light strides to join her.

'Having fun yet?' she asked him.

'I'm about to,' he whispered, masking his mike again.

'Glen, you're a devious fucker,' he said, his tone almost
admiring. 'We figured you'd listen to our channel, but broadcasting
on it was low. Nearly shat ourselves it was so
sudden.'

'All is fair in love and war, mate,' came the reply via their
earpieces.

'You mean you're this devious when you're trying to get
a shag?'

'Stick your head up and I'll tell you.'

'I just might. You're almost as bad a shot as your pal
Katie.'

'It's Kathy.'



84
Parlabane grinned at this with a silent satisfaction Emily

didn't grasp.

'Join in. Keep them talking/ he whispered, before twisting
the dial on his headset to change channel.

'You going to take that insult lying down, Kath?' Emily
asked. 'I think he's sullying the honour of our company.
Stand up and make him pay.'

'You're nearer,' Kathy replied. 'Why don't you shoot him
for the both of us?'

While Kathy was talking, Parlabane was transmitting.
'Red team requesting urgent back-up at the screens, under
attack from four enemy,' he said quietly but urgently,
adopting a hoarse, low register that was intended to sound
like Rory. He wasn't going to get a job on Dead Ringers, but
it might be passable over crackly headsets to teammates
who'd only just met the guy.
Parlabane remained silent as she and their two opponents
traded another few jibes over the airwaves. He then nodded
and held up a thumb. That his subterfuge had worked was
apparent from the impish, toddler-with-a-secret smile on his
face; less so was what was so clever about inviting enemy
reinforcements to outnumber them in what was currently a
balanced standoff.

Parlabane switched back to the blue channel.

'Blue team, for those wondering what all the witticisms
are about, we are pinned down, two enemy engaged. We
are about a hundred and fifty yards south-east of the
gardens. Time is of the essence.'

'Don't bother yourselves,' Rory advised. 'We'll have splattered
them and moved on by the time you get here.'

'What are you planning?' Emily whispered, levering the
boom away. 'Bring more of their guys and more of our guys
here for an even bigger stalemate?'

Parlabane was about to answer when instead he reacted
to movement somewhere to his left, turning and firing four


85
shots as a figure flashed between the trees. He then stood
up and sent a volley towards the opposite screen to keep
Rory and Kathy from responding to the development.

'Come over this side/ he urged, indicating Emily should
take position next to him at the other end of the screen. He
stood up again and unleashed another burst, allowing Emily
to lean out and look for the third opponent. She saw nothing,
then noticed Rory's head peeping out at ground level, his
gun just in front. She withdrew as the paintballs whizzed
past the side of the screen, their sound failing to cover that
of hurried footsteps as this new interloper stole another few
yards forward.

Emily thought she could hear his voice, low and muffled,
but couldn't make out the words. Whatever he'd said, he
repeated a couple of times before calling loudly: 'Rory!
Kathy! Switch to the red channel for fuck's sake, I'm trying
to talk here.'

Parlabane indicated to Emily to do likewise.

'. . . as soon as I could/ she heard.

'Why? You're supposed to be defending the base. You left
Grieg on his own?'

'You said there were four of them up here. Grieg can
handle--'

'I didn't say anything. I've been on the Bl--'

'Red team, this is Grieg. Base under attack. Repeat, base
under attack.'

'Parlabane, you sneaky little bastard/ Rory shouted.

'I need help back here, I've got two oh fuck. Fuck. Sorry.
I'm hit, I'm out. They've got the flag. Exiting north, side of
the stream.'

'All is fair in love and war, Rory/ Parlabane called.

It got kind of hectic after that. Stealth, strategy and tension
had had their moment. Now it was time for pace, noise and
mayhem. Communications crackled in Emily's earpiece, too
many simultaneous voices to even identify an individual,


86
far less the specific content of anything that was being said,
parlabane started backing away, bent low and eyes flitting
rapidly around the periphery. Audible and urgent shouts
hailed that the enemy were doing the same thing.

'If they're smart they'll do what Joanna suggested and go
all out for a cross-steal. But my guess is she's the only one
here who really knows the game, so they'll try and intercept
our flag carriers instead.'

'Operation Human Shield for us, then?'

Parlabane grinned. 'Only if we find our team-mates first.
We'd best split up, improve the odds.'

'What about backing each other up?' Emily asked, a little
nervous of going it alone, albeit more through the comfort
of safety in numbers than any of the tactical proficiency
Parlabane had exhibited.

The hide-and-seek bit's over, I reckon. It's time for
running and shooting. Two people together make a bigger
target to aim your paint at.'

And with that, he was gone, disappearing swiftly through
some shrubs and out of sight.

Emily felt the pulsing return, the hollow, tense sensation
growing in her guts as she stalked her way towards the
cover of another tree, bracing herself for an ambush with
every inch.

'Ach, bollocks to it,' she said aloud, and began running
instead. Exiting by the side of the stream, the felled opponent
had said. Well, she didn't have the first idea where the stream
was, so there was no point in attempting a specific destination;
and arguably a virtue to not having one. Best to just
charge blindly into battle and draw fire away from the flag
carrier. They'd survived longer than anticipated, but the role
of the first wave hadn't changed.

The cries and half-formed sentences continued over the
airwaves, mostly red-team voices on the blue-team channel,
attempting to relay their own or their quarry's estimated


87
positions but lacking the geographic frame of reference that
would have made it worthwhile. She flicked to the red
channel just for a bit of peace. This bore unexpected fruit
shortly after her charge into the arboreal unknown, having
slowed to a tired jog, had ended in a headlong tumble over
an exposed tree-root. Without the distraction of voices
sounding like they were inside her head, she was able to
hear a lone male speaking aloud to himself only a few yards
away as she lay, inconspicuous, on the forest floor.

'Oh fuck, here we go/ was all he said, but it was enough
to give her the jump on him as he prepared to face down
the approaching blue-flag carrier.

Emily couldn't see him yet, but she knew where he'd
appear from. She spotted his target first, a ruddy-faced and
excited-looking Liz, hurdling an ancient trunk and bearing
a red flag in one hand, the burden unlikely to do much for
her aim.

He made his move as Liz stumbled upon landing, the
man emerging from cover and opening fire from a crouch
on one knee, only four or five yards from his prey. Max was
his name, if she remembered correctly. Liz completely lost
her footing in fright at this sudden appearance and went
sprawling to the ground, but not before two purple splotches
had appeared on her blue tabard and a third criminally blemished
the perfection of her yellow fleece at the right shoulder.

'Bastard,' she said, near breathless as her exertion and
fright turned to laughter.

Emily had responded too slow, but not, as it turned out,
too quickly. Having failed to spring up in John-Woo-style
balletic slow motion and thwart Liz's assassin before he
could pull the trigger, she at least had the sense not to play
her hand too early. Even as he made his way towards the
flag that Liz was obliged to discard, his oblivious back
exposed and vulnerable, Emily could already hear further
footsteps approach. Two sets, in fact, converging from


88
H'fferent directions. Max heard them too, and made the
mistake of freezing where he was as he looked for their
ources. He (and Emily behind him) saw his teammate
Kathy first, which meant that by the time he saw Toby, Max
had already been splattered by him and Emily had vanished
from her work colleague's line of sight. Max dropped to his
knees with mock gravitas, then collapsed, turning, to end
up on his back, only feet from the now squatting and still
laughing Liz. Kathy reacted astonishingly, clocking the angle
of fire that felled her team-mate and practising an evasive
forward roll, from which she emerged firing in Toby's direction.
Toby took a single, decisive splat to the middle of the
chest, all of his own shots having headed where Kathy would have been but for her spontaneous acrobatics, having awakened
skills dormant, to Emily's knowledge, since she'd left
secondary school.

'Flag recovered,' Kathy said triumphantly, if prematurely,
into her boom mike. 'Max is out. I'll get this back to base.
Continue the assault, Rory.' With that, she made her way
towards Liz, turning her back on Emily, her business partner
of six years and friend of over a decade, who with a tangible,
rippling frisson of delight, stood up and shot her in the back.
Five times.


Stealth wasn't really much of an option when you were
carrying a two-foot-square, bright-red flag on a four-foot
wooden pole while simultaneously trying to retain hold of
your paintgun and your balance. Speed was, at least, worth
striving for, though only marginally more attainable for
precisely the same reasons. With this in mind, she had opted
for short bursts of pace between trees; she wasn't exactly slipping
silently and invisibly on elven feet, but at least she could
put some wood between herself and any incoming paintballs
as she got her breath back and scoped the next stretch.
The base is secure,' Joanna said in her earpiece. 'But Rory


89
Glen's creeping about somewhere. He had a go earlier but
I warned him off with a few volleys. He'll be back, though,
so keep a sharp eye.'

After the chaos of the skirmish that had left her with the
flag and four players out of the game, Emily had become a
little disorientated, but she told herself this was no bad thing,
because if she didn't know where she was headed, then it
would be harder for her opponents to intercept her. That
said, wandering ever-deeper into the woods in the wrong
direction and all alone would be neither tactically astute nor
remotely sensible. She was relieved, then, to look up and
catch a glimpse of the turret from which the UML pair were
monitoring the contest. That gave her a fix on her destination
and a means of avoiding the most direct route.

She felt the tension grow again as she got closer to the
base, something exacerbated coincidentally by the silence in
her earpiece. Baxter had reminded the fallen that they were
not allowed to relay any relevant information to their still
active team-mates other than that they'd been hit and were
thus out of the game. Nobody, to her knowledge, had broken
this rule, but their on-going chatter was still clogging the
channels, so Baxter had instructed them to avert their mikes.
It had been a couple of minutes since she'd heard anything
at all: no contact from her own surviving team-mates (no
news being good news), and no eavesdropped communiques
from the enemy.

The tennis court was in sight, barely, through the last
screen of foliage. After those final trees there was a wide arc
of exposed, open ground to be traversed: beds of gravel
between lines of paving stones, bark pathways intersecting
rough grass and kempt lawn, and, rather strangely, two glass
panels cut into the flowerbeds. She could see Joanna,
patrolling back and forth inside the court between the exits,
at first glance boxed in, but in terms of the game, formidably
protected by wooden (and thus paint-proof) boards.


90
four feet high on all sides beneath the tall wire mesh. The
tree line meant the rear entrance to the court offered a shorter
dash without cover, but being thus the more attractive
option, she reckoned it also the more likely to be staked out.
Figuring blundering recklessness had served her well so far,
she took a deep breath and made an all-or-nothing charge

for glory.

'Joanna!' she called, shouting, near-hysterical with
giggling excitement as she ran. Joanna caught sight of her
and came forward to the front entrance to offer cover fire
as Rory came hurtling from the bushes thirty yards and forty
degrees away.

'Don't look back,' Joanna shouted, but Emily couldn't help
turning her head as Joanna crouched and fired past her.
Rory, however, wasn't running towards her, but zigzagging
in minor fluctuations of a near-perpendicular tangent of her
path. She understood why about a quarter of a second later
when he unleashed his cascade of shots and took out both
of them. Joanna's tactical calls had given them a near
decisive advantage, but her big mistake had been the one
Parlabane of all people warned against. By going to the
entrance, she'd put them both in the same line of fire, making
one big target that was all too easy for Rory to daub in
predatory purple.

'Fuck piss bollocks,' Joanna mourned, while behind her,
Emily could hear Rory chuckle in self-satisfied delight as he
jogged towards the base.

Jack. This is Joanna. Are you on this channel?'

'Sure am.'

'We're at the base, Emily and I are both hit. Rory's gonna
have both flags in about ten seconds. It's down to you, I'm
afraid.'


This is Liz/ said a second remote voice, defying UML's
imposed silence. Trust me, Jack, however inconsequential
you might believe this game to be, you still don't want to


91
be sharing a planet with that bastard if he wins it. You do
everything in your power. I'll give you money. Sexual
favours. Whatever it takes.'

'Hey, pile on the pressure, why don't you,' Parlabane
replied.

'Much obliged, ladies/ Rory said as he bent down to pick
up the red flag. 'All of you/ he added pointedly for Liz's
benefit, then headed into the court to seize the blue standard.

'Avert microphones please, dead people/ Campbell
appealed.

Emily removed her headset altogether as she got up and
helped Joanna to her feet.

'Look/ Joanna said excitedly, flipping the boom away;
from her mouth and pointing towards the trees. 'It's ... shit,
just Liz on her way back. Thought it was Jack.'

'What's the difference? One's out of the game and the
other couldn't hit water if he fell out of a boat. Rory's as
good as home.'	;

'I wouldn't be so sure/ Joanna said, a mock-stern but definitely
coy admonishment in her expression.

'No, believe me, I was with him. He was tactically pretty
smart, but he painted half that forest purple. Our best bet;
is if Rory impales himself on one of the flags.'	;;

'He missed every shot at the target practice over there,:
didn't he?' Joanna asked rhetorically, pointing to the lamppost
near the carpark where they'd had their cursory
weapons training. 'From twenty feet, yeah?'

'Every shot. Yes.'

'Right. Now follow the angle from where we were,
standing.'	;

Emily did.

'You've got to be kidding.'

'Nope.'

A good thirty yards past the lamp-post, well back in an
otherwise near-empty carpark (and partially obscured from


92
where they had been standing by a short hedge), there sat
the liveried yellow minibus with a UML logo on the bonnet.
A cruder design was picked out in purple down the flank.

'I don't get the significance of the letter, though. Is it W
for wanker?'

'It's not supposed to be a letter. It's supposed to be an


arse.'

It was an appropriate moment for Parlabane to make his
reappearance, the bushel hiding his light having been
discarded. He stepped furtively from the tree line close to
where Emily had made her own final, doomed dash for

home.

'Get the bastard,' Liz shouted to him, pointing at Rory
as he emerged from the base bearing both flags. He was
exiting by the rear, which would leave him with more
distance to cover overall, but less of it across open ground.
Once he made it to the trees, he was as good as gone. Parlabane
had only a few seconds to make the difference. At this
point, Emily knew she would have been blazing away with
her weapon, getting as much paint into the air as the mechanism
would allow and putting her faith in the law of averages over her own accuracy. Parlabane, though, dropped to
one knee and held the gun steadily in both hands, eyes
fixed on his running target. He rolled his head around his
neck, blinked once and levelled his weapon, the barrel
minutely following Rory's trajectory towards the safety of
the woods, which were two seconds, one second away.
Parlabane's finger left the trigger-guard and moved to the
trigger itself.

Then his protective goggles turned purple and he fell over.

Rory disappeared into the woods a moment before Vale
emerged from them, forty yards down the tree line.

'You know,' said Parlabane as Vale ambled towards him,
deep down I just knew you were going to do that.'

'Then I'd hate to disappoint you.'


93
'What about Rory?' Emily asked. 'We'd better tell him
he's won.'

'Nah, fuck it/ Liz replied. 'Let the bastard run. Wouldn't
want to deprive him of his heroic moment bringing the flag
to base - even if it is the best part of a mile away. Who's
hungry?'


94
Buggery and Aperitifs


Rory's phone went off as he made his way down the grand
staircase to the lobby. He felt the vibration against his chest
and heard only the accompanying buzz, having disabled
the ringtone before sliding the thing into his inside breast
pocket. This action had become a de rigueur matter of
etiquette in recent times, people making such an eye-rolling
scene if your mobile happened to ring while they were in
the process of eating - even if they weren't at your bloody
table. Sometimes they'd act like you'd got your dick out
and started having a chug in front of your fellow diners. It
was a conversation, for God's sake: what did it matter
whether it was to someone at your table or someone on the
other end of the line? Well, clearly it mattered to some. The
amount of tutting that could accompany a ringtone in a
restaurant could be far louder than the electronic jingle
itself, to say nothing of the germ-disseminating phlegm
spray all those clicking tongues generated. And how many
bloody times did you hear the shrewish mantra of the
mobile-phobic: 'Do they think they're that important that
they have to be in touch at all times? It's not as though it's
a million-pound deal or a matter of life and death they're
talking about.'

Rory had taken calls on this mobile that were entirely and
crucially pertinent to million-pound business matters.
Unfortunately, they had so far been in airports or handsfree
at the wheel of his car; unfortunately because he'd
dearly love to take one in a busy restaurant, just so that he
could go up to one of these snivelling wankers and say:


95
'Actually, I am that important and I was talking about a
million-pound deal.'

The done thing now though, especially in company, was
to kill the sound, switch to vibrate and then excuse yourself
so that you could take the call out of the room without
anyone knowing that's what you were up to. Phone call as
excretory function. Lovely. As Liz had advised him, this was
doubly polite because not only did it prevent the noisy interruption
and awkwardness of taking a call at the table, but
it avoided the implication towards your fellow diners that
there was someone more important or more interesting
whom you'd rather talk to than sit listening to them
bumping their gums. Rory took her point on this one, but
didn't think how it looked reflected how it was. Taking a
call at dinner was no disrespect to the merits of your
company. You could be having dinner with Keith Richards,
Robert De Niro, Heidi Fleiss and the Dalai Lama, but if you
didn't recognise the incoming number you'd still want to
take that call, because it was new, because it was full of
possibilities, because it was the next, unwritten page.

Rory, not having engaged any company yet, didn't have
to make his excuses this time, though he knew he'd have to
keep it brief. He intended to make a good impression on his
fellow guests, and knew that those with mobile-phobic
tendencies would regard it as outrageous attention-seeking
to be having a cellular-conveyed conversation in a public
place while there was a dedicated, functioning landline at
his personal disposal in his bedroom upstairs. Besides, even
he would concede that to walk into a social gathering of relatively
new faces while yours was clamped to your phone
made you look like a complete wanker.

He slid the phone into his palm and opened it, always a
pleasure. Petty, juvenile and admittedly quite sad, but a
pleasure nonetheless. It was a Mazienen M-Kard, a silver
sliver about the size of three stacked credit cards when


96
dormant, but with two aluminium wafers extending its
length top and bottom when activated. The extension at the
top housed the LCD panel and speaker, while the strip at
the bottom bore the mic. Rory had been through dozens of
mobile phones, upgrading with each generation of technology
or even the latest non-essential but gadget-tastic
feature, whether it be photo-messaging or voice-recognitiondiallingand-commands,
but the M-Kard remained his
favourite despite being almost nine months old. It was a
comparatively ascetic piece of hardware, waterproof, necessarily
light on extras, a slender and elegant exemplar of
spatially economic design. Its sound quality was unremarkable,
it didn't take pictures, it didn't play MP3s and its
minuscule keypad was a bugger to write text messages on,
but it looked beautiful, weighed nothing and made Rory
feel like Captain Kirk every time he used it.

The only drawback about the M-Kard was that it looked
like the kind of natty receptacle a flash bastard such as
himself might plausibly port his Charlie around in, which
was something you unfortunately had to consider when
observing this nascent twenty-first-century dining protocol.
If you were constantly excusing yourself before 'just nipping
out to the bathroom', and they clocked you wheeching this
suspicious silver number from your pocket as you went,
then they could have you down as a cokehead before the
coffee and mints were served. Add to that the fact that he
worked in advertising and people would regard it as a given.

This particularly pissed Rory off, because he didn't do
cocaine but was nonetheless widely assumed to and scowlingly
disapproved of accordingly. As far as he understood,
it was a drug that made people feel hyperconfident, unselfconscious,
dynamic, visionary and empowered, while
causing them to riff tirelessly and energetically upon
thoughts and ideas that came pouring forth like a Vegas slot
machine paying out the jackpot. Given that this was how


97
Rory felt and behaved most of the time anyway, there was
little incentive for him to be sniffing up Johnson's Baby
Powder cut with a minute quantity of something that had
previously spent time inside a condom shoved up a Colombian
farmhand's arse. But try telling that to the people who
thought he had the portrait of Dorian Glen in his attic just
because he had a creative gift and didn't go around with
his face tripping him the whole time.

He recognised the number on the LCD. Finlay his younger
brother. Now there was someone who did do a lot of drugs.
Mostly hash, recreationally (or rather for 'rest enhancement'
as Finlay put it), but no stranger to posh or whizz when he
needed an eighteen- or even twenty-four-hour session at the
computer in order to get a piece of code into operable shape.
Finlay, however, was shy, modest, geeky and reclusive, so
on the rare occasions when his scrawny pale frame was
dragged, squinting, into the daylight, those who met him
would find it hard to imagine him even fronting up at the
off-licence to ask for a can of Top Deck shandy. 'What an
adorable little computer-geek,' they'd be thinking. 'Let's
adopt him. He'll be easy to look after, I've read about them:
they live on phone-out pizzas and Pepsi Max, and as long
as he's got access to Sky One for Buffy and Star Trek, that'll
be all his appetites catered for.' Unlike that nasty cokehead
brother of his, natch.

There was one appetite that Rory and Finlay did share,
with equal voracity, allowing them to enthuse openly with
each other about something even less acceptable in polite
company than smoking, cocaine or mobile phones at the
dinner table. It was even-money that was precisely what he
was calling about, which was why Rory was not remotely
tempted to hit Divert.

'Finlay, how's it going, bro'?'

'Cool. Where are you?'

'Middle of nowhere. That thing I told you about.'


98
'Oh yeah. Is it good?'

'Look, I can't talk. About to do some meet and greet.'

'Shake and fake/

'Exactly. So cut to. What is it?'

'Two words: Dawn Yuill.'

'Whoah, whoah, don't tease me. Seriously?'

'Seriously.'

'Real skin, or more cheesecake?'

'Nip-slip. Getting out of a limo at some awards do. More
than a nip-slip, in fact. The way she's leaning forward, it's a lot more than just your usual blurry down-blouse.'

'Confirmed visible nipple?'

Tn colour. And uploading now. You got net access there?'

'Nah. Have to wait until I get back. Something to look
forward to. Where'd you get it?'

'My source at HotGoss. They'll have it on Thursday, unless
she finds out and her lawyers try to get an injunction.'

'No chance. It was a public place, no case to make. Besides, she needs the exposure. Is it colour?'

'Oh yes.'

'You don't let me down. You are my ambassador to prOn,
man.'

'Later.'

Kirk out.

Dawn Yuill. Wow. Falling out of her party frock with verified
nipple-in-shot. Something to look forward to indeed.
And from a source image, too, rather than scanned in from
newsprint with the next page's inverse headline buggering
up the contrast and obscuring the merchandise.

The former Scotland Tonight frontwoman was not exactly
a knock-'em-dead beauty, but the prurient interest/titillation
factor was paradoxically amplified by her sheer ordinariness,
even that hint of frump about her. Since moving to the
bigger playing field of the London media, she had thrown
her lot in with the clean-up-TV shower, playing the role of


99
high-profile prude when she wasn't fronting 'lifestyle'
shows or, Lord help us, her Sunday morning 'let's pretend
religion still has a role in popular culture' pseudo-current
affairs sham. None of these higher purposes, however, had
placed her above whoring this same schoolmarmish image
in the most hypocritical fashion, when she did that profile
boosting photo-shoot, ostensibly for the Radio Times but
liberally distributed in advance to the red-tops. It depicted
her as a classroom disciplinarian with more black leather
than blackboard, calculated to fuel the secret fantasies
harboured by Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells when he wasn't
tuning into her Sunday show or reaching for the Basildon
Bond.

For all of that, a stolen paparazzi shot of her inadvertently
displaying one breast was worth far more, for example, than
last week's candid, topless-on-holiday pics of nubile young
thing Karen Lewis, because you knew Karen was going to
deliver the goods at some point: if not thanks to a telephoto
lens in the Caribbean then when the script demanded it in
whatever low-budget Brit-flick she thought was a career
step-up from soapland and her failed singing career. But
Dawn Yuill, well, it was more than a matter of exposed flesh.
It felt like a victory.

It was a privilege of living in this media-saturated era
that there was a camera standing by on fast-repeat shutter
to capture the moment should any female of even microscopic
celebrity happen to fall out of her dress, slip her bikini
top off or venture out at night in a frock and underwear
combo that underestimated the near X-ray properties of
modern professional flash photography. And thanks to the
internet, or 'Satan's switchboard' as Finlay approvingly
referred to it, these images could be instantly and endlessly
shared, like an exchange of infinite bubblegum cards in the
great playground of prOn.

(Not all images could be shared, it had to be said, and


100
not for purposes of exclusivity or selfishness. There were
only three people in this world, as far as he knew, who had
seen the full-frontal nude digital pics of June Shelley without
a four-foot tube of Natraline lip-balm protecting the sitcom
actress's modesty. Those three were Tom Kerr, the photographer
who had conducted the shoot (and quietly shot more
than June Shelley noticed), Rory, who came up with the
campaign ('Your lips feel naked without it'), and Finlay, who
was allowed to view them only on Rory's machine but most
definitely not allowed copies. If they ever surfaced anywhere
public, in fact if they were even known to exist, June Shelley
would very quickly become the least seen but highest
earning nude model in British history. But that, in itself, was
half the thrill.)

Rory was a collector. All boys were collectors, to a greater
or lesser degree, and of sicker or healthier things. There was
probably a valid, anthropological explanation for it, this
male compulsion to hoard and catalogue, from diesel locomotive
serial numbers, to Hawkwind off-shoot backlists, to
body-part trophies. In the grand scale of these things, Rory
didn't reckon he scored particularly high on the sad or
harmful indices, but it did sometimes bother him that he
couldn't really say why he was doing it or what exactly he
thought he was collecting. What was it about these images,
posed and knowing or stolen and intrusively voyeuristic,
that drove him not just to look but to retain? Was it that by
glimpsing the hidden parts of the body he was capturing
part of the soul, as was the mythic aboriginal superstition?
He didn't know; he only knew that he was compelled to
collect. If there was a manifest benefit beyond the immediate
gratification upon first view, it was in the curious
feeling of comfort and reassurance he felt when he saw on
TV - or even more so, met in the flesh - a woman of whom
he owned such an image. It diluted the threat, the mystery,
the power that they otherwise held, defused whatever


101
inexplicable force made him feel, well, impotent, if that was
still the right word to describe a condition so chronically
marked by raging hard-ons.


The bar was satisfactorily populated as Rory made his
entrance. He cringed any time someone used the phrase
'fashionably late' (mandatorily followed by gratingly self
congratulatory laughter), but there was something to be said
for getting one's timing right for even the most modest of
gatherings. The first person there always looked a little sad
and desperate, whether for alcohol or company; and if you
got there too soon after, you'd be one-on-one with the loser,
with later arrivals unable to distinguish who'd got there
after whom. Nightmare.

More satisfactory was the informal - but importantly not
uniform - dress code, as it was always a pleasure to see how
the female company scrubbed up. He understood the practical
and levelling considerations of those fleeces, but they
had an unforgivingly obscuring effect on the eye candy. If
any woman had nipples capable of making a visible indent
in those things, then he didn't want to see them.

He checked his watch. With dinner eight for eight-thirty,
he wasn't 'fashionably late', and was relieved, noting a
couple of absentees, not to be 'ostentatiously last' either. Not that his entrance went unheralded in any case.

'Here comes the man of the moment,' called out Grieg
Rossi, still hearty in his congratulations, which suggested
an ongoing insecurity about having been the first man to
fall. Nobody had blamed him for losing the base - that was
down to inexperienced tactics and Jack Parlabane's
admirably deft duplicity - but he was still behaving like the
OG-scoring defender towards the striker who's bailed him
out with an equaliser. Oh, and a late winner too, not to sell
himself short.

Rory stopped in the doorway and placed his hand on his


102
heart. 'I only did what any one of us would have done in
the same circumstances/ he said.

'Hear, hear/ applauded erstwhile team-mate Kathy
McKenna, in a dress that made up for lack of cleavage with
some quality pokiosity, both rasps making a dainty but
divine impression in the blue cloth. 'Well said. So now you
can reprise the sentiment when we tell you it's traditional
for the flag-capper to buy the drinks.'

'Absolutely/ he replied, a round being a small price to
pay for the opportunity to be simultaneously magnanimous
and victorious in company. It was therefore a modest disappointment
to be reminded that UML were picking up the
tab for everything. Besides, he was the only one without a
glass anyway.

Everyone was a lot more chatty and relaxed than might
have been expected, so chalk one up to UML for the icebreaking
properties of the afternoon's hostilities. More than
vindicating Rory's stance against the professional cynicism
of Jack the Hack, it had been not only a morale-boosting exercise, but definitely a team-building one too. As well as
the obvious unifying aspects shared on one's own team,
there had been an irresistible instilling of respect for the
other side, too. Tactical move and counter-move, skill, stealth
and audacious gunplay, these were the things being
discussed and dissected, with compliments towards one's
opponents being the principal thrust of conversation.

'I loved the way you . . .'

'I thought I had you until you . . .'

'You played it dead right with that move . . .'

Pride of place in the small but cosy, whisky-lined bar was
a UML-inscribed laptop sitting on a table next to Tim Vale's
camera, to which it was linked by a USB cable. On screen
was a repeating slideshow of brilliantly lively pictures from
the game; pictures, it should be mentioned, that no-one had
any idea he was taking at the time, as no-one had even seen


103
him between the first and last moments of the match. Given
his decisive late intervention, it would be churlish to say it
had limited his contribution to the red team's success, but
it was clear that he had spent the majority of his time silently
and invisibly sniping for images rather than opponents.
Consequently, the shots had that natural and kinetic,
heart-of-the-moment look that you only saw in pictures
when the subjects weren't self-consciously aware of being
photographed. He had captured their expressions wonderfully,
and email addresses were being hurriedly scribbled
down for the receipt of copies. UML were bound to be
delighted, as would be Kathy and her partner. Whatever
Parlabane contrived to write about the experience, the
camera didn't lie about what a good time everyone was
having. Rory made a mental note to ask for a look at the
guy's portfolio when they got back down the road. He
seemed a little long in the tooth not to have made a name
for himself with snaps like that. Maybe he'd come late to it,
or had a pedigree in another field. No matter, he had something
Rory could definitely use when the right campaign
came along.

Parlabane, to be fair, was not being the cooler-thanthou
spoilsport smart-arse Rory had feared, but it was worth
remembering that journalists took a professional pride in
being duplicitous, two-faced bastards, so his instinct
remained one of caution while in his midst. He was chatting
to Toby Seaton, the other source of minor unease and
discomfort on this trip. It had always been a finite possibility
that Rory and Toby would run into each other again,
though not a possibility he'd ever enjoyed contemplating.
The longer it had gone on without happening, the more he'd
believed that meant it never would, on the grounds that if
they hadn't bumped into each other already, then their
circles must be comfortably distant. But there Toby had been,
outside the minibus, looking even more nervous and apolo


104
eetic than ever; different, changed in many ways but still
unmistakable. They'd acknowledged each other through
tentative eye-contact, and an awkward exchange of where
life-has-taken-us info would be required at some point, but,
fortunately, in all probability that would be it. Neither would
be wanting to stick on a Noiv That's What I Call Eighties CD
and go ambling down memory lane.

Rory was handed a second glass of champagne by Liz,
who'd had her back to him prior to that as she chatted to
Joanna, the podgy IT type who'd apparently compensated
for presenting the biggest target by providing the sharpest
strategic advice. Grieg, her colleague from Catalyst Solutions,
had provided no such nous, as being in Human
Resources he wasn't party to the late-night geek fests that
had honed Joanna's tactical awareness. Liz revealed herself
(though that was hardly the right word) to be wearing a
rather stiff-looking tartan frock that circled her neck just
above the collarbone and described her chest in only the
most elliptical terms. It wasn't unattractive by any means let's
face it, Liz seldom was - but it was a rather disappointingly
starchy number nonetheless. For business, Liz
always dressed sharply, even elegantly, but she never wore
anything that betrayed any information about what lay
beneath. Nothing sheer, nothing clinging, no lycra, and not
even a hint of peanut bumps on a winter's morning: it left
so much to the imagination that it was practically a blank
canvas. In frustration he sometimes wondered whether her
dress sense factored in the consideration of denying his
prurient gaze, and in his more paranoid moments whether
this was in response to his being conspicuously leery. If so,
then at least she hadn't circular-emailed the entire sisterhood.
If Fiona from Accounts started turning up in black
polonecks and Arran sweaters, that was the time to worry.

Earlier in the week, Finlay had made a crack about this
weekend being Rory's big chance to 'get a few drinks into


105
her and see what happens when she lets her hair down and
you're both away from prying eyes'. Rory had been horrified,
not least by the thought of her suspecting this to be
his motive. The letting-her-hair-down part he'd hold his
hand up to, but anything further sounded like a nightmare.
They had a company to run, a business relationship and
important responsibilities that would all still be waiting for
them next week. Besides, never mind a few drinks, a woman
like Liz would need GHB before she let Rory near her. He
wasn't too proud to say he considered her out of his league.
She had a good ten years on him, and that wouldn't,
shouldn't matter, but the age gap seemed far more
pronounced simply because she made him feel very immature.
That was in fact an important dynamic in their relationship,
something they both played off creatively, but the
notion of it having a sexual manifestation was like a
fourteen-year-old making a pass at a maturely sophisticated
auntie.

All he'd really hoped for with regard to the trip was for
the informal atmosphere to reveal what she dressed like in
less buttoned-down mode, and maybe to be thrown a few
titbits to fill in a little of that canvas. Some hope. The tartan
dress was letting on even less than the yellow fleece, with
only a glimpse of tantalisingly black bra-strap on offer
beneath the shoulder seams.

There was compensation to be had elsewhere, though.
The waitresses he'd seen flitting around were kitted in crisp
white blouses without obscuring frills or (disaster!)
pinafores. One was buxom, just the right side of plump, the
other delicately petite, and both featured discernible lace
beneath translucent cotton. Just as well, really, given that
the guest side so far only had Kathy's contribution to
commend it, with her business partner Emily Bell yet to
make her appearance.

"The hero of the hour/ Liz said. 'Joanna here was telling


106
me how you took out her and Emily before your victorious

flag run.'

'What can I say, I've always been a natural lady killer.'
Liz rolled her eyes, but at least she was smiling as she

did so.

'You must make certain allowances for Rory. He has to
channel so much of his creative gift into his work that there's
not always much left for other areas of expression.'

'That's Liz's roundabout way of saying she thinks my
patter's rotten.'

'It's advertising you're in, isn't it?' asked Max Redman,
seamlessly joining from a different conversation to his left
with little more than a swivel of the hips and a moment's
eye-contact. It was the kind of thing you could get away
with without anyone taking the huff in a gathering of this
size, with the company just too big for one conversation and
just too small for the full roam-and-mingle game. It made
for an easy and unpressured vibe, but the disadvantage was
that you could begin a sentence addressing four people and
find that two of them had been replaced by the time you
ended it.

'Yes. We're based in Leith,' Rory replied.

TV ads? Print? Billboards.'

'All of the above. Depends on the campaign. These days
we can be doing anything from beauty products to government
information.'

'Anything on telly at the moment that we'd recognise?'
Joanna asked.

'Well,' Rory prevaricated, trying to think of something
that was both comparatively recent and acceptably cool to
own up to. His hesitation was fatal, Liz steamrolling over
the top of his pause and gleefully bringing up the very thing
he'd been intending to avoid.

'Beechtree Finance/ she announced. 'It's on the satellite
channels all day, housewives and unemployed target market.'


107
'I think I've seen it at the gym/ Max said. 'Only time I
see TV, to be honest. That's the one with the woman looking
like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop.'

That's it.'

'But by the end she looks like the weight of the world's
been lifted. Yeah, I know the one.'

'Except it wasn't just the weight of the world that was
lifted, was it, Rory?' Liz chided.

Rory braced himself. It was at times like this that he rather
resentfully felt as though he was the subject of a morality
tale. He'd had his say, got his way, got results, cashed the
cheque and taken the plaudits, but there was an outstanding
bill to be paid, and Liz was ensuring it be met in full.

'What?' Max asked, intrigued and insistent.

'Well, did you notice anything different about the actress
between her "saddled with debt" appearance and her
"weight off my shoulders" look?'

'She seemed sunnier. Younger, almost. But I thought that
was the point.'

'I've got to hand it to you, Rory/ Liz said. 'You were right
about one thing: nobody is going to admit to noticing it,
even if they can't miss it.'

'What?' It was Joanna's turn to become impatient for the
juicy revelation.

'Max is right. She seemed sunnier and younger. But what
he's too polite or bashful to mention is that her tits got tighter
and higher after she made the call to Beechtree Finance.'

Max blushed, red beyond the point of denial.

'Rory directed the ad himself, and he had the actress wear
two different bras for the Before and After effect.'

Rory could feel himself redden, as much in anger as
embarrassment. Robert Aldrich had a constant supply of ice
on-set to keep Susannah York's nipples erect when they were
shooting The Killing of Sister George. It flattered no-one to
dissect whatever behind-the-scenes tricks were required to


108
have a sometimes subliminal effect on the viewer. He didn't
feel like he ought to be apologising for it, but he was definitely
on the backfoot under these circumstances.

'You should have read the shooting notes/ Liz went on.
'She was supposed to go from looking "bovine, saggy and
past it" to "busty, full-figured and desirable". The effect was
achieved by putting her in a wireless bra that was actually
two sizes too big and giving bugger-all support, then
changing to Gossard's finest. The weight wasn't entirely off
her shoulders, but it did have some serious uplift.'

Max nodded equivocally. 'All right, I did notice that, but
I thought it was either my imagination or the fact that she
went from slumped to sitting up straight. I never imagined
something like that was, you know, a creative decision.'

'Got your attention, though, didn't it?' Rory countered. 'I
mean, how many other loan outfit ads could you reel off,
any of you? Liz rails me about this kind of thing all the time,
but she's just shooting the messenger. Guys respond to these
things, sometimes in ways they're not even aware of. It's
my job to get people's attention and make them remember
the information. What does it matter whether I do it with a
cute catchphrase or a curvy actress? Why does everybody
have to get so precious about it?'

'But you're using sex to sell personal loans/ argued
Joanna. Her tone wasn't aggressive, but he could tell she
wasn't just playing devil's advocate either.

'And Scott's are using it to sell porridge oats, but nobody's
getting morally indignant about them parading a six-pack
in a kilt, are they? Sex sells, sex gets people's attention.
What's the point of pretending it ain't so? Would we be a
better society if none of our ads exploited sexual attraction
to sell their products? Twas ever thus. People have been
selling sex or using sex for ulterior purposes since civilisation
began. That's why we talk about the oldest profession.'

Joanna looked away distastefully, the conversation having


109
become uncomfortable though he hadn't meant it to sound
aggressive.

'So you're basically saying you're a whore?' asked a voice,
which turned out to belong to Kathy, having insinuated
herself into the group. She was sporting a welcome smile
to dispel the confrontational edge the discussion had threatened
to take.

'Absolutely not. I'm saying I'm a pimp. Other people sell
their sexuality - I just find ways to market and exploit it.
Assisted by Ms Ford, here, I might add.'

'No, no, Rory. You're the one going to hell. I'm only
watching.'

'Save it for the judge.'

'No, I'm saving the Helen Lindstrom story for the judge.'

'Don't you dare,' warned Rory, who really didn't think
she would dare, but was utterly chilled by the prospect. A
bit of ribbing and point-scoring was one thing, but that would be low, that would be below the belt, that would be
. . . another invoice in respect of that overdue morality bill.
He felt his guts turn to stone, and took a sip of his champagne
just to keep his hand busy and thus hide his nervousness
should it encourage Liz further.

'Who's Helen Lindstrom?' asked Max.

Oh God.

'A model,' Kathy informed. 'Mid-ranking. Lads-mag
cover status - where do they all come from, by the way, and
why do we know their names? - and about eleven minutes
into her fifteen.'

'Yeah, they just sort of appear from nowhere, don't they/
Rory said, hoping to re-route the discussion. There used
to be your supermodels, your page-three girls and your
young TV and pop starlets, but now there's this indeterminate
tier of sorta-celeb models, isn't there? Your
Catalinas, your Jordans, your Jacintas. Her real name's
Mabel, by the way.'


110
This raised a laugh, Rory garnering as much eye-contact
as he could in a quick sweep of the gathering.

'Jacinta, she's the one who made her name doing the
muesli commercial?' asked Joanna, providing an out. Rory
could have kissed her. Well, hugged her, maybe.

'Yeah, that's the one/ he confirmed. 'Sex to sell cereal, I'm
afraid. And a springboard to the lads-mag circuit for the
lucky lady.'

'I don't see why/ Joanna said with a shrug. 'It was hardly
a memorable ad, and she was barely distinct from any
number of other models cavorting around in swimming
costumes. Why did she particularly catch anyone's eye?'

'And why do women in the ads always eat breakfast cereal
in their swimming cozzies?' Kathy asked.

Rory was faced with a choice of paths, neither of which
appeared to be leading directly away from uncomfortable
and hazardous ground.

'You're asking the wrong guy/ he replied, repaying
Joanna's unwitting assistance with utter disingenuousness.
Nothing personal, he just needed a route out of the woods
and reckoned this might be it. 'I might use certain models
because they're recognisable, but the arbiters of which ones get recognised are the lads-mag editors, presumably anticipating
the tastes of their readers. Maybe if you could find
a fourteen-year-old male, he could shed more light on it.'
'Bollocks/ Liz said, stepping from the metaphorical trees
to block his exit. 'Jacinta made her name from the muesli
ad because you could have hung the proverbial wet duffle
coat on her nipples. Never mind catching the eye - she was
practically poking it out.'

At this, Kathy glanced down then lifted her champagne
glass so that her forearm was covering her chest. Nightmare.
He hated it when women became self-conscious like that.
Made him feel like they were about to start with that 'all
men are potential rapists' stuff. Unfair, too: it was Liz's fault


111
for blowing a cold wind through the conversation, but at
least she seemed to have forgotten how they got on to the
topic.

'So what's the Helen Lindstrom story?' asked Max.

Bastard.

'Helen Lindstrom? Do tell/ said another voice. It was Emily
recently arrived at the bar or recently departed from another
conversation. In fact, it appeared that most of the room was
looking this way, first-hand celeb gossip naturally winning
out over 'so what does your company do' blethers now that
the paintballing post-mortem was complete. He thought he'd
made a passable impression on Emily so far, taking her side
against Parlabane on the bus, and she'd seemed pretty
sporting about it when he gunned her down towards the end
of the game. She seemed a little serious and stressed earlier,
but now she looked far more comfortable with a drink in her
hand and a roomful of fellow guests, it being more the natural
territory of the PR creature. She was wearing a fine black
dress with a drawn collar and a split down the front. Her
hands were clasped in almost prayer position around her
champagne flute, so it was not yet apparent how much the
split might reveal and whether she was standing up for
herself, so to speak. Also obscured at this stage was what she
thought of Rory, but he couldn't envisage his stock doing
anything but plummet in the next few moments.

'Why don't you tell it, Rory?' Liz said, finding a way to
make it worse. It felt like she was handing him a revolver.
He couldn't refuse because it would further flag up his
embarrassment, and he couldn't soft-soap it either. Liz was
getting her revenge for some of the, ahem, creative decisions
about which she had objected but been over-ruled, and there
was to be no wriggling out. Best to take it like a man.

'Okay/ he began, trying to strike an impossible balance
between wittily shameless and humorously apologetic. 'Just
remember, I didn't make advertising such a sleazy place 112
but I do have to work there. We used Helen Lindstrom for
a poster and print-media campaign we did for Kreem Soda.
I personally thought we showed admirable constraint in
eschewing all the sperm gags we could have worked with.'

That got a few laughs, but mainly from the guys.

'Anyway, don't know if you saw it, but we went for a
spoof aphrodisiac theme, kind of trying to out-Lynx "the
Lynx Effect". Sort of "beware what you're unleashing when
you open this stuff - can you handle what all these women
are going to do to you once you've become irresistible".'

'By drinking Kreem Soda,' Kathy said sardonically.

'Exactly. We were playing the so-naff-it's-cool card, which
is actually a tricky one to pull off. Look at those Pot Noodle
abominations if you want to see the carnage when it goes
wrong.'

'So that was Helen Lindstrom? I thought it was Mira
Neeson/ Emily asked. Put the house on it: outside of fourteen-year-old
males and middle-aged lads-mag editors, the
one constituency guaranteed to know their sorta-celeb
models was female PR consultants.

'Yeah, we were just saying they're all interchangeable/
Joanna told her.

'It was Mira Neeson/ Rory continued. 'Because Helen
Lindstrom walked off the set during the shoot and we had
to get a replacement.'

'Why?' asked, well, just about everyone other than Liz.
They didn't all vocalise it, but they didn't all need to.

'I was trying to get a certain look from her that she wasn't
comfortable with/ he ventured, eyeing Liz to see if the
empress's thumb would go up or down. Her look said up,
but in the correct sense of the gesture: down actually meant
sheath your sword and spare the fallen. Her own feelings
were by this point barely material, though: the empress
knew the crowd's desires, and their desire was to know what
that look was.


113
'Okay, bear in mind we were going for exaggerated sexuality,
intimidating aggression. Well, she was managing
"come over here, big boy", but it wasn't quite lascivious
enough.' Rory took a gulp of champagne. The crowd thought
he was teasing out the moment, but he really needed the
alcohol. 'So I told her, em, basically, that she should look
like, well, no way of cushioning this one . . .'

'Get on with it, Rory,' Liz commanded.

'Okay, I told her to look at the camera like she wanted it
up the arse.'

There was a divisive mixture of embarrassed chuckles,
amused guffaws (amused at the tale or Rory's discomfort,
it was impossible to know) and, mainly, bemused sighs. Rory
felt about three inches tall, all of it dick. He tried to avoid
eye-contact without making it obvious he was avoiding eye- contact, but couldn't help catch a glimpse of Emily turning
her head, as though shrinking from his loathsome presence.

Then Liz steamed in with the punchline, but one that was
unlikely to redeem the real butt of this joke.

'What Rory didn't know at this point was that Helen's
ex-boyfriend had just done a kiss and tell with a Sunday
tabloid in which he revealed, well, do I have to say?'

Evidently not. There was more laughter this time, partly
in relief that the point of the tale wasn't merely to illustrate
what a cynical, sexist twat Rory was. No, instead it was a
sheer belter because it illustrated that as well as being a
cynical, sexist twat, Rory could also be a blundering numpty.

The petite waitress appeared in the doorway. She looked
a little flushed and flustered, though the heat in the kitchen
wasn't dampening that Robert Aldrich effect.

'Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served,' she announced,
at least five minutes too late. Rory no longer had an appetite.


114
Best Kept Secret


If it was true that food could become suffused with the
atmosphere of the kitchen in which it was prepared, then
Alison hoped the diners' tastes ran towards the tart. To the
usual cocktail of heat, insufficient ventilation, unchecked
egotism, petty animosities, lack of space and pressure of
time had been added a form of performance anxiety
resulting from the all-round raised stakes of the debut UML
weekend. Mathieson was like an entity composed only of
nervous energy and knives, pinballing around the stations
all afternoon, interfering and interjecting compulsively,
whether it be over the desired width of julienned courgettes
(margin of error in millimetres, apparently) or the colour of
the double cream (almost magnolia, he claimed, and this
down to sabotage, he was sure, oblivious in his paranoia to
the blown lightbulb directly above the fridge). And all this
without Lady Jane being within three hundred miles of the
place.

His salvos of indistinct instruction and abuse were punctuated
by mutterings about him being the one who was
'saving all you useless fuckers' jobs', to remind them of his
selfless motivation in harnessing his genius to their common
cause, only for it to be impeded at every turn by their worthlessness
and incompetence. 'If it wasn't for me, what fucking
chance do you think we'd have making an impression here
today, and yet here you all are trying to drag me down with
you.' Etcetera. Mutter mutter mutter. But what passion, what
commitment, what perfectionism. And none of it at all
related to him having heard there was a journalist from The


115
Saltire in the house and therefore a chance of British cuisine's
best-kept secret, unsung hero and star of the future finally
getting his name in the paper.

She felt a little disloyal admitting it, but her ally Ger had
been less than blameless in ratcheting up the tension, doing
his bit to quietly stoke the flames then stepping back to
watch the growing insanity from behind his personal force
field. It seemed that he hadn't been entirely kidding about
avenging himself once the chef had nothing left to teach
him, as there could be no other explanation for actions, on
this most sensitive of days, that seemed likely and intended
to induce spontaneous combustion before dessert. Though
Alison could appreciate that Ger had been tactically judicious
in choosing this vulnerable time to strike, she was
more than a little peeved at his lack of concern over collateral
damage and civilian casualties.

His choice of weapons had been music. Music had often
been an area of strife in the kitchen; perhaps not itself the
cause of war, but a frequent site of battles. When Mathieson
was in his domain, he literally called the tunes, exercising
the right of rank as much for its own sake as for what it
delivered. This was of course merely Alison's impression,
but it was backed up by her belief that he didn't have any
real enthusiasm for music, and even occasionally insisted
on none being played rather than let anyone else have a
shout. In fact, she suspected that he not only had little enthusiasm
for music, but was strangely wary of those who did,
and found it comforting - even gratifying - to deny them.

Alison naturally expected older guys' musical tastes to
make her feel frivolously youthful. Mathieson's made her
feel like she ought to be subscribing to Mojo. She'd never
considered herself someone who took music in any way seriously
(she was two testicles short for that), but half an hour
of his compilation CDs was usually enough to convince her
she belonged among the cognoscenti by comparison. His


116
taste wasn't just naff; it was passe naff. (Had nobody the
heart to tell him how long it had been since Boyzone were
a going concern?) Unless, of course, he was simply ahead
of the game for when all this dreck had retro-ironic-cool
status conferred upon it a few years hence.

But his playlists aside, Alison's suspicion was mainly
borne of the unsolicited pronouncements he tended to make,
as though in defence of his selections. These were never
offered in reply to anything anyone had said, but to what
he obviously believed them to be thinking.

'I think it's pathetic when All Saints get lumped in with
so-called girl bands. They're what you used to call a female
vocal group. Nobody would lump The Supremes in with
Atomic Kitten, would they? And All Saints are more than
that, because the Appletons are songwriters in their own
right. Their music's a lot more sophisticated than the cynics
give them credit for. This is the stuff that's going to endure,
too, not all that obscure, self-indulgent weird-forthe-sakeof-it
crap.'

Meaning music that made him feel intellectually inadequate,
like Sum 41.

Or try this:

'It's like the emperor's new clothes. People just make out
they're into certain music in order to seem cool or "alternative".
But they don't really like it - how could they? It's like
saying you'd rather eat a raw skinned rabbit you caught in
a rusty snare than sit down to a Michelin-starred meal. It's
just a pose. Nobody wants to admit they like Robbie Williams
because it's not cooool. But they're just posturing. Who
wouldn't rather listen to Angels and Millennium and all those
songs than some clever-clever arty-farty racket.' Meaning
anything with lyrics that weren't about girls/boys or dancing.

'They said Robbie had no talent, he was just a boy-band
dancer. Well, now he's playing stadiums. Shows how much
they know.'


117
Ger, throughout these rants, never said a word, nor was
it easy to even catch his eye at such moments, mainly
because both parties knew it would provoke mutual bouts
of hard-to-suppress sniggering. Alison initially thought this
was down to a shared scorn for Mathieson's conspicuously
insecure opinionating, but that was before Ger decided to
avail her of all the facts.

Their beloved chef, she learned, had been in a prototype
boy band himself, back in the late Eighties, around the time
of Big Fun and Brother Beyond. Just too early, in other words.
It was pre-Take That, pre-East Seventeen, when the anonymous
conspiracy of music-hating evil geniuses was still
trying to perfect its formula for production-line teen-pop
Frankensteins that would stomp in synchronised choreography
across the face of the charts throughout the Nineties
and relentlessly beyond. They were called Three-D, the
gimmick being that D was what each of their first names
started with, Mathieson pretending to be named 'Danny' for
the short-lived duration of the enterprise. They released two
singles. The first, (You Make Me Feel) So Funky!, got them to
number twenty-eight in the charts and earned them an
appearance on Top of the Pops. The second Ger didn't know
the title of, 'because it sank with nary a splash and took all
hands down with it, leaving only three identical tripleD
embossed baseball caps bobbing on the waves'.

This revelation, in tandem with Spinmeister Mathieson's
hot selections, confirmed Alison's suspicion that you really
had to have no taste or respect for music to be in a 'male
vocal group' as the chef referred to them. It was difficult
(and rather horrifying) to imagine that there was an entire
generation of teen males in their bedrooms right now
pretending to be doing choreographed dance routines on SMTV instead of fiery axe-licks at Donnington.

With all of this in mind, Ger had lit a slow-burning fuse
and watched in quiet amusement as it smouldered


118
throughout the afternoon, edging nearer to the pile of ACME
dynamite it was ultimately intended to detonate. Math
ieson's dinner preparations having begun from just south
of high doh, it did nothing to restore his composure that
each of his chosen CDs kept jumping, skating and repeating
until he was forced to switch off the machine in frustration.
This minor and far from serendipitous technical hitch was
more than tangentially connected to Ger having smeared
pork fat liberally around the CD player's laser lens earlier
in the morning, ensuring that only random, staccato snatches
of the chef's music were played. It would be the first time
that anything by Craig David sounded avant-garde.

With the chef's stereo out of commission, Ger had taken
the 'opportunity' to play his own, normally only switched
on when the boss wasn't present. At first, Mathieson was
too distracted by his own efforts to achieve perfection/
acclaim/meltdown to even notice that Ger's machine was
playing, and had sufficient other outlets for his inner
toddler that he didn't feel the need to demand silence or
attempt to commandeer his assistant's stereo (which on any
other day Alison would have loved to see). Instead he
seemed to forget that it was an aspect of his environment
that he normally controlled, and restricted his reactions to
the occasional scornful rant about whatever happened to
be playing.

It was almost disturbing to see such transparent hangups
made manifest in an adult human being, especially one
who was otherwise on the way to making a decent success
of himself. Perhaps it was a kind of transference: haunted
by his previous failed bid for the limelight, he had to
convince himself he had been robbed by wrong and unjust
forces in order to bolster his belief in his own worth. Or
maybe he was just a wank.

'Listen to that nonsense. You're telling me [who's telling
you, Peter?] that's supposed to be "intelligent" music? It's


119
about a guy plugging in an electric heater, for fuck's sake.
How banal is that?'

Ger just carried on with his work, silently smiling that
little smile that suggested other people's tantrums were a
paradoxical source of his own inner calm.

As ever, with twilight bringing dining time closer, the
temperature in the kitchen rose, literally as well as figuratively.
The ovens and burners drove up the heat while
Mathieson, as conductor, cranked up the tempo. In seamless
(but hardly unobtrusive) synthesis, Ger's soundtrack
matched the growing pace, volume and overall discordance.
System Of A Down was not music to soothe the savage beast,
and nor, did she suspect, was that Ger's intention.

Alison was roughly one Armenianspeedmetal-polka
beat away from hitting the Stop button herself when
Mathieson finally cracked and commanded Ger to 'turn that
fucking shit off before I take that stereo and beat somebody
to death with it'.

'Nae bother,' Ger said, cutting the cacophony. 'Sorry, got
a bit caught up in myself. Need somethin' a bit cheerier,
eh?' he asked, reaching for a blank CD-R case.

Alison heard a burst of primitive beatbox snare followed
by a few bars of era-distinct, sub-StockAitkenandWaterman
synthesised brass and 'same beat suits all' syncopation. The
chef looked up accusingly, automatically suspecting Ger to
be taking the piss by putting on what he considered Math
ieson's kind of music, but as the intro could have been any
one of a hundred identical singles of its time, he failed to
recognise it - and therefore the true extent to which Ger was
taking the piss.


Well, we're moviri to the beat,

And the word is on the street,

That there's somethin' crazy happenih toniight.

All the boys are on the town,


120
And the girls are gettin' down,

And the way you move is makiri me feel right, right,

right - oooooh

Baybayl You make me feel so funkayl
I wanna take it to the--'


Click.

There was a Wild West bar-room kind of silence after
Mathieson hit the Stop button, just the sound of a few
bubbling pots and the hum of the labouring extractors to be
heard. Charlotte, who had just come in the door, stood stock
still, instantly detecting that the tension was far greater than
usual. Ger looked up from the saucepan he was stirring
towards where Mathieson stood next to the CD player, near
catatonic with sheer, incredulous dismay.

It was safe to assume he hadn't been aware that anyone
present knew of his place in the annals of rock 'n' roll, but
what was really going to saute his ego was not knowing
how many or for how long.

The silence drew on, Mathieson eyeing the three of them
in turn, trying to read how much they knew, almost willing
a reaction. The situation - and indeed the tension generally
- could be instantly defused if he chose to laugh it off, but
only in the same way the Arab-Israeli conflict could be
averted if both sides chose to accept their share of the blame
and attempt to see the other's point of view.

'Sorry,' Ger eventually said. 'Did you want System Of A
Down back on?'

Mathieson remained silent for a moment longer, then a
shudder visibly ran through him, heralding the moment
when the fuse reached that pile of ACME dynamite. He
grabbed the CD player, yanking it from the worktop, leaving
the lead still plugged into the wall, then jammed it into the
dishwasher and rotated the dial to On with an angry flick
of the wrist.


121
Ger shook his head and grinned, then got back to stirring
his pot. This did little to douse Mathieson's are. He wanted
to say something, shout something, scream something, but
seemed so backed up with competing furious emotions that
nothing could get through the bottleneck. In his frustration,
he rounded on Alison, who had stalled en route from the
crockery cupboard when the Three-D song got hooked.

'What you fucking looking at?' he demanded, shoving
her away with both hands. She toppled back and thumped
into the wall, but retained her grip on the half-dozen plates
she'd been carrying.

'Cool the jets, man,' Ger said quietly, a note of intent
warning in his voice. 'If there's a problem, talk taste me.'

'Yeah, you're all right, Alison,' Mathieson spat. 'Your big,
brave knight in shining prison fatigues is coming to the
rescue. Question is, what's he getting from you, eh? Protection's
not cheap from the criminal fraternity, but then maybe
you're paying in kind, eh?'

'Leave it,' Ger warned again.

Mathieson put his hands up. 'Leave it? I wouldn't touch
it. Frigid little bitch. You go ahead if you fancy your chances,
Papillon. But I'd warn you, you've got some competition.
You all know she's a lezza, don't you: Lady Jane, I mean?
Her and Sir Lachlan is just one of those upper-crust marriage
of convenience things. She's a muff-muncher, mark my
words/ He turned to Alison again, looking her up and down,
eyes blazing with rage. 'You better watch out, girl. She likes
you for those perky little tits of yours, and your yes-ma'am,
no-ma'am routine. Fuels her sordid Upstairs Downstairs
S and M sex fantasies. She'll be trying it on soon enough.
And when that happens, you're either gonna be eating pussy
or out of a job.'

Alison was, she understood, supposed to be insulted,
disgusted and coweringly intimidated by this, and thus
rendered tearful, trembling and crushed. She was insulted


122
and disgusted, but other than the perky tits remark (in
conjunction with that UML guest whose eyes popped out
on stalks when she'd entered the bar) making her think she
should ditch the camisole for a bra tomorrow night, that
was it. Unfortunately for Mathieson, two out of three didn't
cut it. She hurled the plates down at the floor, causing him
to spread his feet to avoid being hit, and thus exposing his
crotch in advance of the foot she was already sending in.
He jumped back, enough to cushion the impact but not
enough that the message failed to register. However, he had
a reply ready and prepared.

'Right. She's out of here. Assault. You're fucking fired,
and you won't work anywhere my name is known again.'

'Bollocks she is,' Ger interjected, walking over and looking
Mathieson in the face. 'You hit her first. But tell you what,
why don't we run it by Sir Lachlan? How do you reckon
he'd feel about us being another person short on the crew
this weekend?'

Mathieson said nothing, but clearly knew the answer.

'Aye,' Ger confirmed. 'And bear in mind he won't want
to fire me before Monday either if I boot your baws.'


123
Night of the Eighties Undead
(Parental discretion advised)


It had all been going far too well. He really should have
seen this coming. Parlabane hadn't been so much lulled into
a false sense of security as effectively distracted from the
potential horrors at hand, and this, he'd have to admit, was
a testament to UML's success in achieving part of their stated
objective. From the shared-adversity/mutual humiliation
ordeal of the 'identity affirmation exercise', through the
uncomfortable but necessary coalescing and cooperation, to
the surprisingly enjoyable mayhem of stalk and splat, the
effect had indeed been to mould them into a functioning
unit and thereby suppress the individual traits that might
otherwise prevent them getting along. It was plausible UML
had picked up the principle from an ant colony. It didn't
matter who you were, you all had a shared objective and
your contribution to achieving that made you valuable to
your colleagues irrespective of blah blah blah. Yeah, magic.
Group hugs and high-fives all round.

But now they were all having dinner together.

That was when he remembered that he had been less
apprehensive about whatever indignities UML might visit
upon him this weekend than about the type of people he
would be having to put up with: viz, the type of people who
thought this kind of carry-on was a great idea.

The important thing was to keep reminding himself that
it was good copy. Contrary to what Emily Bell believed, he
had not come here to bury UML: he'd guessed his fellow
guests would do that for him, just by being themselves. He
only had to write it down. It wasn't exactly a scoop, for


124
instance, that the endlessly self-congratulatory advertising
industry believed image, design, wit, humour, concept and
vision to be no substitute for a nice pair of tits, but it was
rare to have such a candid admission to quote.

Poor bastard. Parlabane had almost felt sorry for Rory,
seeing the guy stitched up like that by a colleague whose
high-minded principles were nonetheless not forcing her to
seek employment where she wouldn't be party to the wholesale
exploitation of etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. He could read
the script pretty clearly: it wasn't just a spot of boss-baiting,
it was conscience therapy. Even if the guy had it coming,
doing it in front of a group of near-strangers he'd be stuck
with at close-quarters for two days had made Liz look as
cynical and ruthless as Rory. Everybody had laughed, but
as much to dispel the tension as out of genuine humour.

For a guy who struck Parlabane as having skin so thick
you couldn't cut it with one of those two-handed broadswords
adorning the staircase, Rory's response was surprisingly
subdued. He'd done a bit of playing the incorrigible
rogue, pretending to take it on the chin, but his reticence
around the dinner table seemed conspicuously out of character,
especially when the vino began eliciting more veritas
than Parlabane wanted to hear from everyone else.

It was Toby who started it, albeit inadvertently.

'A coup d'etat/ he suddenly said, during a lull in conversation
over generous digestifs. Prior to that, discussion had
been polite but dull, with Campbell as UML Master of Ceremonies
inviting a bit of oral CV circulation from each of his
guests. Baxter hadn't joined them for dinner, having 'preparations
for tomorrow' to attend, according to his china. They
were all seated around one large oval table in a book-lined
conference room, commandeered for their dining purposes
because of its intimacy. It lent a more relaxed, dinner-party
air to the proceedings (initially at least), which would have
been lacking had they taken their places in the conspicuously


125
under-capacity main restaurant. It also facilitated Campbell's
desire to encourage large-scale single discussion rather than
private little chats between those closest by, which was no
doubt intended to bond the greater unit, but felt in practice
like an inadvisedly awkward game of spin-the-bottle. Rory
Glen was about the only person Parlabane imagined being
naturally comfortable holding the floor like that, but between
his sudden attack of bashfulness and the fact that everybody
now knew more than they cared to about how he made his
living, he had little to contribute, leaving the spotlight to
rightly reluctant others.

Normally when surrounded by those who would describe
themselves as 'business people' jawing about their jobs,
Parlabane felt like Charlie Brown in those scenes where
adults were talking, their speech rendered as meaningless
'waah-waah-waah' noises, the speakers oblivious to the
listener's incomprehension. On this occasion, however,
the empathetic dread and cringing he felt watching each of
them stumble and flounder meant he was unable to zone
out so much as usual of what they said.

In addition to what he already knew about the Reflected
Gleam and Seventh Chime delegations, he learned the
following:

Max Redman was Something In The City. Parlabane may
have been listening more closely than he particularly cared
to, but the string of titles and positions Max had held
defeated his ability to comprehend what exactly the guy did.
It had long been Parlabane's belief that the more complicated
your job title, the less tangible the contribution you
made to society in return for your wage packet (or stock
options).

'I'm a plumber. Call me in late September when the
weather turns Baltic and your central heating system throws
a seven after deciding it can't face another winter.' Any problems
there?


126
'I'm an electrician. Call me when you flip a lightswitch
and end up looking like Don King.' Clear enough?

'I'm a Strategic Coordination Supervisor in charge of
Investment Risk Assessment in Nascent Technology
Markets. No, I'm not sure what the fuck I do either, but I'm
pulling down six figures, so it must be pretty important,
wouldn't you say?'

Max recounted umpteen such bafflingly nebulous posts,
but to further muddy the waters, while failing to adequately
describe what it was, on any given day at the office, that he
actually did, he was now doing it on a freelance consultative
basis and currently held no title whatsoever. He
confessed a little surprise as to why, therefore, he had been
invited on the junket. Campbell wasn't forthcoming in
response. He threw the question back to Max in an attempt
edly coy fashion, prompting the mutually satisfactory
musing that, as someone moving among several companies,
he'd be well placed to spread the word.

Max had neglected to fill the 'plus one' place offered on
the weekend, citing a desire to 'throw myself in without a
lifebelt' because now that he was freelance, it was his day
to-day job to 'drop into the midst of strangers and make
myself an indispensable part of the machine'. Parlabane
suspected this was a circuitous way of saying 'I have no
mates', which might be an embarrassing admission, but
would at least have made him sound less of a ham shank.

Another person confused, if flattered, by her invitation
was Joanna Wiggins. Although these days working long
term for Catalyst IT Solutions in Liverpool, she was also an
independent contractor, and not one particularly high up
the Catalyst food chain either, by the sound of it. This time
Campbell did volunteer that 'it's part of UML's philosophy
in making people feel part of something, that the impetus
should not always have to come from the top'. He neglected
to add the proviso that the top was nonetheless where the


127
decision and the outlay would have to come from, no matter
how many eager employees sang in praise of what UML
had to offer, but that would have spoiled the faux-egalitarian
New Labour cuddliness of the sentiment.

Joanna had opted to bring a companion in the shape of
the singularly gormless Grieg Rossi, who in his role as a
Human Resources apparatchik at an IT outfit was in the
pitiful position of being someone computer geeks actually
looked down on. As such, he was utterly made for the job,
as his combination of physical clumsiness, verbal ineptitude
and unwaveringly glaikit expression must have made even
the most gauche and pallid code-cruncher feel like a cocksure
sophisticate.

Finally, there was Toby Seaton, on the face of it another
unlikely invitee given that he was in charge of a local charity
in Newcastle, and such organisations tended not to have
much green to throw around on upscale morale-boosting
exercises, staff's motivations generally coming from less
capricious sources. Toby's organisation collected furniture,
household appliances and generally anything of practical
value from those who no longer wanted them, and then
redistributed the goods among householders currently in
no position to upgrade. They specialised in house clearances,
coming in after the removal firm had taken all the
treasured belongings and offering practical catharsis to
those left wondering what to do with the orphaned sofa
that doesn't match their new living room. Parlabane sensed
something incongruous about the man and his job, there
being a distinct whiff of the upper orders about him. Sure,
there were plenty of aristos at the head of charities - where
would the lunch and party circuits be without our good
causes, darling? - but this was small-scale, unheralded and
very much down-and-dirty. From the sound of it, Toby
spent his days driving vans and lugging fridges, not glad
handing dignitaries and managing photo-ops. There was a


128
tale of a toff laid low here, and Parlabane intended to hear
it. If nothing else, perhaps it would explain what UML
hoped to gain from his endorsement. Connections to big
money and big influence were a far more plausible motive
than any more of the phoney reaching-outtoall-levels
mince Campbell was hawking.

Toby had come alone too, though this turned out to be
because his assistant had gone down with appendicitis the
night before, leaving him with no time to seek a replacement
before setting off from Tyneside at dawn. When he
heard this, Parlabane expressed his sympathy for both of
them. Within an hour, he was wishing he'd subsisted the
past week on a diet of clipped toenails.

'A coup d'etat.' Really pretty much out of nowhere,
conversationally. The last signpost sighted on the road of
discussion had been pointing to the paintball postmortem
rehash exit ramp, Vale having prematurely concluded the
careers version of you-showmeyoursandI'llshow-you
mine by judiciously - and not entirely dishonestly - stating
that he was 'a former civil servant'. Not even Campbell
wanted to coax forth any elaboration on that.

'What did you say?' Campbell asked Toby.

'Oh, sorry. Just thought of something we were talking
about this afternoon. Before the game got going, Liz and
Joanna were discussing whether there were any other
circumstances in which you could shoot your boss and still
keep your job.'

There was laughter, mainly from those who'd been on the
red team, though it was unclear whether this was because
they hadn't heard the remark the first time or because they
had spent the match teamed up with Liz's boss. Rory cracked
a thin smile, but appeared to have moved on from cowed
and reflective to borderline huffy. Unaccustomed as he was
to public not-speaking, he had been keeping his mouth busy
by filling it with wine, and one could measure the distance


129
between feeling sorry for himself and inevitable belligerence
in fluid ounces.

'No/ Vale interjected. 'Strictly speaking, in a coup d'etat,
if you shoot your boss, the point of the exercise is that you
end up in his job.'

'Good point/ Toby conceded. 'If a pedantic one. The thing
is, though, you could shoot your boss but not get fired, like
Liz here today.'

The don't think she did actually shoot her boss, to be fair/
Max pointed out.

'Might not stop her getting fired, though/ growled Rory.
His tone and timing were comically perfect, but Parlabane
clocked a look in his eye that didn't entirely suggest he was
joking.

It wouldn't normally fall to Parlabane to play peacemaker
in any kind of situation, being someone who had built if
not a career then at least a reputation upon an irresistible
tendency to pour kerosene on smouldering timber just so
he could stand back and write about the flames. However,
jail had taught him a whole new respect for the need to calm
the herd, so the thought of someone getting pissed and
volatile in such already awkward and socially confined
circumstances was something he literally didn't have the
stomach for these days. Consequently, he intended to cap
the growing aggro. The results demonstrated why the opposite
was more his forte, but he did at least try.

'What do you call a heifer in a number-seven football
jersey carrying an M-16 assault rifle?' he asked the assembly,
pitching a gag he'd heard on Off The Ball.

Every head turned his way expectantly, in anticipation of
some moment of comedy genius that could justify such a
peremptory derailing of the conversation and impudent requisition of the floor.

'A right-wing military coo/ he informed them, to blank
looks almost all round. It perhaps understandably whipped


130
over the heads of some of the English contingent, and the
football reference evidently sidelined a further constituency
in the Scottish females, leaving only Rory, who was buggered
if he was going to cheer up for anybody; Campbell, who
had displayed no evidence to suggest he could ever be
successfully prosecuted for possession of a sense of humour
and was anyway still peeved at having lost control of the
discussion; and Vale, who'd laughed the first time he heard
it but was determined to enjoy the spectacle of Parlabane
dying on his arse.

'They can't all be gems,' he apologised with a shrug, which
got more chuckles than the gag.

'We could do with one here,' Rory grizzled, almost but
not sufficiently under his breath. 'Get rid of that shower
we've got at the moment,' he added, louder.

'Hear, hear,' said Max, in the moment that heralded the
evening's imminent, hurtling descent into becoming the
dinner party from hell. 'Only way to shift them, I reckon.
It's not as if there's a viable opposition, more's the pity.'

'What?' asked Kathy. 'You reckon we could get a more
right-wing government than is already in power?'

'We can but dream,' Rory said.

'It would never happen/ ventured Liz. 'A coup I mean.
We don't really do extremism in this country, not in large
enough numbers anyway. Salman Rushdie wrote in The
Satanic Verses that it was because of the weather.'

'The weather?' asked Joanna, laughing.

'Yes. Miserable summers, mild winters. No droughts, no
hurricanes, no extremes. It's never that cold and, crucially,
it's never that hot, so we don't lose our heads and we don't
like things to go too far in one direction.'

'Sweet moderation and all that,' agreed Toby.

'I don't know,' Kathy said. 'We went pretty far in one
direction during the Eighties. There wasn't much sweet
moderation in evidence when Thatcher was in power. If you


131
weren't "one of us" you could fuck off, as far as she was
concerned.'

'Well, somebody had to draw a line and force people to choose which side of it they wanted to stand,' Max argued.
There were too many subversive types trying to undermine
this country back then, and Margaret Thatcher had the steel
to expose them for what they were and make a stand against
them.'

'The "enemy within"/ agreed Rory.

'By what measure did disagreeing with Thatcher become
equated with undermining the country?' Emily joined in.
'It's called opposition. It's called democracy/

'Oh, come on/ Rory said. "The left was full of nutters in
those days. I was a student back then, and I remember the
types. They were spoiling for a fight all the time, didn't
matter the issue. The issue was just that week's excuse. Same
agitators, same nutters. One week it was the miners, the next
it was Apartheid, then gay rights, then the week after that
it would be, I don't know, save the fucking whale.'

'Exactly, Rory/ Max resumed, buoyed by this show of solidarity.
There's a difference between democratic protest and
concerted, organised troublemaking.'

'Yeah/ said Emily. 'Democratic protest is a protest you
agree with. Organised troublemaking is one you don't. I've
got a two-inch scar on my skull courtesy of a police baton
during an anti-Apartheid demonstration. Do you think I got
it because I was troublemaking, or do you think I was exercising
my democratic right to protest?'

T'm not saying there weren't important issues at stake/
Rory said, sounding a little cowed and conciliatory in the
face of Emily's onslaught. The can understand folk getting hot
under the collar about certain issues, but not bloody everything.
There was an orthodoxy about you lot: here's a list
of the things we support and the things we oppose. This
month's boycotts and demonstrations are as follows. One


132
minute you were wanting sexually explicit material banned
_ even page three - and the next you were campaigning against a law that would ban sexually explicit material in
schools.'

'Only //o;»osexual material/ Kathy corrected. 'Clause 28
was minority bashing for the sake of it, the playground hard
man beating up the unpopular kid because it made him look
good in front of his mates. Damn right I protested about it.
I'd say the question is why didn't you?'

Kathy's eyes were bulging, Emily merely sighing. The
latter looked like she had less appetite for the fight, but more
through fatigue than a lack of conviction. She'd heard both
sides of the arguments too many times before, he guessed,
as had Parlabane, and both knew the likelihood of anyone's
minds being changed about much, even twenty years later.

'Actually, I think you'll find there was a bit more to it
than that/ Max weighed in, his tone imprudently patronising.
'If you knew what those loony-left councillors were
doing in London with public money . . . Makes me mad to
this day just thinking about it. Bah bah green sheep,
remember that? Changing the words because it might offend
ethnic minorities. Early days of political correctness running
mad.'

And there it was, the line he'd known would be along
soon enough: 'Political correctness gone mad.' Parlabane
had referred to it recently in a column as 'the distress call
of the thwarted bigot'. Any time he heard it, he felt he ought
to rejoice, because somewhere, something must be being
done right. In that respect it was the opposite of 'a victory
for common sense', which invariably hailed some act or
decision that satisfied the base and brutal instincts human
civilisation had spent the past ten thousand years evolving
away from.

It should have been his cue to join the fray. In these days
of anodyne debate and somnolent apathy, Parlabane had


133
been longing for a return to such impassioned, even
entrenched political anger. However, this exchange only had
the heat and the bitterness, being merely a remnant of an
old, stale but evidently still festering divide. It was like the
night he and Sarah, vainly defying the approach of their
forties and despairing of modern nightclub music, attended
an Eighties Alternative retro night. After the initial hit of
nostalgia at a few forgotten classics and emotion-memory
carnal stirrings in response to the contemporary goth-wear,
it all seemed very tawdry and sad, devoid of the dynamism
that had made the music, the clothes and the culture exciting
at the time. It was devoid of that dynamism because it
couldn't move forward, couldn't develop, couldn't evolve.
It was no more than a snapshot, a compilation album. You
couldn't go back, and, what was worse, it taught you nothing
to try.

This was old news, an eternal echo of a dead debate: still
reverberating, but unable to progress. He no more felt like
joining in than he'd felt like moshing around to She Sells
Sanctuary.

Still, he did owe the combatants a point of clarification.

'Bah bah green sheep never happened. The Sun made it
up. They admitted it later. In fact, they and their counterparts
made up most of the loony-left GLC stories. It was
a concerted propaganda campaign, in cahoots with Tory
Central Office, to rubbish the GLC so that they could
abolish it.'

'Says you/ Max insisted.

'Says the journalists who wrote it. They were all pretty
up-front about it once the GLC was gone and the job was
done.'

'You can't expect me to believe that. If they weren't true,
why weren't these stories challenged? Why weren't they
sued?' Max demanded.

'Pointless. It was a smear campaign. A Sun or Mail reader's


134
mind isn't going to be changed by a rebuttal in some other
paper they don't read.'

That's if they could find a paper to print their side of the
story/ Kathy added. The Tories had the press sewn up in
those days. There were so few mainstream outlets for dissent
it was like living in a fascist state.'

'I was waiting for that one/ Rory muttered disdainfully.
The Lefty's Lament. Anyone who disagrees with them is
always a fascist. The country was like a fascist state in the
Eighties because you were in the minority. Is it only democracy
when you get your own way?'

Tt was like a fascist state because--'

To be fair, Kathy/ interrupted a voice, 'that kind of intemperate
language doesn't help anyone.' Parlabane looked
down the table to confirm that it had come from the previously
silent - and still very softly spoken - Toby. 'If I recall,
it was your own Denis Healey who spoke out against those
calling Margaret Thatcher a fascist because it devalued the
term and meant they wouldn't recognise the real thing if it
came along. I lost count of how many times I got called a
fascist just because I was a Tory. It didn't make me examine
my conscience and re-evaluate my politics - and it didn't
give me much respect for your lot either.'

'Mmm/ approved Grieg, nodding, his first contribution
since 'Could you pass the white wine?' about an hour back.
'I voted for Thatcher, first time I could vote: '87. Didn't mean
I was some kind of extremist. I didn't pay much attention
to politics, to be honest. I voted Labour in '97. It's all about
choice, isn't it?'

Sadly, thus spoke the voice of the constituency that really
decided British elections: the uninformed and barely interested
wavering numpty.

'Quite/ agreed Campbell, who had looked a little shellshocked
throughout the preceding exchanges. 'I've always
voted Conservative because I'm basically a business-minded


135
person and they've always, to me, been the business-minded
party. But I've never been any kind of extremist, and yes,
like the others, I'd resent the implication.'

Liz was nodding too. 'It could even be argued that being
so intolerant of your political opponents is fascistic in
itself.'

'Well, bloody hell, isn't that just typical,' Emily exclaimed.
'You don't see a Tory for ages, then half a dozen come along
all at once. Okay, you want to talk about political intolerance?
Margaret Thatcher turned conference debate into
Stalinist rallies and witch-hunted the so-called Wets - and
that was just how she dealt with dissent on her side. She
seemed offended by the very idea of anyone disagreeing
with her, and she cracked down hard to try and stop it. Her
regime had MIS spying on law-abiding British citizens
because they were "potential subversives". If you were a
member of CND, they were tapping your phone. Does that
sound free and democratic to you?'

The intelligence services have to spread a wide net to
catch big fish,' Campbell stated. 'It's a necessary evil that
they'll end up spying on people who are innocent, but you're
just as likely to be monitored if they think you're an extremist
of the right. It's the only way to catch the dangerous ones
before they do serious damage. Basically if you're doing
nothing wrong, what's the harm?'

'You mean aside from gross invasion of privacy and violation
of your civil rights?' Emily retorted. 'Anyway, I'm not
talking about extremists plotting to blow up parliament. MIS
were infiltrating trades unions, political groups: legal, democratic
organisations. That's how they broke the miners'
strike: they had agents close to Scargill, passing on information
to the state. What was Arthur planning to blow up,
do you think, Max?'

'It's no wonder Thatcher was such an admirer of
Pinochet,' Kathy added. 'Every time she was at Wembley


136
Stadium for the FA Cup Final, she must have been eyeing
the place up with a wistful sigh and thinking: "If only".'

'Sounds like we're back to calling people fascists/ said
Liz. 'I take it you're being facetious.'

'I'm entirely serious/ Kathy insisted. 'She knew what
Pinochet was doing, and it didn't stop her inviting him
round for fireside chats. I've very little doubt that woman
would have had subversives eliminated if she thought she
could get away with it. In fact, she did, in Gibraltar. The
SAS shot dead three IRA members, unarmed and in broad
daylight. The order came from the top, and her own sources
don't dispute that. Thatcher wanted to give the IRA "a
bloody nose", their words, after Brighton.'

'And quite bloody right/ said Max. They were there to
massacre British soldiers and citizens in a bomb attack, not
abducted from their beds by snatch squads. They weren't
political opponents, they were terrorists.'

They were murderous scum/ Kathy stated vehemently.
'But according to the laws of the country those SAS operatives
were supposedly protecting, even murderous scum
have a right to be tried in a court before sentence is passed,
and that sentence is no longer allowed to be death.'

'Sure. They should have been apprehended, at the risk of
killing or injuring British soldiers in the process, put on trial
and then, on the off-chance they actually were convicted,
they would call themselves political prisoners and be out
by now as part of the so-called Peace Process. In fact, they
would probably have cabinet posts in the Northern Irish
Assembly. Is that what you'd prefer? Gibraltar wasn't an act
of fascism, it was self-defence against fascism, for what else
could you call blowing people up because you can't get your
way in a democracy?'

'Live by the sword, die by the sword/ Grieg added, in
another essential contribution. They got what they were
planning to dish out. I've no sympathy for terrorists.'


137
'Neither have I/ replied Kathy, 'but the point is we're
supposed to be better than them.'

'Fight fire with fire, I say/ Grieg observed, going all out
for that cliches-to-words-spoken record ratio.

'I don't imagine Red Adair's with you on that one/ Parla
bane mused, unable to resist in the face of such unthinking
vapidity.

'It's just a metaphor/ he replied testily.

'Or an analogy, even/ Parlabane corrected.

'Yeah, well, the point is, the world wouldn't miss a few
more dead terrorists.'

'And would we kill them after they'd carried out an attack
or preemptively?'

'Preferably before. Either way, it's no great loss.'

'How long before?' Parlabane asked. 'When they're poised
to strike? When they're on reconnaissance? When they're
hatching their plot? When they join a proscribed organisation?'

'No, we should wait until they've killed as many people
as possible, as usual, before we do anything that might have
hand-wringers like Philip Young bleating about civil rights/
said, inevitably, Max. Philip Young was the spokesman for
Taking Liberty, not an organisation Parlabane imagined Max
having a direct-debit subscription to. 'You know, I really do
wonder how many people would still be alive today if we had been fighting fire with fire.'

'Absolutely/ Grieg agreed. Campbell nodded also. Max
was looking around for further assent. Liz wore an impatient
frown, as those overemotional female creatures were
wont to whenever men started talking about killing each
other. Rory, who had grown quiet during the latter stages
of the argument, didn't meet Max's eyes. Instead he looked
across at Toby, rather furtively and not for the first time.
Parlabane couldn't see Toby's face to read what, if any, response he had for either man.


138
Whatever support he had received was enough for Max
to persist.

'If you ask me, we should have given the IRA a few more
bloody noses/

'Yeah, because they really eased off after Gibraltar/
Parlabane responded.

Max ignored this. 'No, instead we spend a hundred and
fifty million pounds of British taxpayers' money on an
inquiry into Bloody Sunday, putting on public trial the very
service men and women who defend our country. What about
an inquiry into Omagh, into Enniskillen, into the thousands of deaths dealt out by the IRA since?'

'Oh for Christ's sake, I've heard enough/ It was Vale
who'd spoken, his intervention commanding the room with
its severity in conjunction with surprise, given that he had
up until that point listened to the debate politely but silently.
Parlabane was more taken aback than any of them. He'd
known the guy for more than a decade, and this was about
the closest he'd heard him come to raising his voice. Vale
was the kind of person who took pleasure in his own political
inscrutability, amused by the assumptions and extrapolations
of those foolish enough to attempt to get inside
his head. It had been no surprise that he'd sat wordlessly
throughout this bout of dead-horse flogging, or that he'd be
wearing a wry smile while the intelligence services were
being both lionised and burnt in effigy. He wasn't a man
easily offended, and Parlabane had little idea what would
do the trick, not being ever quite sure what Vale took seriously
or what he held dear. Well, he knew now.

'First of all, we don't need an inquiry into what terrorists
did because the whole point of terrorism is that it's unaccountable.
Our security forces must be supremely accountable,
because whatever they do, they do in the name of this

country and it's a name some of us want to remain proud
of/	K


139
'Look, mate/ Max said, pitching at conciliatory but
inevitably hitting patronising. Those are high ideals, and
we ought to be proud of them, but it's easy for you to say,
when you've spent all your working life in the civil service
pushing pens. I was in the TA, 1 know a lot of soldiers, and
it's not as easy as you think to practise what you're
preaching. Those guys are the ones putting themselves in
the firing line to defend us, so I think we should cut them
some slack.'

'Yes, those servicemen are there, as you say, to defend our
country, and when they are defending our country, they are
defending a way of life in which soldiers don't gun down
civilians. You say we should cut our soldiers some slack. In
my experience, people are happy to cut soldiers and
policemen plenty of slack, see them dish out some "instant
justice" - as long as it's people they disagree with on the
receiving end.

'We've all got that nasty little streak inside us, that secret
desire to just silence the person saying what we don't want
to hear. And that nasty streak embraces force because when
force is on your side, reason, logic and morality don't have
to be. You're talking about fighting fire with fire. Well, who
here hasn't fantasised about putting a bullet in the head of
some scumbag the world could do without: Bin Laden, Le
Pen, Nick Griffin?'

'Alan Titchmarsh,' suggested Rory.

'Quite/ Vale continued. 'You tell yourself the world would
be a better place without them, but would it? Sure the world
wouldn't miss another bloodthirsty extremist or racist hate
monger, but the moment they were gone, the world would
then be a place where we kill people because we don't like
what they're thinking. I don't know about the rest of you,
but I'm proud of my country because my country isn't in
that world, despite what those on the left might fear and
those on the right might wish.'


140
I


pfc	Vale sat back in his chair and took up his malt, signalling


f~	the end of his contribution and, from the reaction, the end

BBsr'

«:	of the debate. There was silence, apart from the sound of

H	other glasses being lifted to mouth or refilled from bottles.

Suddenly everybody was thirsty and nobody had anything

to say. It was like school dinners after the headmaster had

just told everybody off.

'So/ Parlabane said, interrupting the awkward hush.

'Who's up for charades?'


141
Troubled Sleep


Rory was lying awake, despite the quantities of food and
alcohol that would normally have seen off consciousness
within moments of curling up in the customary coma position.
Tonight, though, there was no getting comfortable, so
he was on his back, trying to empty his head of its unwelcome
and noisily rancorous guests. As always, the best way
was to think about more pleasant, relaxing and appropriately
nocturnal things, but it was like trying to watch a DVD
while those same guests were still hanging round the living
room. It was impossible to retreat into sexual fantasy because
even his fantasies needed a minimum of plausibility to hang
their titillation on, and right then it felt like there couldn't
be a woman in the world who didn't despise him.

When he was in his early teens, and his schoolmates were
giving thanks to Sanyo for their Betamax pirate-hardcore
delivery system, his VCR enthusiasm had been for capturing
nude scenes from late-night movies - but only those
featuring actresses he already knew from other roles. He
remembered sitting up into the wee hours, through endless
ad breaks and false promises, for the possible bounty of
glimpsing hitherto unseen breasts beneath a well-ken't face.
And when he found it, it was gold, with soft-focus footage
of the erstwhile Bionic Woman or Lois Lane taking their tops
off far more of a thrill than the full-on stuff his mates were
whacking off to. To Rory, it was like the difference between
seeing a stripper in a nightclub and seeing the girl next door
take her bra off at the window. There had to be a relationship,
if you like, a point of reference, otherwise it was just


142
another pretty face (pretty tits, pretty burn, double penetration
and multiple cum shots if that was your thang; the
point was, no depth of depravity was a match for extant
familiarity).

Was it a fetish? Unquestionably, but that wasn't all it was.
Was it perverse? Only in accordance with the eternal rule
that 'what turns me on is erotic but what turns you on is
perverse'. Was it sad, pathetic and embarrassing? Well, so
far he hadn't met any girls he imagined would be impressed
if he told them all about it, so it was definitely well down
the list of Interesting Things About Me to reel off over first
date dinner. And was it on the wane? Hell, no.

He'd once thought this voyeuristic streak, his 2-D love, as
he came to think of it in his youth, would end or at least
dissipate when he started getting some first-hand experience.
That maybe once you'd got your paws on your first pair of
naked funbags, you'd be less inclined to strain the limits of
your eyesight as you tried to detect the outline of aureoles
through blouse and bra beneath that bank teller's namebadge. Wrong! That getting fully naked and doing everything you'd
ever heard of, read about, imagined and fantasised would
dim the allure of at least the next tight skirt or lycra-restrained
embonpoint that bobbed into view the next morning. Wrong! In retrospect, he'd deduced that his naive theory had been
comparable to thinking you'd never want to watch another
football match just because you'd got a game for the local
Sunday amateurs. It just didn't work that way.

At least Finlay had a viable excuse: he was a bona ride computer geek who didn't get out much and very seldom
got laid. It was expected of him that he'd be thus retarded
in the sexual area of his emotional development. Rory with
his success, his money, his social sphere and his sex life,
lacked any comparable mitigation, beyond the enduring
personal philosophy that self-indulgent id-stroking was its
own justification.


143
And he knew what people would think, what assumptions
they'd be likely to make, with the words 'sexist', 'misogynist'
and 'wanker' featuring large and liberally; but they
were dead wrong. Real life, real psychology didn't work like
the flowchart on some right-on feminazi student pamphlet.
He wasn't sexist in his dealings with women; he'd appointed
more of them than he had men, and not because of any preference
about what he'd rather be looking at from behind his
desk. Jeez, you only had to get an eyeful of Theresa Graham
of a Monday morning to nail that one. He wasn't some feminist's
voodoo-doll fantasy boss who gave the job to the girl
with the biggest tits or the shortest skirt; not unless she was
also the candidate who could do the job best. He'd hired
them in every instance because he recognised and required
what they could bring to the table. Rory respected women
in each and every way even the feminazis could wish for.
He just couldn't help what the sight of them did to his brain.

He could be introduced to a Nobel-prize-winning female
scientist who had eradicated an endemic disease in between
senior government ministerial posts and publishing works
of acclaimed poetry. He would cower before her intellect,
be humbled by her achievements, be shamed by his comparative
insignificance. But none of that would prevent him
trying to picture what she looked like under her clothes, or
cause him to avert his gaze if she turned just the right way
to afford a glimpse between those second and third buttons.
This didn't diminish her standing in his eyes, did not detract
from his awe, and did not mean he was reducing her to a
sexual object. It was just that he couldn't pretend she wasn't
- as well as all those other things - a sexual object as identified
somewhere deep and primal inside every straight
male.

He knew some guys were better at filtering it out,
numbing it or censoring it, but suspected also that he was
more sensitive to this primal instinct than most. It was as


144
though he was a kind of sexual empath, born with some
carnal higher awareness, a more acute and sensitive means
of tuning into the signals. If it was a crime, it was its own
punishment, because there was no rest from it throughout
the waking day. And truth be told, while it had at times
threatened to drive him crazy, professionally it had served
him well.

Sex sells. Yeah. Everybody knew that. Everybody knew
petrol was combustible, too, but that didn't mean anybody
could design a Porsche.

The Helen Lindstrom story had been bad enough, but that
business after dinner ... It had just been so ugly. What was
that about? All that nonsense was over, long over. He didn't
even vote any more, and if he did it wouldn't be for the
Tories. But as soon as that Eighties vault was wedged open,
the anger and hatred had come spilling out and it was like
he was back there again; like they were all back there again,
for there'd been no quarter given by the lefties either.

When he tried to picture women, he thought about Liz
and her ambush; Emily and Kathy and their looks of disgust.
It was hopeless. So, inevitably, something else started
playing - once again - on the internal widescreen plasma.
He was back once more to another Friday night: two weeks
ago now but still vividly fresh and undiminished in its recurrence.
He'd been driving home, towards the end of the rush
hour, the traffic lightening but the roads still slow because
of the rain. It was absolutely tanking down, that way where
the drops seemed to be bouncing back up when they hit the
pavement. It was dark, really dark, earlier than it was due,
and not earlier as in hours, but months. This was December
dark, headlights and streetlights swallowed by the rain like
they may as well have been torch flames. He was grateful
for the comfort of his BMW, but it was no pleasure to be
driving. Pedestrians trotted alongside, more holding up
newspapers and plastic bags than brollies, testament to the


145
suddenness of the downpour. They were only visible for
any length of time when he was stationary at red signals,
otherwise they just appeared in blinks and flashes, picked
out by another car's lights as it turned, or briefly silhouetted
against windows. It felt uneasy that they should be so
difficult to see, one of those moments when he became
uncomfortably aware he was in control of a potential killing
machine.

It was a great night to be inside, whether that was at home
in front of the home cinema set-up or in a pub with a real
fire going and a crowd of familiar faces determined to be
there till the last. That was what he'd been deciding when
he saw them. He pulled up, about ten or twelve cars back
from the lights, little chance of getting through in just one
change, which was why he put the machine in neutral and
stuck on the handbrake. They were three or four yards away
on the pavement, in front of a garden gate: teenagers going
by their dress, a guy and a girl, kissing under a hopelessly
insufficient umbrella, which she was holding with one hand,
her other locked around the guy's waist. The rain was
running off the brolly on to one of his shoulders, water
pouring off both their coats on to their shins, necessitating
a jeans-over-the-radiator scenario whenever they both got
home. Well, one of them presumably was home, just about,
but wasn't in a hurry to get inside, where parents and other
complications dwelt.

They didn't care. Not about the rain, not about the cold,
not about the hundred commuters passing by in their insulated
metal boxes. If this was where that kiss was happening,
then that was all that mattered about the location and the
prevailing conditions.

His first thought had been, how miserable. Not the night
and the weather, but the restrictions of being that age: not
having the freedoms you needed, your own place, independence,
privacy, the money that bought all of the above.


146
It had been years since he'd been caught in the rain longer
than it took to get from the car to the door, or in the worst
instance to hail a passing Hackney. There was no need to
be out there in the rain, never mind that being the only place
he could kiss a girl.

Then, as the lights changed and he had to move on, he
realised it had been even longer since there'd been a girl he
wanted to kiss so much that he'd settle for doing it outside
on a freezing night in the pouring rain in front of a hundred
passing commuters. That's when he knew it wasn't miserable
at all. That's when he knew they were happier than he
was, because in that moment they had everything they
wanted in the world.


Parlabane held his breath as he stood against the wall,
balanced on the balls of his feet, watching his door very
slowly swing open. A shaft of light fell across the foot of the
double bed, picking out a tangle of sheets and the trousers
he couldn't be arsed hanging up before he crashed out. The
intruder stepped silently and delicately through the door,
across the shaft and swiftly into shadow, approaching the
head of the bed.

'Bang you're dead,' Parlabane said, flipping the
lightswitch to reveal Vale, who was already pointing his
fingers towards him in the shape of a gun.

'Call that one a draw, shall we?' Vale asked.

'What are you up to, Tim?' Parlabane replied, climbing
back under the covers. 'Have you ever heard of knocking?
Or what about that dashed handy contraption on the bedside
table? Allows room-to-room conversation. Amazing thing.
Dreamt up by a Scottish chappie, you know.'

'I've been knocking - softly, I admit - for two minutes.
Didn't want to hammer the door because it might waken
someone. Not you, clearly. It never ceases to amaze me, Jack,
that you can sleep through any amount of loud noise, but


147
the minute sound of someone picking a lock brings you
instantly to consciousness.'

'It's not that amazing. Somebody knocking my door represents
an unnecessary interruption to my sleep. My mind
knows I'd like them to fuck off, so takes no action. Attempted
intrusion, on the other hand, sets off all the emergency
alarms, which are on an extra-sensitive setting in my subconscious
when I know you're in the building.'

'Well, I'm probably not your first uninvited guest tonight/
he said, taking a seat by the bureau-cum-dressing table.

'How so?'

'Have you tried your mobile since dinner?'

'No.'

Vale tossed it across. It landed in Parlabane's lap, bouncing
a little on the sheets stretched over his crossed legs. He
pressed the On button a couple of times to no response.

'What gives?'

'SIM card's been removed. Mine too. And probably
anybody else's who didn't bring their mobile with them to
dinner.'

That's probably just me and you, then. To these business
types, it's like a security blanket. They want you to think
they're expecting a call on a million-dollar deal any minute.
Anyway, UML hi-jinks?'

The expect that's what Mr Baxter was up to that he couldn't
attend dinner. Preparation indeed. They'll mop up what they
missed at some point between now and tomorrow's activities.
Tricks in store, I'd wager. Thought you'd want a heads
up.'

'Cheers. But why didn't you phone?'

T'd be surprised if Baxter or Campbell aren't listening in.
They're here to play games with us, and as far as I can see
they've got complete control of the environment. I noticed
my room had been entered when I came back upstairs, and
not by a turning-down service, either.'


148
'How did you know?'

'Trade secret, old boy. There are signs you can't help but
read once you've learned to recognise them.'

'You must have loved it when Max talked about you
pushing pens in the civil service. I was surprised to see you
wading into that particular mire.'

'As was I that you weren't wallower-in-chief. I can only
listen to so much ignorance when I'm on my own time. Men
like Max are just immature, if you ask me: military fetishists
in awe of real soldiers and seduced by the idea of simple
solutions. Kill all the bad guys and hey presto: perfect world.
That said, Kathy and Emily got my dander up too with their
pseudo-totalitarian nonsense. I really have to say that
conspiracy theorists assume far too much competence, unity
and organisation on the part of their imaginary enemies. If
our security forces were anything like as synergised as those
pair believed them to be, I'd sleep a lot easier at night.'

'Unless some git broke into your bedroom.'

'Petulant and self-important persecution fantasies,' Vale
continued, ignoring the jibe. 'Just a political version of
blaming the umpire because your team keeps losing.'

'To be fair, the umpire wasn't as impartial as he should
have been in those days.'

'Maybe not, but he wasn't killing anybody. That's the
offensive part of the persecution fantasy. It didn't happen
and it wouldn't happen. Otherwise what's the point of what
I was up to all those years? I've never been a "My country,
right or wrong" type. I did some pretty distasteful things,
and I did them because I believed in the ways in which we
were better than the enemy. Safe to say a pretty bloody big
one was that we don't kill our own citizens.'

'Except we did, in Gibraltar. Well, I suppose the point was
the targets no longer wanted to be British citizens, or subjects
rather, and in that much they certainly got their wish.'

'Flavius was an aberration. One that pissed me off, in fact.


149
No sympathy for the IRA pond-life, but it sent out a very
nasty and very irresponsible signal that everyone knew came
from the top.'

'So, just between you and me, do you think it's possible
that certain official elements might have been tempted to
kill in seeking that simple solution you talked about? I mean,
look what's coming out in the wash about Pat Finucane.'

'You have to understand, Jack, the army mentality over
there, despite the official line, was that they were at war,
battling a merciless and deceitful enemy, same as if they
were overseas. That's the pity of it: they adopted attitudes
and did things there that they'd never dream on the mainland.
Nobody's ever opened fire on a bunch of white,
middle-class British demonstrators, have they?'

The wogs start at Belfast, then?'

I'm not excusing it, just saying it generally isn't security
services policy to assassinate people.'

'Yeah, but what about Alastair Dalgleish and his enforcer
George Knight, for God's sake. They left a long trail of
corpses and tried to add plenty more to the list, including
yours truly.'

'Knight's lot were a private dirty-tricks department, not
a government assassination unit. Granted they were a very
well-connected bunch and they called in a lot of high-level,
ask-no-questions favours, but it wasn't a state conspiracy,
was it, Jack? Even you'd have to admit that.'

'I would. But given that there were people involved so
close to government, and that there were security forces
personnel - even just ex-personnel - prepared to do those
things, it leaves open some scary possibilities.'

'Rogue elements, rogue individuals are always a possibility.
But the point is that they would be rogue, and rogue
is all they'd ever be. The infrastructure makes it very hard
and very risky to find co-conspirators for something like
that, never mind multi-level complicity and approval. I'm


150
not saying it couldn't happen, though it would have to be
on a very small scale, but to be honest, like time travel, if it
was ever going to, it would have happened by now.'

'How so?'

'What I mean is, the kind of political climate that might
have nurtured such a notion is long gone.'

The Eighties, you mean? Thatcher?'

Vale chuckled.

'Good God, no. That's what was most farcical about
tonight's discussion. They all thought the Eighties was some
kind of defining era in the polarisation of British politics,
when it was really just the era in which they started paying
attention. The late Sixties and Seventies was when Kathy
and Emily would really have had something to be paranoid
about. Never mind MIS bugging Arthur Scargill - what
about MI6 bugging Harold Wilson? Around the time of the
three-day week, there was genuine fear in certain circles and
lip-licking anticipation in others - that we were going
to have a military coup; that the army was going to have to
move in because the government couldn't control unchecked
subversion from the unions.'

'Really? I don't remember much about that/

'Of course you don't, and neither do that lot we just had
dinner with, because while all this was going on, you shower
were riding Chopper bikes and watching Mary, Mungo and
Midge. It's like we were talking about on the road up here:
the politics of the Eighties felt extreme to you, and to the
others, because you were at an age when all your feelings
were extreme.'

'Aye, true enough. I'd admit age has had a mellowing
effect even on me. The downside is that I can no longer
blame everything on a bunch of homicidal right-wing
nutters out to kill all the lefties and silence the dissidents.'

'God forbid you should have to work for a living, Jack.'


151
Red Bull had nothing on embarrassment. If clubbers wanted
a little extra help to lever up those heavy eyelids, there was
no need to hold their noses and swallow back a concoction
that looked and tasted like some nocturnal mammal's piss.
Instead, they should crack open some quality Australian
Shiraz and let their tongues make twats of them: sustained
wakefulness guaranteed.

UML would sure have their work cut out creating a sense
of unity and togetherness in the morning, though at least
they'd know how the red team and the blue team should
really line up. What a mess. Emily knew she wouldn't be
the only one feeling it (or at least hoped she wasn't the only
one feeling it), but given her and Kathy's PR role, it was all
the more embarrassing to have been such major combatants.
Ironically, it had been the success of the proceedings up until
that point that had caused everyone to let their guards down
and be less circumspect than was normal or wise at a table
of comparative strangers. In her case, this was far less forgivable,
but in mitigation, with everyone getting along so well
and displaying such open enthusiasm, it had made her lose
focus of her already indistinct role. Yes, she and Kathy were
there because they had responsibility for UML's PR, but they
were also there as guests and to take in the whole experience
from a client's point of view. If there had been no such
blurring, she'd have been there as a professional: watched
what she drank, watched closer what she said; bitten her
lip when she heard something she didn't like and deftly
redirected discussions into more comfortable territory.

Instead she had brought too much of her real self to the
table - they all had - and the results had been horrible. She
winced when she recalled her 'you don't see a Tory for ages'
remark, especially in the light of her having claimed
Thatcher fostered division. How much more 'them and us'
could she have made it? Liz had looked more insulted and
alienated by that line than the 'fascist state' stuff, and she'd


152
been right when she pointed out how intolerant it was. But
if she felt regret for her downright rudeness - even in the
face of a provocative blowhard like Max - then what Vale
had said just made her feel like an idiot. He sounded like a
man who knew what he was talking about and a lot more
besides, his position given further weight by his measured
words and lack of any apparent agenda. He made her accusations
sound like what they really were: self-important
histrionics and ignorant, self-pitying conjecture.

Vale hadn't elaborated on what his former civil service
job had entailed and he therefore had no verifiable authority
about what he said. He could, like Max suggested, have
been the lowliest pen-pusher in the dullest department, with
access to no more and no different sources of information
than the rest of them on the subject at hand. But she still
knew he was right. He'd made her feel like a rebellious but
stupid teenager, which stung all the more because it pointed
to a hard lesson still not fully learnt.

God, all that invective flying around, all those unfounded
assertions and accusations, moral outrage a quick-fix substitute
for knowledge. Old habits that had never died. Despite
everything that had passed, there were clearly still vast
seams of anger unmined, and not too far below the surface,
either.

Though it was no consolation, she hadn't been the worst,
and not even the worst on the left. That distinction went to
Kathy, who had weighed in with unrestrained and unwary
enthusiasm, loyally tying her colours to Emily's mast in the
perhaps guilty knowledge that her partner had been the one
more actively involved way back when. That made her feel
bad too, because Kathy didn't know all she ought to about
Emily's political past. It wasn't a time she liked to dwell
upon, but she knew it would be hard keeping it out of her
stubbornly wakeful head after the time-tunnel they'd all
been peering through tonight.


153
And flash! That was when it hit her: the answer to the
question she'd thought might keep her awake before the
dinner-party debacle unfolded.

Mirror, mirror on the wall: who's the leftiest of them all?


154
Motivational Oratory (ii)


'You've got what it takes, otherwise you wouldn't be here.'
Shiach walked back and forth across the floor, the men
standing to attention in two rows, heads high, eagerly
awaiting what he had to say. It was late, but they wouldn't
sleep tonight anyway, he knew, much as they might need it
before such an occasion. It would be worse than the night
before Christmas when they were kids. In fact, for most of
them it was maybe more like the young player before his
big debut: nervous anticipation keeping him awake, all the
time aware that the lack of shut-eye wasn't going to help
his sharpness when the time finally came to step on to the
pitch. And, naturally, the more you worried about things
like that, the harder it was to relax and get even close to
nodding off.

They knew you didn't get two chances at something like
this. Only Marko and Bruce were the genuine article, as well
as himself, of course; and not forgetting Fotheringham,
though his professionalism was less martially manifest. The
rest were what Fotheringham had disparaged as 'trialists
and tourists': eager for the chance to practice the abilities
and aptitudes some knew - and some merely thought they
knew - they had.

Selby's people had never flushed out those closest and
most loyal to him, contenting themselves with merely
cutting off the head, but it hadn't killed the body. All these
years on, he still had some valuable and eager contacts,
allowing him to recruit the personnel he needed to relaunch
his enterprise. Right now, he'd concede that collectively they


155
didn't make the most impressive bunch, but nor would he
have expected them to be. It wasn't the men who began this
operation who should be judged as a unit, but the ones who
ended it.

You've got what it takes, otherwise you wouldn't be here. That
was a joke, in as much as it didn't refer to their mettle but
the non-returnable bonds they had lodged in order to prove
how much they wanted this chance. Savings had been
cashed, homes remortgaged, prized possessions sold off to
get on board this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Some of
them would have what it took, some would manage pass
marks and no more, and others would inevitably fail. The
first test would be when they saw what they were being
armed with. The looks in their eyes then would tell him
plenty about who really had the stomach for this and who
just wanted to play at soldiers.

At thirty grand, it was an expensive game, but an undertaking
such as this needed substantial seed money. The first
Ministry of Vigilance had been built on no more than patriotism
and duty, and look how that had ended. This time,
as he had explained to Fotheringham, like any other concern
of worth these days, it would be a privatised, profit-making
venture. Fotheringham had seemed a little petulant about
this at first, muttering about not having broken him out of
jail so that he could strike out on his own, but Shiach assured
him that his bidding would still be done. Government
contracts would be tendered, of course, but having rotted
in jail for over a decade, protecting said government by
keeping his mouth shut, it was time to look after number
one. The real money was in the corporate world: that was
who really ran countries these days, and they required just
the same vigilance with regard to threatening and seditious
individuals as any government did. Besides, Fotheringham
had a bloody cheek playing the ingratitude card considering
the time it had taken the bastard to come to the rescue.


156
'I was just too small a fish/ he'd said by way of apology.
'I had to bide my time, same as you. Play my hand too early
and we'd both have been fucked. And we both know Selby
was keeping an eye on you. If I'd engineered a stunt like
your supposed suicide while he was alive, he wouldn't have
bought it unless he actually saw a corpse. Williams was less
fussy: he just needed to know it was done.'

Shiach had to hand it to Fotheringham: he didn't just owe
him his freedom, he probably owed him his life too. As soon
as Selby was gone, Fotheringham guessed Williams would
prefer to have Shiach simply wiped out than the worry of
him still rattling around the prison system. It had been therefore
typical of the Architect's talents to place himself in
Williams's path and get himself nominated for the job. He'd
always been a genius at being what people wanted him to
be, and understood that people trusted you more if they
thought they had come to you, that your actions were their
idea.

It was no surprise that Fotheringham had risen like he
had; more so that he'd held on to his principles in doing so.
That said, he did confess he had thought for a while that Shiach was something best left in the past.

'It all looked like it was working out,' Fotheringham said.
The Cold War ended, and we'd won it. Thatcher was gone, but the important thing was there was no way back for the
hard left. The advent of New Labour confirmed that. Some
of it still hurt, though. The Roland Voss debacle, for instance.
Hateful, deceitful, nasty little man, deserved exactly what
Dalgleish and Co did to him, but some friends of mine went
down with that ship.'

'George Knight, I heard. Can't you get him out too?'

The wish I could, but he's a prisoner who does officially exist.
I have promised him a consolation, though.'

But it wasn't petty score-settling that had made
Fotheringham realise the MoV's time had come again, for


157
its purpose had never been anything personal, nor even truly
political. It had always been about protecting this country
from threats that its own laws - and political squeamishness
- left it vulnerable to, and since September 2001 that
vulnerability had taken on a whole new scale.

'What I resent most about them/ Fotheringham told him,
'is that they can exploit the freedoms and processes we stand
for, while despising and condemning us for holding them.
They're using the liberties our country allows them in order
to plan attacks on us, and what can we do? Snoop, intercept,
maybe make a few arrests, after which they regroup
and try again. Like the IRA said, we have to be lucky every
time: they only have to be lucky once, and slapped wrists
aren't going to deter them from rolling the dice again.'

Looking at the recruits assembled before him, it didn't
look like the MoV were ready to take on Al Qaeda quite yet,
but you had to start somewhere. In their case, you had to
start by clearing obstacles from the immediate path, and that
was what this initial exercise was about. Innocent people
would have to die, but the way Shiach saw it, the state owed
him a few.

Fotheringham had been sceptical about quite what some
of the recruits could bring to the table, other than thirty
thousand a head, but Shiach's answer was simple. The last
time, they had made the mistake of recruiting guys out of
an ideological motivation, and things had fallen apart
because they weren't up to practising what they preached.
This time, he had gone for men who wanted to kill first and
foremost, and would be happy to let other people worry
about the reason. Again, some of them would fail to walk
the walk like they'd talked the talk, but they would be few
and they were expendable.

They were hungry for action, already electrified by anticipation.
The rush of a lifetime? In retrospect, no doubt, but
in the moment it would be no surprise if they felt nothing.


158
That's how it tended to be in the extremes of existence.
Processes took over that were older than the civilised soul,
that pre-dated the way the mind made sense of things. Serial
killers, it was said, felt nothing at the time, but got their
juice in the anticipation and the remembering thereafter.
Crash survivors often had no recollection of what they'd
gone through, not even of the fear.

'We're about to leave for our destination/ he told the
assembly, his voice reverberating around the girders above.
'This is your last chance to walk out if you have any doubts
about your wishes or abilities to go through with this. After
we leave here, however, there will be no desertion. We will
kill you, that's a promise, because once this begins, if we
cannot trust you, we cannot let you live. If you leave now,
no questions will be asked, no recrimination will follow,
though we will expect your discretion, and you do not wish
to imagine the lengths to which we will go if that discretion
is not observed. So I say again, this is your last chance
to leave.'

He stopped and looked at the floor, hands behind his
back, in a gesture intended to convey to anyone bailing out
that they would not have to face him should they wish to
do so. No-one moved.

He waited a few moments in silence, giving everyone a
lingering opportunity to confront their own doubts and
allowing any ditherers to do themselves a favour. Still the
company remained strong.

'Everything in your lives so far has just been a warmup,'
he told them. 'Tomorrow is when you will really become
yourselves. Tomorrow is when you'll be getting your
money's worth in what is inarguably the ultimate experience
of its kind. Any divisions among you will be forgotten.
The people you were outside, already half erased, will be
forgotten by yourselves, not just each other. Presumptions,
prejudices and conceits will be discarded like worthless


159
wrapping paper as you find out what each of you is truly
made of. Weakness will be exposed, in arm, in head and in
heart, and it will bring failure, humiliation and ostracism
upon itself. Not everyone is going to go home happy with
what he's learned about himself. But a team will be built,
each member as aware as he is reliant upon what the others
are worth.

'It will be a team united by that most ancient human
commonality of purpose, older than war, blade and even
flame: the hunt. Since men first combined their efforts to
bring down some less savage beast, there has been no
stronger bond than between those who united in the kill.
For they knew that together they were lords over their foe,
kings of men. And blood would ever anoint them.'


160
p


Saturday, October 26, 2002
Torture


He could see nothing, whether his eyes were open or not.
His clothes felt like they were swallowing him: pressing,
pulling, dragging, some enveloping parasite determined to
squeeze the fight from his limbs until he drowned there in
the darkness. He had no idea how long he'd held his breath,
how much further there was to go or whether the figures
overlapped in favour of survival. Only the thought of a
mammoth corporate-killing lawsuit assured him that it felt
a lot scarier than it actually was.

Okay. Parlabane really had to chalk one up to Baxter: this was what you called a trust exercise.

There had been a drysuit and a pair of heavy-duty
walking boots (both his size, in accordance with details
supplied on his RSVP) lying on his bed when he returned
from breakfast. The former had been the most worrying sight
of the weekend so far. There were two portents that truly
depressed Parlabane in this world, and one was anything
that suggested deep water - unheated, unchlorinated and
unattached to a changing suite and a lounge bar - would
be featuring on the day's agenda. (The other was Christian
fish logos on cars parked outside any house where he was
about to have dinner.) Heights were no problem, as many
of the more noteworthy episodes in his career would testify.
Neither exertion nor exposure could summon any dread,
not even when combined with the prospect of it being in
the company of Thatcherite recidivists and unreconstructed
Trots. But water, outdoors, why? There was just no need at
this point in mankind's evolution to be in it or on it. We had


163
invented other, superior ways of traversing the stuff that
involved far less risk of coming into direct contact with it.
It was dangerous. It denoted the parts of the planet that we
were unable to inhabit, a very big heads-up being the fact
that we couldn't fucking breathe in there. But most of all he
hated it because, this being Scotland, it was always freezing
and he was an unrepentant Big Jessie.

They had all been shepherded aboard the minibus with
no indication of their destination or intended activities,
beyond the odd teasing remark from the UML pair. This had
made for a quiet journey, as the prevailing climate among
the rest was simmering suspicion with intermittent
outbreaks of mutual embarrassment. Parlabane started
whistling We Are Family at one point, which inexplicably
failed to usher in a new mood of laughter, forgiveness and
reconciliation.

There was a light drizzle falling as they climbed on to
the minibus, turning to misty smir by the time they got off.
The cold and damp had steamed up the windows with the
breath of twelve drysuited, befleeced and lightly sweating
adults, which had made it difficult to follow where the road
was taking them. They found themselves at the foot of a
ridge, the river at their backs and the hotel absent from the
visible horizon as Campbell drove off. There were a few
anxious pairs of eyes watching the departure of their transport,
no doubt roughly calculating the time of their trip
against approximate speed and its ramifications for what
lay between this valley and their next hot meal. With no
idea how they might have looped and doubled back, Parlabane
knew it was a pointless exercise. He guessed they
could as easily be ten miles out from base or less than two.
Still worrying about the implications of the drysuit, he had
actually been grateful to see the minibus leave, as it would
spare him the concentrated 'wet dog' assault on his nostrils
during the return trip that would have been the result of a


164
dozen damp fleeces in a confined and unventilated space.

Baxter led them up the side of the ridge, rising in a diagonal
that made the climb tolerably gentle for those who had
failed to resist the black pudding and potato scone options
on the breakfast menu. At the top, instead of a plateau as
expected, there was a long U-shaped trench, running like a
gigantic rain gutter along the ridge. It began shallow-sided
but steep, tight and narrow about a quarter of a mile west,
and broadened, widened and deepened towards a small
corrie-loch a further couple of hundred yards east. From
above, the body of water would have resembled a giant
teardrop, much like the one Parlabane felt like shedding
when they began making their way down and Baxter
pointed out what lay in store ahead. The tail of the 'tear'
had a break in it shortly before it widened dramatically to
fill the horseshoe corrie at the east end of the ridge. The
land rose at the break just enough to lie above the water
level, which made it difficult to imagine what geological
quirk could have accounted for it. Gravity argued none:
water ran downhill, and yet there was water either side of
a dry platform in the middle of a slope. There was only one
possible explanation, and Parlabane's scrotum was already
going into pickled-walnut mode in anticipation of it.

'A lot of the area around here used to belong to the army,'
Baxter explained. 'Some of it still does. It's okay, I don't
think it's one of the spots they used to blow the shit out of,
so you shouldn't need to worry about stumbling on any
unused artillery shells. They used it for training exercises
because of the variety of the terrain, I'm told. Forests, moorland,
swamps, hills, cliffs and, as you can see here, water.
Now, if any of you are wondering about that implausibly
convenient stretch of ground across the tail of the corrie loch,
it may clarify things to inform you that beneath the sparse
covering of weeds and scattered gravel are several tons of
concrete. And the reason the water doesn't simply flow


165
around this partial dam is that just beneath the surface are
four tunnels. This, I should emphasise, is not evidence of
worryingly daft design and engineering on the part of army
bridge-builders, because the purpose of the construction was
not to get the squaddies over the drink . . .'

Baxter left it at that for the moment, a chorus of groans
confirming that no further clarification was required.

Tunneltastic/ Rory remarked with dark relish, proving
that the chorus was not unanimous and that he for one was
lapping up their discomfiture. Parlabane might normally
have respected such gleeful misanthropy, but at that moment
he would have happily slapped on a 'Hypocrite' baseball
cap above his 'Big Jessie All-Star XI' baseball jersey while
energetically lamping Rory with a 'Shut Up You Smug Tory
Twat' baseball bat.

'But don't worry/ Baxter resumed, unslinging his backpack
and laying it on the ground. 'I'm not going to shove
you all down there on your lonesome. I understand from
my colleague Francis that last night's post-prandial deliberations
were, shall we say, full and frank. Well, now's the
perfect time to kiss and make up. Kind of a hands-acrossthe-water
initiative, you could say.'

Baxter produced a heavy coil of climbing cord from his
backpack and dropped it to the ground. It was very fine
stuff, identified by Parlabane's informed (and covetous) eye
as 5.5mm Spectra Cord, claimed by its manufacturer to be
ten times stronger than steel. Its minuscule diameter meant
Baxter had been able to fit a good fifteen, maybe twenty
yards worth into his backpack. Parlabane couldn't work out
how it was likely to factor into the imminent sub-aquatic
low-jinks, but was pretty confident he wasn't going to like
it.

'The good news is that I'll be going first, as somebody
has to thread the needle. Then you'll be coming through one
at a time, attached to the rope, so that the person ahead can


166
speed your progress by giving you a tow. The bad news is
the running order, which will be as follows: Tim, then Grieg,
then Kathy, Max, Emily, Rory, Jack, Toby and finally Joanna.'

Each of them cast a glance at the person mentioned before
their own. Bracketed by the peace-making Vale and the
neutral or abstaining Joanna, the rest were being forced to
rely upon last night's foes. Cute.

Grieg put a hand up, the eejit evidently regressing to
schoolboyhood perhaps in response to the class-trip vibe
generated by steamy-windowed transport and the forced
company of people you couldn't stand.

'I can't do this. I get really claustrophobic. I'm sorry.'

Baxter just smiled and bent down to his backpack again,
from which he pulled a sheaf of photocopied papers. He
flicked through them until he found the one he was looking
for, holding it out to Grieg.

'Your acceptance form. Clothing and shoe sizes, special
dietary requirements (unticked), medical information.
According to this, you are not pregnant, not on prescribed
medication and do not suffer from claustrophobia. Get in
line.'

There was a burst of cruelly delighted laughter at this
from Rory. Anyone else who might otherwise have enjoyed
Grieg's humiliation had their pleasure curtailed by the
knowledge that the same emergency exit had just been
slammed in all their faces.

Grieg shrugged, muttering something about 'worth a try'.
Rory slapped him on the back, still laughing.

'Always read the small print,' he told him. 'Come on then,
let's do this,' he added, booming to the whole assembly with
deliberately overplayed enthusiasm as he began removing
his fleece.

'Eh, not so fast, Rory,' Baxter cautioned. 'Who said
anything about getting undressed?'

'But we've got suits on,' Rory protested, confused.


167
'The suits are to stop you getting hypothermia from
wandering around in wet clothes.'

'And what's the point of that?'

Two points. One, a degree of realism: you wouldn't be
leaving your clothes behind if you really had to negotiate a
hazard like this. And two, it'll flush out anyone here who
ignored the instruction at breakfast to leave your mobile
phones behind.'

'Bollocks/ Rory grunted. He zipped his fleece back up
and removed a small metallic rectangle from an inside
pocket, handing it to the waiting Baxter.

There's next to no signal out here/ Baxter reiterated. He
had previously mentioned it when he instructed them not
to bring their mobiles, at which juncture it became apparent
the others hadn't yet discovered that their phones had been
disabled. 'Ironically, due to the hills, just about the only place
you can get a signal round here is in the vicinity of the hotel,
where there's landlines anyway.'

He popped the phone into his trouser pocket and, grinning
at Rory, proceeded to strip down to his drysuit, placing
his clothes and boots next to his backpack near the edge of
the bridge.

'I'm not here to play - I'm just the ref/ he explained,
taking hold of the rope and slipping carefully into the water.
It came up to just below his chest. He tossed one end of the
rope to Vale, took a breath then disappeared below
the surface, gently submerging himself rather than diving.
Parlabane began counting the seconds.

'Let's chuck the bastard's clothes in while he's under/
Grieg suggested.

'Not with my moby in his pocket/ Rory replied.

Baxter emerged at the other end, breaking the surface as
unhurriedly as he'd disappeared. It may have been in order
to assure them that the journey didn't require haste or
flailing desperation, but his pace was equally likely to be


168
down to cautious footing, minus the protection of his boots.

Parlabane had lost count due to the distraction of Grieg's
suggestion. The figure wouldn't have mattered anyway. It
was going to feel like forever, no matter what.

Vale got the ball rolling after carefully placing his digital
camera on the far side of the bridge, jumping in with a loud
splash and markedly less concern for what was underfoot.
Baxter ordered Grieg to get in too, to help pay out the rope
and to pull it back when his own turn came. He waded in
reluctantly from the side, hissing breathy curses at the
temperature of what flooded his boots.

Spontaneous hugging, high-fiving and vocal whooping
were, in Parlabane's book, just not acceptable between sober
adults enjoying the privilege of having been born east of the
Atlantic. It was a foul, phoney and nauseating thing to
behold, deserving of all the scorn and cynicism one felt
compelled to pour upon it. Parlabane, however, felt little
such compulsion even as he watched all of the above unfold,
knowing he would not be in a position to pass judgement
until he was on the other side of that tunnel. He watched
Vale bashfully tolerate Grieg's grateful embrace and Kathy
grasp the singularly unhuggable Grieg in much the same
way. Max burst forth from the water yelling in relief and
self-salutation, laughing as he offered a two-handed shake
in thanks to Kathy, then sharing a double high-five with
Emily after she enjoyed the benefits of his speedy and enthusiastic
tugging. Emily in turn gigglingly endured a sustained
bear-hug from the bellowingly exhilarated Rory

That was when the scorn and cynicism started to creep
back, and indeed became the thing that sustained him
during those endless seconds in the miniature abyss. It was
cold, dark, lonely and scary, as he travelled a distance that
was impossible to measure at a pace that was impossible to
gauge. The weight of his clothes made it feel like he was
swimming through treacle, the exertion a further strain on


169
his bursting lungs, and every pull on that rope was a divine
act of succour for which he greatly owed its source. But in
spite of it all, he knew there was still no fucking way he
was going to hug Rory Glen.

'Wooh! Way to go, Jack, welcome to the other side/ Rory
said, one hand helping Parlabane to his feet, his other arm
poised to initiate an embrace.

'Aye, very good, whatever,' Parlabane replied, withdrawing
his right hand to wipe his hair from his eyes, at the same
time raising his left to deflect any unsolicited manly affection.
Rory looked a little put out at this show of bad grace,
and Parlabane surprised himself by feeling bad about this.
'Nae offence, big yin,' he added, by way of reparation. 'It's
just that the last time I came out a tunnel like that, a nurse
skelped my arse and it all kind of went downhill from there.'

Parlabane called the go-ahead to Toby and began pulling
when he felt resistance on the rope. Thinking of the dead
weight of even just his own clothes, he felt that bit more
churlish about his failure to show Rory more gratitude.
Rory's powerful shoulders must have shaved a good few
seconds off his time submerged, a favour he wasn't sure
he'd be able to pass on to Toby. He was giving it his utmost,
and since recovering from what happened in prison, he was
in arguably the best shape of his life. Unfortunately for Toby,
that best shape was still short, light and sinewy. Mother
nature and father heredity had bestowed upon Parlabane a
low centre of gravity and a blessed middle ear. Stealth,
agility, balance and aim came with unearned ease. To that,
he had added enough muscle to haul himself around vertically,
with or without the aid of ropes and pulleys, but not
enough to change the fact that Toby had drawn the short
straw. Doubly so, given that if he did make it through alive
he'd then have the task of assisting the heaviest member of
the party. After a few full-blooded heaves, Parlabane had
only managed to haul through a paltry length of rope, and


170
was beginning to wonder whether the guy had forgotten
that he was allowed to propel himself to some degree. This
prompted an urgent consideration that, given a bump on
the head going under, this could actually be the case.

'Rory, gimme a hand here/ Parlabane asked. 'I think something's
wrong.' Baxter stepped forward to offer a third pair
of arms as a cold note of concern rippled around the pool.
The rope progressed at speed until all the resistance was
suddenly lost, dumping the three of them in the soup like
tumbling dominoes. They all got to their feet as quickly as
they could, Parlabane the nearest and first to approach the
bridge. As he did, a figure erupted from the water, spitting
a mouthful accurately into his face, standing upright,
opening its arms and singing: Ta-raa!'

Wiping the water from his eyes, he saw, amidst gales of
laughter, that it was Joanna, which while being itself a relief,
still begged a pertinent question. Rory gave it voice.

'Where the hell is Toby?'

A number of necks strained to look over the bridge, but
he was not to be seen on the other side.

There's more than one tunnel down there,' Toby
announced, revealing himself to be standing behind the
group, watching the fun unfold.

'As the actress said to the bishop/ Rory added, clearly
feeling less self-conscious about yesterday's little moment
of chastisement.

There ensued more whooping, back-slapping and general
subsumation of all into one single unified consciousness.
Parlabane was starting to wish he'd drowned.


171
What's Under Your Feet


The kitchen had an air of unaccustomed, almost unnerving
quiet despite all hands being present and busy. Dinner
preparations were under way early, given a welcome head
start because lunch had been taken care of immediately after
breakfast, in the form of a hamper to be eaten on the move.
It didn't look much of a day for al fresco dining, but having
humped themselves around the hills for a few hours, the
UML guests would no doubt find that hunger, as well as
making the best sauce, could also make a restaurant of a
rainy outcrop.

There was an undoubted manifestation of calm after the
storm, following the hot-blooded antics of the night before.
Part of it was inevitably the process of simply getting on
with the UML weekend, now that it was in flow, dissipating
the tension built up by so long waiting and worrying about
it. In happy accordance with the swan's feet principle, from
the guests' point of view, the hotel appeared to be running
itself with all grace and efficiency. What it had taken to
achieve that was futile to dwell upon.

Right enough, it wasn't only the hotel staff's frantic activities
that were concealed beneath the surface. According to
Julia the housekeeper, she'd had to grant one of the UML
blokes access to another guest's bedroom before breakfast
while the occupant was upstairs in the fitness room. Under
orders to comply, Julia had nonetheless insisted on
witnessing what he got up to, which turned out to be
tampering with a mobile phone. Silly games. It was like Big
Brother without the beachwear.


172
Naturally, the biggest factor in the kitchen's newfound
cordiality was Mathieson, who had barely said a word the
whole morning and had failed to even make eye-contact
with Alison or Ger. Apart from a few grunted one-word
answers, the only thing she'd heard him say (or more accurately
overheard him say when he didn't know anyone else
was nearby) was when he asked Charlotte whether the
journalist had mentioned anything about the food last
night. Charlotte replied that she didn't even know which
one the journalist was, prompting the slightly desperate
enquiry as to whether any of them had commented on the
quality of the meal. Charlotte gave a diplomatic, but for
that, transparently platitudinous answer: 'They all said it
was nice.'

Alison loved that. Charlotte didn't have the devilment to
be deliberately offending him, but she couldn't have said
anything less satisfying to his hungry ego.

Mathieson was noticeably less full of himself even before
this inadvertent put-down, though this took the form of
quietly seething as opposed to any genuine humility or
penitence. Ger had fairly clipped his wings, and it wasn't
like him to handle anything with good grace. Still, the
tangible benefit was that he kept his mouth shut and Alison
was able to enjoy some music on Mathieson's now degreased
CD player while she worked, without the usual
accompaniment of unsolicited comment and monomaniac
whining.

It wasn't her music, but it was one of Ger's albums that
she had developed a liking for, and that she already knew
would make her think of this place whenever she heard it
in the future. This music had occasioned one of the first
things Ger said to her that could be construed as in any way
solicitous, in as much as it was evidence that he must have
been paying her attention even when he didn't appear to
be listening.


173
There's one for you/ he'd muttered, indicating the CD
player as a bassline picked its way ominously across the
intro.

'How so?' she asked warily, listening to the lyrics. It was,
as Mathieson was to frequently and scornfully point out,
about an electric heater. She was waiting for the punchline.

This is the first time you've been away from home, isn't
it?' he asked. 'Away from Inversneck and the family hearth.'

'Yeah.'

'I'm no' sayin' you're a wee lassie or anythin', just. .. Bet
it feels a bit of a leap. A bit scary, a bit exciting, a bit sad.'

'All of the above,' she admitted. 'But you've got to do it
sometime.'

That's what the song's about. The first thing you buy for
your newly independent digs, maybe a heater or a kettle or
whatever. It represents that big leap, from which there's no
goin' back, into a wider, deeper, scarier, older world.'

Alison listened.

I won't melt your precious wings, so come on and plug me in.

She nodded. It was Ger's way of saying he understood
she might be feeling a little vulnerable. He didn't strike her
as the type to be eagerly on the lookout for damsels in
distress, but it let her know she had a friend.

She hadn't bought a heater (lack of ventilation in her room
other than a postage-stamp-sized, grimy and cracked
window made this unnecessary), or indeed a kettle, but she
had been thinking a lot about the significance of this time.
So long spent dreaming of spreading those precious wings,
it was still daunting to do so, even when her maiden flight
had only taken her to McKinley Hall. It wasn't much, but
for the time being it was her new world, and another song
on the same CD echoed the need she felt to find out whatever
she could about this place she had, for the time being,
thrown in her lot with.


174
Look over there you used to say
The shape of the land beneath the street
Ridges and valleys and underground streams You have to know what's under your feet


She had grown up in a Seventies-built estate, watching
the town expand slowly outwards in clumps of new housing
until there was little left of it that felt old, that spoke of
stories and secrets, other than the harsh, open expanse of
bleakness and ankle-traps that was Culloden Moor. She'd
lived in a low-rise modern house, gone to low-rise modern
schools, hung out in a low-rise modern shopping mall and
fended off spotty chancers (until the less than crazee hour
of one in the morning, thanks to a determined preponderance
of Wee Frees on the Licensing Board) in low-rise
modern nightclubs. None of these places had tales to tell
that were much older than the ones you could read wrapped
around your chips. McKinley Hall, in that respect, was a
compendium, an anthology - and not one ever likely to
appear on the children's bedtime story shelf.

She'd ironically found out more about the place during
her brief trips home to Sneck - via the library and the net
- than could be reliably discovered in situ. Sir Lachlan,
though garrulous when caught at the right moment,
preferred to expand upon his family's ties to the place and
upon its physical attributes than tread anywhere near the
episodes that history's prurient tastes would more likely
focus upon. As witnessed by his pep talk, even the word
'history' was uncomfortable for Sir Lachlan, due to its
unavoidable inherent allusion to all that had happened here.
Lady Jane, having married into the family, did not appear
quite so burdened by it, but was sufficiently defensive of
what she was now a guiding part of that her staff knew
there was a word they must never utter if either of the couple
was even potentially in earshot.


175
The word was (whisper it): cursed.

There was no legend of a curse, of vengeful necromancers
nor of any primary episode of mythical mumbo-jumbo. The
locals along in Auchterbuie didn't speak of 'the curse of
McKinley Hall', and nor did the writings that made mention
of the place. But the word cursed was used, and it meant
cursed as in plagued, as in despised, as in wicked, as in
doomed. And allowing that sober, rational, objective analysis
was forgiving of the odd coincidence, it was fair to say that
the evidence bore this out.

The McKinleys themselves could not complain of having
been personally afflicted or of this misfortune having been
suddenly precipitated upon them. Death was here first. They
should have scoped out the neighbours before moving in.
The land - this otherwise hospitable and accommodating
cradle among the hills, both served and confined by the coils
of a river - had been known both as Cairncalb and Cruaidhcalb
since long before anyone built upon it, names that still
appeared on maps of the area the estate lands covered. Cairn
denoted a place of burial, not exactly a rarity on any map
or a cue to play string crescendos in your head. The 'cruaidh'
part, Alison learned, had been assumed to mean rocky or
harsh; 'calb' a gushing of water. However, the etymologies
of both words were coincidentally ambiguous; or uncoincidentally
ambiguous, as far as she was concerned. 'Cruaidh',
according to some, had come to mean harsh, but quite literally
meant 'blood raw'; while water was not exclusive in
being the gushing liquid 'calb' had always referred to.

Legend, myth, oral history, whatever you wanted to call
it, was not particularly exercised by the fact that people had
been buried on the site. It just wasn't too convinced that
they were dead when they got there. Some traditions
claimed it a place of execution, others of pre-Christian
human sacrifice. Still others spoke of massacre, a word that
was worryingly non-unique in the accounts of the place's


176
history (though admittedly in the self-reflexive process of
such things, it would have been tempting to the more hysterical
of compilers to allow their speculations to become
coloured by subsequent events). What was documented for
definite was that there had been two incidences of mass
murder on the site - if not the very building - where Alison
now resided. The first had been in 1467, back when the first
great hall of the McKinleys had stood for less than half a
century. Accounts predictably varied as to motive and
blame, depending on which clan history's particular spin
you were reading. Clans were constantly at each other's
throats in those days, few of them distinguishing themselves
with displays of tolerance or magnanimity. Often they
settled their differences by arranged engagement on some
windblown moor, Pyrrhic victors enjoying bragging rights
but little more in reward for suffering a lesser cull. Occasionally,
however, they went for the risky but more decisive
pre-emptive strike to the heart, which at the earlier McKinley
keep took the form of stealing in at night and slaughtering
whole families in their beds before burning the place down.

Understandably, history had been bequeathed little
evidence of how the McKinley defences were so catastrophically
breached. Some form of betrayal was generally
accepted to have been crucial, but naturally nobody had
ever been inclined to offer personal corroboration of the
theory.

By chance, the laird and his youngest son survived, due
to having been delayed overnight on a hunting expedition.
Nonetheless, it was more than two centuries before their
descendants' fortunes waxed strong enough to fully rebuild
their seat, a construction that formed the basis of what still
stood today.

By the early Eighteenth Century, the McKinleys were back
to playing kings of the castle, but the true laird of Cruaidhcalb
was still picking up his fealty. Douglas McKinley, the main


177
man in those days, by all accounts lacked the benefit of
modern insight into man-management, to put it mildly. Paranoia
and a ruthlessly self-defensive streak were both understandably
bred into his lineage, but Douglas's tyrannical
brutality and abject lack of compassion put him in a very
extreme percentile. Local judiciary power in such hands
contributed largely to the horrific incidence of capital punishment
at the time, and the ever more trivial offences for which
it was meted out. His gallows never empty, he generated
sufficient ill-will among his subservients that eventually
some of them tried to kill him. It was a desperate and
amateurish plot, ironically reliant upon repeating history in
recruiting the complicity of the laird's own guards, who were
not assumed to be particularly loyal to their increasingly
psychotic master. However, history only repeats itself when
people fail to learn from it, and that could not be said of the
McKinleys. Whether through fear or finance, Douglas had made sure those entrusted with his protection knew what
side their bread was buttered. The plot was foiled, its perpetrators
exposed, and Douglas's revenge was truly terrible,
for it did not stop at the principals.

He hanged entire families, ruling complicity in the
conspiracy by whatever merest connection would suit.
Fathers, brothers, wives, children. One boy went to the
gallows at eleven years.

Ah, the upper classes. How we look to them for enlightenment
and example.

Douglas may have spared no effort (or lives) in the
family's defence, but as steward of its fortunes he failed to
appreciate that there was more to the job, and as such failed
the McKinleys dreadfully. As well as damning the name in
local regard, his neglect and lack of judgement oversaw a
decline in the family's enterprises that his successors struggled
in vain to arrest. The hall passed from the McKinleys'
hands in 1823, and was not to return to their ownership


178
until Sir Lachlan bought it more than a century and a half

later.

It did not prove a happy investment - certainly not a long
term one - for many of its owners in the intervening time.
The place changed hands repeatedly until the 1930s, when
the next long shadow fell upon the place in the shape of
Magnus Willcraft: aristocrat, composer, former opera-singer,
occultist and one-time Aleister Crowley acolyte.

Willcraft made no secret that he had sought the place
because of its past, though it was questionable whether he
considered this more conducive to his dark dabblings or to
the enhancement of his personal notoriety. To either end, he
had entertained a genuine fascination with the more ancient
purposes of the site, and brought in archaeological assistance,
excavating both in the grounds and in the foundations.
He built down there too, bringing in help from the
continent rather than entrust the work - or more pertinently,
knowledge of it - to the locals. Nobody in current employ
had any idea where these chambers were accessed, far less
the inclination to look, given that they were known to have
been the venue for Willcraft's occult rites. What his excavations
uncovered, he chose not to share, though those
scornful of Willcraft's cultivated self-image suggested this
meant the answer was nothing. Others were less cynical.
Willcraft did revel in his infamy, but was also very private
about his personal affairs, particularly what he referred to
as his religion. You don't buy a house in the middle of
nowhere if you really want to attract attention to yourself,
and Willcraft's fiercely guarded privacy provoked much
rumour and speculation among the locals.

National curiosity about McKinley Hall took off in the
late Sixties due to betrayed loyalties of another kind when,
following Willcraft's death, a former lover-cum-disciple sold
her tales of subterranean ritual and orgy to a Sunday tabloid.
This inevitably opened the rest of the place's squalid past


179
to ghoulish scrutiny, leading to its subsequent purchase in
the early Seventies by the rock band Stormcrow, who
recorded an album there but didn't survive to see its release,
all four of them dying in a tour-bus crash in 1975. This was
further proof of the Hall's doomed luck, according to Ger,
because it would have been better fortune had their bus
crashed before they recorded the album. Total pish/ he said.
'Pseudo-Satanic claptrap that wouldnae frighten your
granny. It was wankers like that who forced the Sex Pistols
into being.'

Alison hadn't knowingly heard any of Stormcrow's music,
but knew enough to concur with Ger's judgement that they
were wankers, as was Willcraft before them. What was it
that drew them? Stormcrow, whatever their professed mysticism,
were just a bunch of middle-class Oxbridge dropouts,
but they must have believed there was something they could
tap into here, other than marketing potential. Willcraft before
them was not so different: another musician seeking a form
of inspiration, tasteless as it was. Did they think there was
some lingering spoor to catch scent of, some enduring entity
that could guide them in unlocking the secrets of man's
darkest inclinations?

She didn't believe there could be something inherently
evil about a place. It was bricks and mortar, a point on a
map. Evil things had happened here, but that didn't mean
any force was compelling them to do so again. Something,
however, compelled evil men (and mere wankers) to the
scenes of evil deeds. Perhaps it was simply that which
caused one horror to be piled upon another on these grounds
though they were centuries apart.

Poor Sir Lachlan certainly had his work cut out when he
got his hands on the place and stated his intention to rehabilitate
more than just the building. Down in the local village
of Auchterbuie, they referred to the restored enterprise as
McKinley Revival. There was a heavily ironic tone to it, the


180
sentiment not intended to be encouraging. They clearly
didn't fancy Sir Lachlan's chances, given the family's track
record with the place, and the story so far wasn't exactly
encouraging. It was at least to his credit that despite seeking
the tourist's coin, he was determined to blot out the very
aspects that might be most likely to attract them. Never mind
chasing humps and ripples around a conveniently enormous
and opaque loch: this was real Scottish horror, something
we did pretty well without having to make up monsters.

For all its 'wha's like us' keech, Scotland was actually a
country that liked to think it had been spared extremes.
While refilling wine glasses, Alison had overheard one of
the guests say as much of the UK as a whole: that it had
been spared extreme weather and extreme governments. But
what, she had wanted to ask, about extreme drinking and
extreme ill-health? What about extreme landscape? And
what about the extremes of our past: extremes of brutality,
of judicial cruelty and torture? What about the obsessions
of Jamie the Saxt, the sadistic persecution and retribution in
the name of religion? Who was to say there hadn't been
other extremes of slaughter, disappeared from history by the
convenience of lost ages, like the convenience of miracles
and self-resurrecting sons of gods being in a time before
reliable documentation.

Alison had heard her fellow Scots proudly disavow
Britishness in distaste at its connotations of imperialism,
conquest and any other national characteristic they'd like to
attribute conveniently to the English, but it was a deluded
cop-out. The Scots had brought as much brutality to the
table as any of its union partners. There was a joke they told
each other but didn't like to share with visitors: what is the
definition of a Scottish homosexual? A bloke who's more
interested in women than drinking and fighting.

Blood spattered the history of McKinley Hall, stained even
the ancient names of the land. The place needed to be


181
exorcised, and if it took the form of silly corporate head
games, then who could complain about that?


Mathieson had been going back and forth from the kitchen
for a few minutes, returning each time with crockery that
Alison recognised from one of the big display cabinets in
the restaurant. She'd never seen it put to use in all the time
she'd been here, even on the night there'd been a McKinley
family gathering and a celebration menu for Sir Lachlan's
birthday. She was grateful for his absences, brief as they
were, as she kept catching his eye. Despite his muted
conduct, he still seemed to be simmering as the day went
on, and she got the feeling that he'd hit boiling point before
it was over. She'd spotted him eyeing Ger intently too, but
with more wariness than anger, now that the sous-chef had
threatened to take himself off the leash.

The chef returned once again with another antique dish,
placing it on a worktop with the rest, then seemed to be
hanging around, doing not much of anything but stare at
his two perceived dissidents.

'I'm away for a slash,' Ger announced, as men were inexplicably
wont to do.

Mathieson watched him leave, then a few moments later,
rather nervously broke his silence.

'Alison, c'mere a second.'

She glanced across. He wore a shaky smile, reminiscent
of any number of trembling wee shavers standing before
her as they mustered the bottle to ask for a dance.

'It's okay,' he said, though she wasn't convinced it was
herself that needed assurance. She took a few steps across
the floor, but kept a noticeable distance between them. 'I've
been thinking about last night,' he continued. 'It wasn't
pleasant, was it?'

'No.'

'It occurred to me I've never shown you anything. I've


182
left all that to Ger. It's hard when you're running the show,
believe me. But we're ahead of the game today, so let me
teach you something now. Stand there, just where you are.'

He picked up a stack of the display crockery, four wide
serving plates, and placed it on her left palm. 'Have you got
that?' he checked. 'Okay in one hand? Not too heavy?'

'It's fine. They're lighter than they look.'

'The weight is all in their value,' he said, placing another
stack in her right hand. 'These have been in the McKinley
family since the Eighteenth Century.'

'You're making me nervous/ she said truthfully, and not
just because of what she was holding. There was a sleekit,
underhand nastiness creeping across his face.

'They're utterly irreplaceable,' he went on. 'You, on the
other hand, are not. So if you drop them, you'll be out of a
job. Bear that in mind during the next few seconds.'

With a hateful smirk, Mathieson reached out with both
hands and grabbed Alison's breasts. She began drawing her
arms in as a reflex, but the weight of the plates, in her mind
at least, prevented her from being able to fend him off.
Instead she stepped backwards, but found her path blocked
by the fridge. Mathieson looked her in the eye, his hands
still mashing and fondling.

'See, the lesson is, if you want to get on, you need to know
your own worth. And if that isn't much, then sometimes
you just have to put up with things you don't like and keep
your fucking mouth shut.'

'What the fuck do you think you're doing?' demanded a
voice. They both looked around to see Ger in the doorway
to the hall.


'Alison and I are just enjoying a wee lesson in kitchen
hierarchy.'


'You'll be enjoying a wee lesson in bollock removal if you
don't back off.'

'No, Gerard, you don't understand. I wanted you to see


183
this, to remind you as well what the score is round here.
See, what you said last night got me thinking. The pair of
you can go running to Sir Lachlan if you like, but apart from
it being your word against mine, what's the chances of him
firing his chef in the middle of this weekend?'
'Let's find out,' Ger replied.


It was worse than if she'd just let him away with it. The
humiliation of even saying it to Sir Lachlan was almost as
bad as the deed itself, to say nothing of standing in a small
room with three men at the time. Mathieson must have been
loving it. He kept glancing at her chest. She felt like she
wanted to be wearing the world's thickest, baggiest jumper,
not this flimsy little blouse.

Sir Lachlan was looking about as comfortable as Alison
felt. She could see where it was going. The guy was
marooned, his wife out of the picture and so many of his
eggs in this basket. All those centuries of grief and one last
chance to turn it around in the name of his ancestors. Was
he going to throw it all away just because a minor member
of staff got her tits felt?

Mathieson was playing it perfectly, too. He was calm,
relaxed, even slightly apologetic, not denying anything
happened but seeking to trivialise it instead, the perfect out
for Sir Lachlan in the circumstances. Kitchens are different
places, blah blah blah. Intense working environment, a lot
of physical familiarity, misread signals, things can get out
of hand, everybody needs to calm down, job to be done at
the end of the day.

Sir Lachlan was nodding along rather impatiently with
every word, his decision clearly made. Alison felt sick. She
was wishing she'd just dropped the priceless crockery and
nutted the bastard.

'We all have to put up with indignities sometimes, in order
to get the job done,' Sir Lachlan agreed, looking at his desk,


184
not making eye-contact with anyone. There's few of us can
afford to be so proud that we can't tolerate a degree of
unpleasantness when our livelihoods are at stake. I know I

can't/

He looked up at last, eyeing Mathieson. That's why I've
tolerated having you around this long, Peter. You're a turd.
You insult my wife, you abuse my staff and you act like this
is some career bus-stop where you're killing time waiting
for your lift to turn up. Pride, as I've said, is a luxury, but
self-respect is a right. It would cost Alison her self-respect
to have to continue working under you, but not as much as
it would cost mine if I kept you in my employ. Get out.
Now. I want you out of the building in fifteen minutes.'

Ger balled both hands into fists as the chef stared at Sir
Lachlan in incomprehension. 'You heard the man,' he said.

Mathieson left the room without a word, let alone a
parting retort, rendered speechless by sheer disbelief.

Thank you, sir,' Alison said quietly, frightened her voice
would break.

'Not at all,' Sir Lachlan replied. 'My apologies for what
you had to put up with. Just don't sue, please.'

'But what are we going to do?' she asked, feeling suddenly
guilty about the consequences. 'We're short as it is.'

'I'm sure my new head chef and his assistant can manage
dinner for twelve. And in keeping with what I just said, I'm
not above pouring drinks and waiting on tables if that's
what's needed to keep the show on the road.'

He stood up and bent down to a nearby cupboard,
producing a bottle of single malt and three pewter quaichs.

I don't know if a toast is appropriate under such circumstances,
but I do reckon we're all going to need a drink,' he
said.

There were no dissenters.

They sipped their malts and discussed the evening's menu, watching at the window as Mathieson stuffed a


185
holdall and some plastic bags into the back of his Peugeot
convertible.

'Good riddance to bad rubbish/ Sir Lachlan said.

'It was almost worth it for the look on his face when you
fired him/ Alison said. 'Rendered catatonic.'

'Yeah, it wasn't like him not to get the last word/ Ger
agreed.

Ger finished his whisky then did a double-take as
Mathieson climbed into the car and closed the door.

'What?' Alison asked.

But he was gone, running from the room, and so was
Mathieson, with a huffy squeal of tyres down the drive.

Ger returned a couple of minutes later.

'He did get the last word. He's fucked off with all the
meat.'


186
Running Up That Hill


Emily had seldom been so grateful for the simple delights
of a sandwich. This one, to give it its due, was not all that
simple - pesto, roasted peppers, fontina, Parma ham and
rocket between two wedges of focaccia - but it could have
been Dairylea on two slices of white pan and been equally
welcome. According to her watch, only three hours had
passed since a very hearty breakfast, but between that and
this hillside lunch there had been the trials of the tunnel and
a long ensuing trudge in wet clothes.

The hamper had appeared like a desert mirage, suddenly
in sight but seemingly so far out of reach that it felt as though
they might never get there. The hideous yellow fleeces at
least had the mercy of being comparatively quick-drying, but
said comparison being only with denim, which in conjunction
with their uniformly squelching footwear had made
their progress like wading through an endless swamp.
Unquestionably, after that the sandwich was a feast, but
Emily would have traded a twelve-course tasting menu at a
Michelin-starred eatery for dry boots and a change of socks.

Rory was not alone in querying the purpose of tackling
the tunnel fully dressed. Baxter's point was true enough
with regard to the 'reality' of negotiating such a hazard, but
in reality there was no actual need to go through the bloody
tunnel in the first place, so why drench everyone when
there's miles of hillside trekking ahead? Their guide wasn't
saying, but Emily suspected that this wasn't because he
lacked an answer. There had been no oversights so far,
nothing undertaken without a tangible pay-off later.


187
The purpose of tackling the tunnel in itself only became
clear from the other side. She'd never have believed that the
distance between wanting to strangle Rory Glen and
wanting to hug him could be measured in a few metres.
Toby had impressed her too, and not by his swimming skills.
Emily had caught a few glimpses of Joanna as they all stood
waiting for their turn to take the plunge. Yesterday, Joanna
had been happy to make jokes about her comparative immobility,
but Emily had yet to meet an overweight woman who
couldn't be reduced to crippling self-consciousness under
the wrong circumstances. Joanna looked more scared with
each turn that brought her own moment closer, but Emily
suspected she was even more scared of bottling out or asking
for extra assistance for fear of drawing too much attention
to the reason why. Toby, under the auspices of playing a
prank, had engineered a way of speeding her passage
without even acknowledging to her that he was doing so.
Of course, it was possible that he was actually a selfish
bastard who neither trusted Parlabane's towing abilities nor
fancied his own solo task of hauling the big fat bird, but
Emily doubted it. There was something humbly solicitous
about Toby, which made his contemporary political allegiances
all the more surprising. Or maybe it just made her
own political prejudices more conceited.

The hamper was waiting for them at the edge of some
woodland, close to where a narrow track, wide enough for
one vehicle, emerged briefly from the trees before bending
back on itself. They approached along a gently climbing
valley floor, a long spur rising to their left, truncated maybe
a quarter, a third of a mile past their goal. It was the professionally
sharp-eyed Parlabane who spotted it, Baxter having
told them only that lunch would be waiting for them. Rather
oddly, Baxter needed Parlabane to point out what he was
talking about, the hamper evidently somehow not matching
his expectations. He'd glanced at his watch and muttered


188
something about there being still time, then relayed the incentive
of Parlabane's discovery to the damp and tiring horde.

While the rest sat down to eat, Baxter stayed on his feet,
frequently checking the time and pacing around close to the
bend in the track so that he could see both approaches. That
was when Emily decided to make her move, both the
sandwich-assisted waxing of her courage and the opportunity
of getting him alone finally coinciding. On the march,
he'd usually been buttonholed by another guest, and when
he wasn't, she'd lacked the nerve to broach the issue. Her
trepidation existed on a number of levels, one of which being
that neither of them would be comfortable if what she had
to discuss was overheard. The main one, of course, was the
possibility that she'd got it totally wrong and he wouldn't
have an earthly what she was on about.

She was pretty sure, though. The more she looked at him
throughout the morning, in light of what had come to her
last night, the more it explained not only why he was so
familiar, but why he hadn't reciprocally recognised her. Or
rather, why he wasn't letting on as much.

She wandered over, putting a good dozen yards of privacy
between the pair of them and the group.

'Something up?' she asked, bottling it a little and opting
to procrastinate. He turned around. She looked in his face
for some clue to whether her presence provoked any unease,
bearing in mind that he might not want this.

'It's Francis. He was meant to be here with the minibus.'

'We're getting a lift home? Why eat out here, then?'

Not a lift home, just a precaution in case anybody was
struggling or turned an ankle or whatever.'

'Do cold, wet tootsies count?'

'Fraid not. He must have had to deal with something
back at the hotel. At least he left lunch.'

She swallowed. Time to nibble the muzzle, if not fully
bite the bullet.


189
'He told you all about dinner, then. It got pretty heated,
and not just the flambe dessert/

'Yeah. But there's nothing like cold water to douse the
flames.'

Ooh, fleet little sidestep.

'Could have done with you there to even up the teams, Daniel.'

He fixed her with an intense, indignant look for a moment,
then melted with a sigh and a smile.

'I was bound to get my cover blown eventually. I didn't
see the need to blow it myself. That's why I never said
anything to you. Couldn't be sure if you'd recognised me,
and, just as important, couldn't be sure you wouldn't
pretend you hadn't anyway.'

'Why would I do that?'

'Because it would be easier/ he said. 'For both of us.'

I'm sorry,' she replied, realising what he was saying. 1
wasn't trying to out you or anything. I just needed to know
it was you. It was driving me crazy. It's been what, fifteen,
sixteen years? You changed your name?'

'I changed a lot of things. I had to make a clean break
from the past. Danny Brown no more.'

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. I should have sussed
why you weren't playing happy reunions. I'll leave it, okay?'

'No, don't be daft. I was just a bit wary; didn't want you
calling me a bourgeois traitor for where I've ended up.'

'Oh come on, look where I am. He who fucks nuns, eh?
I guess when the revolution never came, we all had to pay
the rent.'

'Insane times. Best forgotten, if you ask me.'

'After last night's dinner, I'd second that. But if you're on
the lam, so to speak, why did you come to Seventh Chime
for PR?'

That was Francis's call, not mine. Someone recommended
Seventh Chime to him. Bloke at a party gave him a card 190
Kathy's card, as it turned out. By the time I found out you
were her partner, things were already too far along.'

'That explains the brevity of your phone calls.'

'To be honest, I wasn't sure how much you'd want to
dredge up the past either. But in fact we really do, as a
matter of policy, stick to email wherever possible. It means
you've a ready-made transcript of everything for reference
and clarification. It makes for an efficient, dynamic and
undistracted business relationship. Lacks the scope for
personal rapport, admittedly, but we find places for that
elsewhere, like this weekend, for example.'

'Efficient, dynamic business relationships. Smash the
state, huh?'

'And you wonder why I'm lying low. I voted for the Lib
Dems. Do you want to get your dig in for that too, get it
over with?'

'At least they're to the left of New Labour.'

'Splitters!' he said, causing them both to laugh.

'Your face is different,' Emily told him, recognising the
changes now that she was close enough to see what was
still the same. It wasn't just the years, the tidy crop and the
absence of a badge-burdened green raincoat that had made
him hard to place.

'Car crash, '93.1 looked like a panda for six months. Nose
has never been the same. You look a bit different yourself.
Hair especially.'

She ran a hand through it automatically, something she'd
never have managed way back when. 'Yeah, ideological
reasons. I reckoned I was personally responsible for about
half the hole in the ozone layer just through hairspray CFCs.'

He laughed, but it sounded a little forced: polite but
uncomfortable. He really wasn't quite ready for this.

'So what do I call you?' she asked.


Donald, please. It's easier. Less confusing, for me most
of all.'	6


191
'Okay/

'Oh, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell the rest of
them.'

'Of course.'

'Especially Parlabane. It would be manna from heaven
for him to find out what's in my past.'

'I wouldn't dream of it, though on evidence so far I don't
think he's as bad as he's painted. Even if he did find out, I
think he'd probably cut you some slack for being on the side
of the angels.'

'Were we?' he asked, in a way that did not invite an
answer.

Baxter gestured with a nod of the head that she should
follow him back to the group, where he said nothing to the
others about the lack of an expected minibus and driver.
With nobody having pulled up lame and the atmosphere
notably chirpy now that the sugar was hitting everyone's
bloodstreams, he announced that it was time to press on,
and pointed to the top of the spur.

'Only if we don't have to do any swimming at the top of
it/ Parlabane said.

'No,' Baxter assured him. 'But mouthy journalists might
have to do some flying at the top of it. And you can quote
me on that/

'I left my Dictaphone in my other drysuit. If I can't
remember your quote exactly, is it okay if I paraphrase?
Something along the lines of: "You're all mine now, mine,
you hear? And you're going to die on this hillside. Muahahahaha!"
That cool?'

'Die horribly,' Baxter advised.

'Horribly. Got it/

The climb was far steeper than any of their ramblings so
far. It was nothing Emily couldn't manage, but she was
aware of the greater effort registering upon her body temperature.
For the first time in more than an hour, instead of


192
damp, cold and clammy, she felt damp, hot and sweaty.

'Horses sweat/ she remembered a particularly prissy
schoolteacher correcting her. 'Gentlemen perspire. Ladies


glow.'

She couldn't get that Kate Bush number out of her head,

though running was a rather flattering description of their
collective progress. Trudging with a hand on each knee to
assist with the climb because your thighs are aching like
buggery up that hill' was more accurate, but didn't really
scan, and it would have been hard to fit the 'yayyayyow's
in around it too. She wasn't sure quite what had popped
the song in there, though; whether she'd have thought of it
on the ascent anyway, or whether it had been sparked by
contemporary contemplations. It was said that smell was
the sense most closely connected to memory, but pop music
had formidable mnemonic properties too, and not necessarily
the songs you liked. She'd never owned a Kate Bush
record in her puff, but that song had been part of the arbitrarily
selected soundtrack to that period of her life. She
couldn't hear it, couldn't think of it without thinking of back
then; same as she couldn't think of back then without
hearing that song. A sniff of 'skin-coloured' Clearasil (actually
only skin-coloured for those with beige skin, to whom
acne was presumably the least of their dermatological problems)
was the only thing more capable of rewinding the
decades to that time when the world was just waiting for
her to sort it out with her Doc Marten's and delusions of
maturity.

She expected to feel more breathless, more tired, but the
further she climbed, the less she felt the strain, and if anyone
had suggested stopping for a rest, she'd have shouted them
down. There was a compulsion to reach the top, not just in
her, but palpably in the looks and strides of the whole group.
Emily wasn't exactly a Munro-bagger, but any time she'd
chmbed a hill, it had been the same: an irresistible drive


193
overriding considerations of comfort, fatigue, hunger or
blistered heels. It felt ancient, instinctive, and wasn't some
macho because-it's-there crap. Perhaps it was psychologically
very simple: from the top, you could see what lay
ahead. You could see what was next.

She was among the first to afford herself that perspective,
getting there just behind Baxter and Rory. They could see
along the top of the ridge, and that it wasn't truncated quite
where it had appeared from below. It dog-legged, or dog
stumped might be closer, cut off shortly after the point where
it turned. 'Glowing' quite profusely, Emily calculated that it
might have been quicker to go around the spur rather than
over it, but tingling with the endorphin rush released by
having done so, she applauded Baxter's choice. The sense of
achievement was amplified when their guide, after waiting
for the last of them to catch up, told them to turn around
and pointed out a tiny Saltire fluttering in the distance,
elevated above the greenery by the tower at McKinley Hall.

The view ahead had no such icon to indicate civilised
settlement, nor any landmark to suggest (to her untrained
eye, at least) what their route forward would be. More hills,
more woodland, and a stretch of coarse moor spread before
it like an Unwelcome mat.

'Where to now?' someone asked, thinking along similar
and foot-sore lines.

'We wait here for a helicopter to take us home,' Kathy
replied. 'It's in the UML brochure.'

'Like hell it is,' said Baxter.

'Hey, we're the PR firm. I'm writing the brochure copy,
and if I say there's gonna be a helicopter, you bastards better
deliver.'

'I'd settle for a beer scooter,' Max said.

'Amen,' agreed Rory.

'Well, I'll have to slip an erratum notice into the brochure/
Baxter told them. 'Page twelve, paragraph three. Due to a


194
typesetting error, the word "helicopter" appeared in place
of "Shanks's pony".'

'Are we going back the way we came?' Rory asked, his
tone suggesting the affirmative would be met with disapproval.
It seemed unlikely he'd be feeling the pace (or admitting
it anyway), just voicing the disappointment everyone
would feel if there weren't new sights to distract them on
the journey home.

'Would I do that to you?' Baxter replied. 'No, everybody
just catch your breath, then it's onwards and downwards.'

'Down there? Further away?' Liz asked. 'Have you got a
tent stashed somewhere?'

'The lie of the land is quite deceptive,' he assured her.
'Believe me, you'll be back in half the time it took you to
get here. So everybody catch your breath and enjoy the view,
then you can let your feet earn your stomach an indulgence.'

'Speaking of the view,' said Parlabane. 'Is there any kind
of boundary that denotes what part is still army land?'

'There's fences, if that's what you mean, but we're still a
good way away from it. Why?'

'Just wondering what that pair are up to.'

Baxter looked down and ahead, as did Emily. There were
indeed two men in military fatigues now visible on the
coarse apron of moor before the woods. They must only
have emerged a moment ago, while the group were looking
towards the hotel. They had begun digging with heavy
spades, oblivious to their audience on the spur above in a
way that suggested they understandably assumed themselves
to be the only living souls in a considerable radius.

'They're digging/ Grieg observed, proving that last
"ight's display of wit and incisiveness was no fluke.

Probably a mass grave,' Baxter said dryly, sounding a
little intolerant of the portentous tone Grieg had adopted.

Rory laughed. 'Let's ask them. HAW!' he shouted. 'Room
for one more inside?'


195
Both of the diggers stopped and looked up. The one nearer
the woods dropped his spade and ran towards the trees
where he turned his back and bent to pick something up. .<
He wheeled back around, the thing he'd retrieved held iiv
two hands at his shoulder.

'Christ, that's a rifle/ Max said.

Five shots rang out, the sound tarrying a moment behind*
the muzzle flare.

There were screams, cries and many swearies as the groupi
hit the ground, burying themselves face-down in the grass« Emily couldn't believe how much had turned in a moment.
It made her reversal of sentiments towards Rory in that!!
watery tunnel an aeon of meditation by comparison. ThereJ
was no double-take, no slow-motion piecing together of evidence, no purgatorial pause of incredulity, no top-do\
view of herself as she inquired: is this real? She was standing
on a hilltop sharing a joke, her body flushed but tingling|
with exertion. Bang bang bang bang bang, and she was or
her face, trembling, her stomach threatening to empty itself^j
the people around her uniformly prostrate and equaHy||
alarmed. When she dared to raise her head, the very same|
sight looked different, as though she was suddenly viewing^
it all in black and white. Parts of it were instantly less vivid>|
blurred out of focus as though the image had been parecfei
down to only the most necessary details, stripped of|
anything peripheral, irrelevant or distracting.

One of the men was pointing at the other, the distant and||
indistinct sound of his angry words carrying on the breezed
a second or so later. The one who had fired lowered his gun/
but only so that he could pick up a second rifle and hold it j
out to his companion, who was on his way towards him.
With both of them now thus armed, Emily flattened her;!
head to the grass again, but no further shots were heard. I
She looked up once more, and saw that the pair of them;
were jogging away in different directions: one dead ahead>|


196
towards the slope, the other making for the end of the spur.
'Is this a fucking stunt?' Rory demanded furiously of
rter. 'Because it's in pretty poor taste if it is.'
'Everybody just keep the head/ Baxter responded. 'Pull
it together, okay?'

Why are they shooting at us?' Grieg asked.
How the fuck should I know?' Baxter retorted. 'Believe
> the point at which I was in complete control of the day's
ivities has passed.'

'Did they think we saw something?' Grieg persisted,
,_nking aloud.

rTvlaybe it's the fact that we saw them there at all/ Max
pined.

^'Christ, does it matter?' said Liz. They're not gonna tell
14 even if we ask really politely. So let's get a move on.'
icre to?'

Dwn the hill, for a start/ Baxter advised. 'Quickly but
ly. Watch your footing. Then we make for the woods.
f*ve a decent start on them, so we can make it count.'
lat good's a head start against a bullet?' Grieg


F'Good enough if the shooter can't see you through two
imdred yards of trees/ Toby answered. I Toby and Baxter looked at each other, Baxter giving him
i of acknowledgement for his support. Emily looked
id the other faces: some helpless, awaiting guidance;
ne expectant, awaiting leadership; some determined,
raiting only the assurance that the rest were ready for the ? ght. She didn't see Parlabane's expression. His face was Itamed away towards his friend Vale, the two of them having
(Some kind of wordless summit.

'Make for the track/ Baxter advised as they began their
descent. 'Veer right where it bends - that'll take us away


'W*6 SpUr' And d°n/t look back/ We'll never outrun them/ Emily heard Liz say.


197
Their progress felt like running in a dream, fear stretching
the distance in spite of their haste.

'They're carrying full-size, semi-automatic rifles,' Max
told her. 'If you've ever felt the weight in one of those things,
you'd put your money on us. Just concentrate on your
footing.'

It was heavy on the calves, almost as heavy as the ascent
had been on the thighs, but this way, the strain was all in
the impact and balance. Gravity was an ally, but only if
harnessed with cautious restraint. Emily's heart was telling
her to charge forward, her middle-ear arguing against, the
latter just about holding its own.

Baxter had advised against looking back, but Emily
couldn't help stealing glances not only behind, but towards
the end of the spur also. All logic - arithmetical and
geographical - told her there would be no threat to see, but
she needed the reassurance that their efforts weren't about
to be brought to an abrupt end. There were no soldiers, only
conspicuously yellow fugitives, randomly spread but almost
identical in their posture: knees bent, arms out, palms down,
fingers stretched. From a distanced perspective - both physical
and emotional - it would have looked like a costumed
performance by the official UML Synchronised Shitebag
Troupe. Kathy and Rory were making the quickest progress,
Kathy reaping unanticipated benefits from her morning jogs
around Inverleith Park, as much from its practice in rut
negotiation as physical fitness.

Baxter was no slouch either, but he was trailing the leaders
due to stopping and turning around every few seconds to
check that nobody had got into difficulties. He wasn't the
only one. Toby was keeping pace with Joanna at the rear,
holding an arm out now and then to offer extra balance,
while Parlabane and Vale had drifted to either flank, their
eyes as often on the people between them as the ground
under their feet.


198
With the group spreading out according to pace, they
automatically began following the progress of those in the
vanguard, irrespective of how they had each envisaged their
path down. Rory and Kathy were angling their route sharply
towards the bend in the track leading into the forest, which
took them down a steeper incline than they had negotiated
on the way up. Gradient wasn't the only reason the group
had previously avoided it.

Baxter called after them, but their momentum meant it
was too late for them to stop themselves. The grass thinned
out with very little warning and gave way to yards of treacherously
intractable scree. Rory hit it first, barely a second
before Kathy. Emily stopped as she saw the results. Rory
scrambled a few paces, still attempting to find purchase, like
Wile E Coyote in mid-air before realising he's run off the
cliff. Kathy had enjoyed a moment's more notice to brake,
so didn't hit the scree with quite as much pace, but this only
meant that she was able to cushion her inevitable fall. She
still ended up the same as Rory: flat on her back, skidding
down the slope like it was a flume in a waterpark.

Grieg had been entranced by this spectacle too, but not
enough to stop. Emily knew this because he clattered into
her back and sent the pair of them tumbling forward. She
turned a full somersault but was unable to get any kind of
grip when her feet came back around into contact with the
grass, and found herself rolling ever faster, the hillside and
sky spinning in her view like she was inside a washing
machine. The only thing more sickening than the sensation
was the thought of the rock that might be waiting for her
skull or spine. She grabbed at tufts of grass, her bodyweight
jerking her wrists painfully when her fingers found anything
to grip. It did the trick, however, by virtue of turning her
spin the necessary eighty or so degrees in order that she
was rolling along the slope rather than down it. This brought
er to a stop, but it was a few seconds before her eyes caught


199
up, the world still slewing off in one direction whenever she


tried to focus.

She lay still until the effect dissipated a little, then sat up
slowly, assessing her condition and regaining her coordination
There was the beginning of an ache in her right
buttock and thigh that she knew was going to have a lot
more to say for itself in a couple of hours, but for now it
would be tolerable. It would have to be.

To her relieved surprise, she saw that the Human Snowball
technique had taken her almost to the valley floor. There
were only a few more yards before the slope flattened out,
the cover of the trees beckoning ahead across one last
gauntlet-run of exposed moor. She glanced to her left and
saw that Rory and Kathy were on ground-level too, though
instead of sprinting for the woods, they were standing at
the foot of the scree, beckoning the others to board the
express and readying themselves to assist at the terminus.
Emily presumed their route down had been more tolerable..,
than her own. The only person she'd have wished a similar
descent upon would have been the gormless clown who d
precipitated her own, a needless sentiment as he was stumbling
around a few yards to her right, dizzy from having

stood up too soon.

Kathy and Rory assisted the skidding yellow descendants j

as necessary, helping them to their feet ^'™^c**$ Max, arresting a dangerous spin-cum-tumble. Baxter was
yelling at the rest to keep running, accepting the unspoKen
wisdom that this proven fastest pair were best equippedjd
recover ground once they'd made sure everyone got down
safely. Vale and Parlabane fell in last above the scree the
former holding something in his left hand as he watched
his predecessors. Emily realised with a degree of You rag
that it was his camera. It seemed as negligently f«volou^ it did tasteless, but then what kind of P^°S^rW^Z Jack Parlabane insist upon? Maybe he was dedicated to tn


200
bitter end and was recording what he could in order to
bequeath some sort of Blair-Witch-style future scoop.

Remembering her own responsibility, Emily put an arm
around Grieg's waist and guided him in a steady jog until
he was stable enough to continue alone.

A few seconds later, she glanced back to see how far this
hindmost duo were lagging, and nearly fell over again at
the sight of the pair skidding down almost upright, as
though on invisible snowboards, both urging their unnecessary
helpers to get moving. She was sure she'd heard
somewhere that Parlabane was into climbing, so maybe this
was no great shakes to him. Possibly that was how he and
Vale had met.

Rory and Kathy caught up just as Emily reached the track.
There was still a distance of about fifty or sixty yards to go
before cover.

'Are we having fun yet?' Rory asked, panting.

'No,' Emily replied, 'but if I ever need a cheap exfoliation
treatment for my arse-cheeks, I'll know where to come.'

She looked back, Rory too. The still and silent landscape
appeared as indifferently deserted as when they had first
set eyes upon it. It felt difficult to believe that there was
anyone else out there, never mind what they had witnessed
on the other side; a difficulty that was proving rapidly
contagious.

'No sign/ Rory said. 'Maybe they were just putting the
wind up us.'

'They fired shots,' Kathy reminded him.

Parlabane and Vale were approaching at the rear, stealing
the odd glance behind themselves.

'Could have just been to chase us off,' Rory persisted. Maybe Donald's map-reading isn't quite on the money and
we were trespassing. A volley over our heads to get us to
bugger off sharpish. Did the trick, didn't it?'

'They came after us too/ Kathy added.


201
'Did they, though? That's how big boys chase off wee
boys: a few angry paces and the wee ones get off their marks.
They don't hang around, so they don't know the big boys
have stayed where they were, pissing themselves.'

'What do you think?' Kathy asked Parlabane, who was
now trotting alongside.

'I like Rory's odds, but I don't like the stake.'

'Point taken/ Rory conceded.

They caught up with the rest under the trees, the group
stopping to catch their breath at a judicious spot affording
both a view of the spur and a quick escape into cover if
needed.

'This is when Donald tells us congratulations on
completing the latest UML test/ said Liz. She sounded
sardonic, but it was hard to tell whether she was being
scornful should this turn out to be the case, or despairing
of her own wishes that it would. The possibility had flashed
across Emily's mind, though it had been hard to evaluate
amid other, threateningly mortal concerns. It seemed like
a desperate hope in the 'Maybe I'll wake up and it'll all
have been a dream' category, but with the added plausibility
of 'surprises' and 'challenges' being on the UML
agenda. The thought of enormous legal vulnerability
argued against the company engaging in reckless stunts,
but, on the other hand, waivers and disclaimers had been
signed in respect of 'strenuous and physically demanding
outdoor activities'.

Baxter ignored both the remark and the expectant looks
awaiting his response. Instead he looked into the trees, away
from the track, comparing the limited view with what was
on his map.

'We should get off the road, take the less obvious path/
he said. 'And we should do it before they get line of sight.'

'Line of sight?' Rory muttered, evidently still fancying
those odds enough to be less concerned than the rest about


202
the stake. They're hardly going to get that, sitting smoking
a fag a mile back on the other side of that hill, are they?'

Emily looked behind once again, a near-superstitious
compulsion in response to Rory so blatantly dropping his
drawers and mooning fate. Parlabane was looking back too,
in time to see fate drop its own drawers in response, only
fate was facing forwards. One of the soldiers was visible,
jogging over the brow of the hill. Spotting his quarry, he
dropped to one knee and fired. Emily heard something
explode from a trunk a few yards away, at almost the same
time as the report reached her ears.

Everyone ran deeper under the trees.

'That's what I meant by line of sight/ Baxter shouted
angrily. 'The other one could be even closer. Let's move it
out.'

'We'll just call you Archie MacPherson, shall we?'
Parlabane said to Rory.

'Eh?'

'It's Andy Ritchie on the ball, very disappointing, he
hasn't really contributed much in this ga-- oh he's scored!
Great goal from Andy Ritchie!'

'Fuck you.'

As Baxter began leading the group off the track, Emily
noticed Vale take a few steps to one side in order to look
up at the trees, searching for and examining the bullet hole.
Max spotted this and came over too.

'Looks heavy-calibre,' Max said. 'Army issue, I'd wager.'

Till take your word for it,' Vale replied.

'I know a bit about these things,' Max assured him.

'What are you two after, a fucking souvenir?' Baxter
shouted. 'Come on.'

'Where are we headed?' Rory asked.

'I think I know a short cut.'

'You think?'

'You got any better ideas? Actually, it's not so much a


203
short cut as a way of putting greater distance between us
and them.'
'How so?'

'You'll see, but only if you shut up and keep moving.'
'No, keep talking, Rory,' Kathy said. 'Tell us again about
the soldiers staying where they were.'
'Kathy/ Emily chided. 'Knock it off.'
'Sorry. Just wishing he was right, that's all.'
They proceeded Indian file, which discouraged Emily
from constantly looking behind, as all she'd have seen was
Rory. As far as she was aware, it was Parlabane who was
rearmost, and therefore first in the queue for a bullet should
the soldiers catch up. It occurred to her that Parlabane was
probably first in a lot of people's queue for a bullet, though
she wasn't sure if his presence here was therefore a talisman
or a curse: whether his survival of previous murder attempts
meant he was a smart guy to have around, or whether it
skewed the law of averages to their disadvantage.

She let a couple of people pass her until only Parlabane
was at her back.

'I'm not being funny here,' she said, 'but this isn't the first
time you've been shot at, is it?'

'Actually, come to think of it, I believe it is.'
'But I'm sure someone told me there'd been attempts on
your life.'

'Oh, yeah, but nobody actually popped one off before.
Probably why I'm still here. As far as I remember, I think
only one of them was planning to use a gun. Alastair
Dalgleish's hired help brought a knife, and Ian Beadie's
errand boy used a more improvised implement.'

'So how did you come through all of these unscathed?'
'I didn't. I lost a length of intestine in jail. Feel free to
make a remark about me being no less full of shit as a result.'
T'm sorry.'
'Don't sweat it.'


204
'How did you survive the others?'

'You looking for tips?'

'You could say that.'

'Can't help you. Not today. I survived most of those
attempts through two things I haven't got right now.'

'And what were they?'

'A gun of my own and the drop on the bad guy.'

'Shit.'

'Best keep running.'

She did. The pace was disquietingly undemanding. She
couldn't say she'd prefer it if every sinew was screaming,
her vision blurred or her lungs threatening to implode and
prolapse through her windpipe, but at least it would make
her feel the distance between the fugitives and their pursuers
was not narrowing with every footfall. Bound to each other
as they were, the group could only be as fast as its slowest
member, which was making her think extremely uncharitable
and politically unacceptable thoughts connecting her
personal survival with Joanna's dietary discipline. She'd
never articulate such notions, but when there were gunmen
on her trail, it was difficult to prevent the more ruthlessly
pragmatic parts of her mind from protesting that she shouldn't die just because someone else couldn't say no to
a cream cake.

Making it worse, she was sure she could hear footsteps
close by that didn't belong to Parlabane.

'Did you hear that?' she asked him.

'What?'

'Footsteps?'

Just me, my dear, sorry to alarm you,' said a voice. It was
Vale, appearing at her side as though he'd been teleported
there. She realised she hadn't passed him when she dropped
back.

'Where were you?'

Call of nature,' Parlabane answered for him. It's a


205
problem at his age. He went for a slash, which probably
made him the only one not shitting himself.'

'Charming, as ever, Mr P.'

Perhaps provoked by this little exchange, Emily began to
think she could hear running water. It was hard to be sure
with the wind picking up now and again, rippling the leaves
and masking more distant sounds. After another fifty yards
or so, there was no question: not only was the rushing noise
clear and consistent, but the surface of the water could be
glimpsed to her left through gaps in the wood. It got closer
the further they proceeded: their route remained straight,
but the river was bending to meet them, and unless it bent
back upon itself, it was going to drive them away from the
direction of the hotel.

Moments later, they were on the edge of a steep bank,
several yards of fast-flowing water blocking their path three
feet below.

'Looks like the short cut's fucked,' said Max.

'This is the short cut,' Baxter replied.

'How the hell are we supposed to get across that?' Grieg
demanded, horrified. 'Look at the speed of the current.'

'As a team,' Baxter insisted. 'You don't think we can get
across this? Good, because hopefully they won't think we
can either. Which means they'll still be searching this side
while we're hightailing it on the other.'

He took off his backpack and uncoiled the rope they had
used back at the tunnel. For a moment, due to the way he
was dangling it from his wrist, Emily thought he was planning
to cast it across the flow and lasso something on the
other side. Possibly the notion had sprung from her reluctance
to contemplate a plan that involved actually getting
into the water. It was moving steadily, a calmness upon the
broad surface denoting that it was far from shallow beneath.
It appeared to be unseasonally in spate, unseasonally in as
much as it was, theoretically at least, not meant to have


206
pissed down all through June, July, August and September
as it had done this 'summer'.

'I need a volunteer to go first. I'll be going last to make
sure we all make it.'

Toby put a hand up, just ahead of Rory and Max.

'Thanks, Toby, but you're a little light on your feet.'

'I'm not,' declared Joanna, stepping in front of the other
would-be volunteers. A contrite voice in Emily's head
acknowledged the possibility that her survival chances
might well now be improved because someone else couldn't
say no to a cream cake.

Joanna passed the rope through two belt-loops on her
trousers and allowed Baxter to tie off one end. He, Rory and
Max then took hold of the slack and paid it out gradually
to ease her reverse climb down the bank into the flow. She
wobbled a little as her legs went under, but regained her
balance before turning so that the current was hitting her
side-on. The water came up to just above her waist. Rory
went next, coiling the rope around his forearm and wrist as
Joanna edged her way forward to make room. Emily could
now see how it was going to work: the more of them were
in the water, the greater weight secured them against the
current, something their two-man pursuers would be unable
to match. That was what Baxter meant when he said it was
a way of putting greater distance between them.

Max followed, then Toby and Grieg before it was Emily's
turn. For the second time that day, she was enormously
grateful for the drysuit, her feet telling her what temperature
the rest of her body was being spared. She attempted
to ease her way into the flow but felt her boots slide downWards
outwith any control she might exert. It plunged
quicker than she'd anticipated, no gradual slope towards
the centre, just a sudden drop until she was waist-deep, the
tug of the current powerful and relentless. She could feel
the strain at the sole of her boots, as well as the constant


207
force her legs had to push against. All things considered, it
was a bugger of a moment for Rory to lose his footing. He
stumbled and fell backwards, his head briefly submerged,
the jolt enough to tumble Joanna ahead of him too. The three
remaining on the bank secured the line one behind the other,
heaving to like a tug-of-war team, the eight in the water
held in an arc until the fallen pair recovered themselves.

Emily looked from bank to bank. Joanna wasn't going to
reach the other side before the last of them entered the flow,
at which point their fates truly were bound together.

The next couple of minutes were like her time in the tunnel
intensified and infinitely elongated. As looking back
required her to compromise the comparative stability of a
sideways stance, she resolved to blot out what was going
on behind and focus upon Joanna's progress. That way, also,
she wouldn't know the point at which Baxter left dry land.

If some of the previous legs of their journey had felt
worryingly slow, this was a helpless agony, suspended
between wishing it was over and hoping Joanna didn't move
too quickly or too suddenly lest the lot of them get whipped
off downstream. Eventually, Joanna did reach the other side,
but it was only when she was in touching distance of the
near-vertical bank that Emily's perspective could confirm
her newest fear: that Joanna was too short to make the climb.
The news was relayed across in the form of a warning that
the whole line would have to move upstream a few paces
to where the bank was shallower. They moved not exactly
as one, but there was enough slack between each to allow
them to measure their paces individually. Unfortunately
there wasn't sufficient slack for Rory to give Joanna a punt
up without letting go of the rope himself, but there were no
further mishaps and in a comparative twinkling, the pair of
them were on terra firma. Joanna untied herself and secured
the end of the rope around a tree while Rory crouched down
to help Max from the water. With the line now secure at the


208
other end, Emily felt confident enough to look behind, and
was glad she hadn't before. There might have been slack
elsewhere in the rope, but it had ended with Vale, leaving
Baxter to hold only the older man's hand.

Once a few of them were safely on the other side, it felt
even more excruciating that those left in the water were still
necessarily moving so slowly, an effect multiplied when
Emily joined them on the bank. Her moment of personal
relief was merely a transient blink before she was once again
tortured by the sight of those still to emerge.

Distraction came in the form of news.

'I can see the minibus,' Joanna called out. 'It's parked on
the track not far ahead.'

'Campbell?' Baxter shouted.

'Don't see anyone on board.'

'Christ, where is he?' he muttered, before more audibly
advising them to make for it AS AFP.

Despite Baxter's impassioned entreaty, Rory and Max
stayed in place to continue helping the arrivals up the bank,
while Emily remained because her eternally hypercharged
conscience wouldn't leave until she'd seen them all across.

Kathy emerged, then Liz, the latter bellyflopping like a
landed salmon after sliding from the increasingly nervous
Max's grip and almost slipping back down the bank.

'On you go, Max/ Rory told him. 'I've got this.'

'Sure?' Max asked apologetically.

'Go. You too, Emily.'

She watched Rory grip Parlabane's forearm. After that
there were only two left. This was silly, she told herself. Even
sillier if she ended up the slowest runner once the last of
them were clear. She allowed herself one last look behind
before planning to set off, which was when she saw the
soldier. He was on the far bank, not directly across, but a
distance back, just on the cusp of where the river bent into her sightline.


209
'Look out!' she shouted, pointing to where the soldier was
now taking aim.

All of their heads turned in response. Rory hauled at
Parlabane's arm with sudden desperate haste, successfully
landing the reporter but toppling himself to his backside in
the process. Down in the water, Baxter pushed at Vale as if
trying to launch him ashore, with disastrous effect. His
efforts did send Vale more quickly against the bank, but
once Vale's bodyweight had swung from his path, Baxter's
momentum carried him forward and sideways, off-balance
into the current. Emily saw his head go under, then reappear
amid a thrash of hands, by which time he was already yards
downstream.

'The bus!' he yelled, spluttering, his feet finding enough
purchase to slow but not stop him. 'Run!'

A rifle round was better than any starter's pistol. Emily got
off her mark without looking back, finally running flat out
along a track with no obstacles and a tangible goal at the end.

As she approached, she could see fumes escaping from
the exhaust: glorious, blessed, merciful pollution. When she
got there, she found Toby in the driver's seat, the others
aboard and gazing anxiously out of the rear window.

'No sign of Campbell,' he confirmed. 'Keys were in the
ignition.'

'Did you hear the shot?'

'Sure did.'

'We lost Baxter.'

'He was hit?'

'No, swept away.'

'Shit. Who we waiting for then?'

His question was answered as Rory, Vale and finally
Parlabane arrived at the door and clambered quickly aboard
the minibus. Emily shifted along her double seat to make
room for Rory, Vale taking a spare seat next to Liz as;
Parlabane slid in alongside the driver.


210
Toby was eyeing the door, as if expecting Baxter to appear
at any second.

'Drive, for fuck's sake/ Rory ordered.

Toby put the vehicle into gear and released the handbrake.
As he did so, a figure clad in camouflage fatigues stepped
from the trees about twenty yards ahead up the track, rifle
held at his waist.

'Jesus,' Toby yelped, looking back to the rear window like
he was planning on reversing.

Parlabane stretched a foot across Toby's legs and stamped
the driver's sopping boot hard against the accelerator.

'Just go/ he said firmly. 'Drive at the bastard.'

The minibus leapt forward as Toby released the clutch.
He bowed his head towards the steering wheel, as low as
he could without losing sight of the track ahead, and then
a little lower than that. Everyone else ducked too; everyone,
that is, but Parlabane, who grabbed hold of the wheel and
corrected the vehicle's course as it threatened to slew off the
track towards the river. Emily raised her head in time to see
the soldier dive out of the way as the bus bore down on
him, the engine shrieking a kamikaze war cry, still in first
gear.

Toby sat up and changed gear, checking his rearview
mirror for what everyone else was looking for out of the
back window. The soldier reappeared on the track after a
few seconds, shouldering his weapon and firing at will.
There were screams and gasps, but no impacts. The bus
accelerated, taking the first bend so fast that the rear wheels
slid off the track, the vehicle threatening to topple until its
diversion was corrected by a sturdy tree. Toby changed
down and accelerated again, heading fast along a straight
stretch, putting cover and distance between them and their
Pursuers.


Parlabane was applauding, hands in the air. He turned
around, a look of delighted devilment on his face that was


211
incongruous to the point of offensive. 'Again, again/ he said
loudly, laughing.

'What?' several voices demanded.

'You've really got to hand it to these UML guys: that was
a rush. Wouldn't you agree?'

'A rush?' Kathy retorted, furious. 'There's two people
missing, we almost got killed and we're still, quite literally,
not out of the woods. Is this your way of telling us you're
finally flipping out?'

'Oh, come on ... Toby, slow down,' he advised quietly,
putting a hand on Toby's arm. 'I think we can all breathe
out now.'

'Didn't you hear me? There's two people missing. They
could be dead.'

'Two people missing, both UML people. That doesn't
strike you as a coincidence? Listen, I didn't want to be the
prick at the cinema who keeps telling you he can see the
boom in shot, but I think we can all knock off the suspension
of disbelief bit now that the fun's over.'

'Suspension of--?' Kathy cut herself off, taking a moment
to mull it over. Emily, it seemed, wasn't the only one who
had been wondering whether it was all a set-up, but she
hadn't been ready to conclude as much when doing so could ,
prove suicidally negligent if she was wrong.

'Take a step back and examine the evidence/ Parlabane
said. 'We just happen to stumble across the scene of some- .
thing highly secret and dangerous at the exact moment it's
taking place, amid miles and miles and miles of absolutely
fuck-all? What is this, The Secret Seven! We just happen to
have a grandstand view of whatever it is from a hilltop
which conveniently affords us a major headstart when these
guys, who don't know what - if anything - we might haves
seen, come bombing after us? And to get us running, they!
start taking pot-shots from a distance of about half a mile,
maybe more? Oh, and let me rewind. Campbell and the'


212
minibus are missing, having failed to make the rendezvous.
Subsequent events hint that the guy may have had to do a
runner or even been abducted to some grisly end, but he
bravely fought off the evil baddies long enough to make
sure he dropped off our lunch?

'Then to make our escape, we have to cross the river, but
's okay, because Baxter just happens to have rope and we
Just happen to be wearing drysuits, all of which we thought
tad already played their part due to a very deft curve-ball
man threw us earlier in the day. Baxter just happens to
o last across the water, just happens to be still in there when
soldier appears, and just happens to get swept away
the last of his corporate guests are ashore, heading
a minibus that just happens to be waiting with the keys
iveniently in the ignition. Finally, a third soldier just
ippens to appear as we drive away, to give us that last
t as we fashion our escape as a newly bonded team
it.'

'Third soldier?' Toby enquired.
'Didn't you notice he was bone-dry? He couldn't have

the river.'

'All I was looking at was the gun.'

'What about the bullet hole in the tree?' Joanna asked,
y looked at Max, who was gazing down uncomfortably,
g not to catch anyone's eye. She suspected he knew he 'as about to be, in the local tongue, 'fun' oof regarding his
rofessed ballistics knowledge.
'Remote-control pyrotechnics/ Vale stated almost apologetically,
not wanting to humiliate the guy any more than
was unavoidable. 'Detonated by Baxter. He was holding
something under his map. The damage to the tree was from an outwards impact.'

Rory was the first to start laughing. Within about twenty
seconds, even Max had joined in.


213
Mysteries of the Flesh


'I think we should just give everybody the vegetariai
option/ said Ger. 'Tell them it's a team-building thing fc
them all to have the same menu.'

'There's not enough to go around. Well, I suppose if
change the starter we can use the aubergine and a few moi
peppers, but it's still going to look a little stretched, a lit
I don't know . . .'

'Like a plate of side dishes missing the meat?'

'Guess so.'

'Aye. Actually, that's what all vegetarian dishes look
to me, but that's neither here nor there. I suppose if
forget about the souffle, then we can re-route the cheese arw|
make some individual tartlets. At least pastry's got a bit
bite. No, I cannae fuckin' believe I'm sayin' this. My
ever menu in charge and I'm talkin' aboot servin' up glc
fied quiche? Against the alternative of goin' with this . stuff of unknown and as far as I'm concerned dubious pro\
enance.'

Alison and Ger looked again at the meat sitting on
worktop, blood and juices running along dozens of tin|
crevices in the polythene bags it had arrived in. Its vendc
had appeared at the kitchen's outside door a couple of how
after the dual departures of Mathieson and his intende
main course, an unlikely messiah figure in a green
length cagoule, mud and bloodstains on his boots. It wasf
unusual to get opportunistic hunter-cum-hawkers at
back door, looking for a quick sale (and often a swift
questions disposal) for what they had bagged. Howeve


214
what they were flogging tended to be more reliably identifiable,
usually because it still had skin, bone, fur or feathers

attached.

Ger had spent a while trying to retrieve the situation by
telephone, ringing other hotels in an initial radius of a
ninety-minute round trip and then expanding this to three
hours as he failed to get a result. The odds, he admitted,
had been against him. This was for dinner on Saturday night,
busiest of the week, and even if Sundays weren't as hot,
nobody wanted to take any chances of going short before
the week's first deliveries on Monday morning. Yes, somebody
could probably have spared something, but not for
some no-name sous-chef they'd never met. Some of them
Blight have heard of Mathieson, but Ger couldn't drop the
name because the chances were either: A, that they'd hate
the bastard and not want to help his establishment; or B, be
jjals of his and want to know why he wasn't the one on the
line, leading to the same result as A.

In true desperation, he'd resorted to calling the nearest
Supermarket', which was the statutory rural Spar in
Auchterbuie, to enquire what they might have in their three
foot-square refrigerated section. It turned out they had just
Sold the last of their meat - a shrink-wrapped gammon joint
» which was a bitter shame because the kitchen had both
Cheddar and tinned pineapple rings.

Sir Lachlan had proposed his own remedy for the situation
by announcing his intention to take to the hills and
shoot something for dinner, even if it was only a few bunnies.
'At least they'll be organic,' he had joked.
However, ninety minutes later he still hadn't left the
building, due to having failed to locate any shotgun
cartridges. This, Alison reckoned, did not augur well for his 3 ~*!es to locate anything worth shooting either. 'It's been

while since I used the old blunderbuss,' he admitted, 'but
you never lose the knack.' The same, evidently, couldn't be


215
said about the cartridges. He popped his head around the
door every half hour or so by way of a lack-of-progress
report, muttering about whatever possible hidey-hole he
was next about to investigate.

Ger was confidently pessimistic about Sir Lachlan's
chances, theorising that there weren't actually any cartridges
to find.

'Lady Jane'll have binned them yonks ago. If you knew
him as well as she does, do you reckon you'd allow him
access to live ammunition?'

It was a very plausible point, and one that pointed all the
more stiffly towards a meat-free repast.

Then this chancer had appeared with his poly bags, his
agitated body language screaming out POACHER, or so they
thought until they saw what he was punting.

'It's pork,' he'd insisted, though he wouldn't elaborate
how he'd come by it. His offering already butchered, Alison
revised poacher to simply 'thief. Without any guarantee -1
nor even clue - of source, and no use-by date to go with,
Ger was not quite ready to let desperation override his^
professional judgement.

'Okay/ the guy said, sensing that Ger's deliberations were
ultimately tipping against him, 'I'll give you it for a round
thirty quid. Come on, we can help each other out here. We .
both know I could still flog this tomorrow, but it sounds to ;
me like you need something for the table tonight.'

'I'm not trying to drive the price down, mate. I'm just not!
quite ready to take your word for the freshness of this meaM
I'm not even convinced what kind of meat it is. It doesn't
look like pork to me. Where did you get it?'

'Fuck's sake,' the guy sighed. 'Okay, I stole it. I think w€ both fucking know that. And it's not pork, but as far as yc
guests are concerned it could be.'

'What is it?'

The guy swallowed, sighing again. 'Ostrich,' he admit


216
'Ostrich?'

'There's a farm just outside Blairhaugh. They do the
slaughtering on-site but package it down in Perth. It's the
in-thing in London restaurants,' he offered winningly.

'My baws it is/ Ger replied.

'EverybodyTl be eating this stuff soon, mark my words.
Sainsbury's are already stocking it.'

'Brilliant. So we can look forward to seeing that wee
mockney prick riding aboot on wan in an advert next year?'

'Dunno aboot that pal, I'm just tryin' taste make a few bar.'

'Twenty.'

'Twenty-five.'

'Done.'

'So what are we going to call it?' Alison asked, once the
purchase was made, the chancer departed and the meat
transferred to the fridge. 'Or do we just come clean?'

"Bollocks to that. I mean, we can't lie about what it is, but
we need to be a wee bit coy. That's usually the cue to resort
to French.'

'How about Icare d'Afrique?'

'Icarus?'

'Yeah. His wings were useless too.'

Ger grinned, 'fa plane pour moi,' he confirmed.


217
A Matter of Taste


A loud rumbling boom from outside cut through every
conversation and silenced the room at a stroke. There was
a moment's pause before people began laughing at their
own startlement, sudden frights being something that had
already been an understandably pervasive theme of discussion.
The curtains were closed in the bar, rain-lashed
windows not making for a decorative view, so Parlabane
hadn't noticed any lightning flash, but the encroaching
low-sky gloom of the late afternoon had made it no surprise.
That said, given the engineered thrills of the preceding ;
hours, there was something about the thunder's very porten", tousness that was bordering on camp.

He wasn't the only one to think it.

'So, Donald/ Rory asked loudly, 'was that an actual clap
of thunder, do you reckon, or a UML-generated, artificial,
scare-the-pants-off-you clap of thunder?'

'No point asking him/ Toby replied. 'Neither he nor
Francis are going to tell us the truth about what is and isn't
their doing, are you?'

'Granted/ Campbell admitted. 'But I think you might be
paying us an undeserved compliment if you think we can ;
control the weather.'

'My point still stands, though/ Toby went on. 'The pair v
of you are now officially unreliable sources of information.
Anything you deny responsibility for remains suspect, given
your vested interest in things appearing to be beyond your
control.'

'Including the weather?' Baxter asked.


218
'We'll give you the benefit of the doubt over that/ Toby
conceded. 'Mind you, they used to say the Scots blamed
Marcaret Thatcher for the rain, so I wouldn't be the first to
be so paranoid.'

'Oh God, let's not go there again tonight/ Campbell said,
laughing nervously in the transparent hope that overt - even
affected - good humour would encourage everyone to maintain
the day's hard-forged esprit de corps.

'We didn't really believe that/ Kathy assured Toby. 'We
knew fine that if she really could make it rain on Scotland,
there'd never have been a dry day.'

'louche.'

'Well, anyway/ Campbell said, cutting through any
possible further contributions, 'I think now would be an
appropriate time to issue you all with your first UML
campaign medals.'

He stepped away from the table he'd been leaning against
and drew their attention to the aluminium box sitting in the
centre of it. With a magician's-lovely-assistant arm-waving
flourish, he flipped open the lid and revealed ten metal
badges snuggling amidst a bed of dark-grey protective foam.
Then he called the guests forward one by one and pinned
the badges to appropriate places on their evening attire, a
cheer and a round of applause greeting each mini-ceremony.

Parlabane examined his. It was a surprisingly heavy and
substantial wee number for such a pointless trinket, but here
in the world of corporate stupidity, it was bad for the image
of both parties if anything came across as cheap. Things like
the UML gig were aimed at suits, whose self-importance
had to be stroked on a regular basis, and needless expense
was a guaranteed way of achieving that. Economies were
what those on the shop floor had to worry about.

Talk predictably returned to how they had 'earned' their 111 Is,lots of perspective comparisons and not a little revisionism
on certain parts. Rory was happy enough to admit


219
buying the whole scam at face value, his only tilt at its plausibility
having been his off-the-mark claims that the soldiers
were feigning pursuit. Others were allowing retrospect to
skew the extent to which they were willing dupes, not least
Max as he attempted to back-pedal from his ballistics beamer;
and then there was Grieg. The word 'twat' could have been
invented for him, its role as a pejorative gynaecological reference
and thus crude term of lazily bandied abuse merely
groundwork in preparing itself for its one true and destined
application to this glaikit bawbag. With every sentence he
was appropriating more and more of Parlabane's evidence
as things he'd noticed himself, and if he kept on at this rate,
within the hour he'd be recalling sauntering down the hillside
puffing on a stogie while all the fools rushed obliviously
around his centre of unhurried calm. Parlabane would have
put the house on his Y-fronts telling a different story.

'So where are the other UML guys,' Rory was asking
Baxter. 'Or are you not introducing us so that we can't ID
them too early in your next stunt?'

There will be no more stunts,' Baxter said with gleefully
open dishonesty. 'You have my word. But to answer your
question, the villains today weren't UML personnel. Just
some locals, blokes from the village down the way. We bung
them a few quid, they get to dress up, shoot replica rifles
and play soldiers of a Saturday afternoon.'

They earned their pay today,' Rory said, smiling. 'So did
you. A fine performance, Mr Baxter. The point at which I was
in complete control of the day's activities has passed,' he
mimicked. 'If you ever fancy turning your hand to acting,
I know a few directors. One question that eludes me, though:
You told everybody to leave their mobiles because you obviously
didn't want us trying to call the cops, but I was a
naughty boy and took mine anyway, until you confiscated j
it; and by the way, good thing for you it's waterproof. What |
would you have done if I'd asked you to dial 999?'


220
'Why didn't you?'

"Dunno, it didn't really occur to me. Panic, I suppose, and The didn't think anybody would be able to get there in time
to make any difference. Plus you said there was no signal.'

'There you go, then.'

'Ah come on, you couldn't rely on that. What would you

ive said, what was the contingency? Go on, it's over now
- or might I be anticipating something in tomorrow's

scenario?'

'Not at all. Try calling the cops now. There's a signal here.'
Rory whipped out his ostentatiously tiny M-Kard mobile
and snapped it into operation with affected nonchalance,
[hopelessly failing to disguise the delighted nine-year-old
who thought the gadget made him the coolest kid in base
boots. The nonchalance turned quickly to consternation
id brow-furrowed scrutiny as the device failed to come to


'Works better with the SIM card in,' Baxter said.
Rory nodded, remembering. 'At the tunnel.'
'No, while you were in the gym this morning, actually.
Durtesy of the light-fingered Francis.'
'Sneaky bastard. So do I get it back now, or . . .?'
'Oh sure, don't worry. It's your property and we're not
Nchool prefects. You're the paying customers, after all, or \ would be, theoretically. Francis has them planked some: Where safe. I'll get him to sort you out in a minute.'
'Them?'

'He removed everybody's. It was to add that moment of
the-car-won't-start panic if anyone did manage to sneak a
phone out on to the hike. Not that anybody seems to have
noticed. Francis,' he called theatrically, to attract everyone's
attention. 'When you've got a moment, could you retrieve
^distribute our valued guests' SIM cards?'

This provoked widespread patting of pockets and con
nrmatory pressing of keys, Joanna and Liz distinct in


221
mentioning that they'd each discovered the faults thati
morning but assumed their phones to be on the blink,
useless here besides.

Baxter produced his own mobile and displayed the ina
tive screen for Rory's benefit. 'In case you assumed your
guide had one and demanded he dial 999 with it when yours
failed/

'But what if there'd been a genuine emergency?'

'I had mine,' said Campbell. 'And despite appearances,
was never very far away, believe me/

Baxter followed Campbell to the door, the pair of them
flagrantly conspiratorial in their quiet chat, clearly lappir
up the curiosity.

'Well, they didn't get my SIM card,' Grieg was tel
anyone in earshot, 'because I left my phone back in
car/ He announced this with inexplicable pride, as thoug
it would be interpreted as a demonstration of uncarutjl
prescience in addition to his already established ice-cc
composure, rather than merely proof that he was a gorml
less twat who'd forgotten to lift his mobile from the hanc
free dock.

With his colleague gone, Baxter returned to the bar
signalled to Parlabane to join him near the door. He grabt
a handful of peanuts and obliged, dangling a bottle of Beck'^
between two fingers.

'I just wanted to say,' Baxter began quietly, 'I've heard .
the accounts of the day and I appreciate your cooperatic
in keeping your mouth shut when you could have easilji
blown the gaff/

'I'd like my not mentioning the SIM cards over bree
this morning taken into consideration too. Does it get me i
room upgrade?'

'Only if you don't mind sharing a four-poster with
Lachlan,' Baxter replied, nodding towards the loudly
tartaned patron who was tonight cheerfully and energetics


222
manning the bar. 'His is the only one bigger than the guest
ommodations.'

Nah. If that's what he's wearing, I seriously don't want
see the bedclothes. And I don't want to think about the

pyjamas.'

'Seriously/' Baxter resumed. 'I know you don't owe us

jything and I can't even ask that you be fair in what you
ifyrite, but I do ask, humbly, that you don't give away our
its. We'll be asking everybody to be circumspect, but

iu're the one in a position to really spoil the surprise. I
mean, we've got other tricks up our sleeves for when that
>'s worn thin, but if you give away the principle

Parlabane shook his head. 'It's one thing being the smart
critic who takes the piss out of a movie he didn't like: 's all about opinions and that's his prerogative. But the
who gives away the ending is a fascist, because he
ants to put you off going so you won't have an opinion.'

'I think we understand each other.'

'Well, not entirely. A bottle of Cragganmore would pretty

iuch guarantee nothing inadvertently slips out when I'm

the keyboard writing the final draft.'

'Jack Parlabane in bribery and corruption shocker. Now

it would be a headline.'

1 only expose the ones who don't pay me off.'

A couple more rounds were downed throughout the
inrong, dispatched with a surprisingly unflustered efficiency fey Sir Lachlan, who Parlabane would have to admit had
Struck him initially as of the bumbling aristo genus, chocolate-teapot
subspecies. Last night it had been a champagne
or-orange-juice, help-yourself affair, down possibly to a lack
°* staff, as suggested by the flustered and rarely sighted
jvaitresses, in likely combination with UML's wise reluctance
to allow this drouthy shower unfettered access to the
a]?? malts- Tonight, however, though the waitresses were
but invisible, the bar was in full service, capably staffed


223
by a man whose title, Parlabane appreciated, was unlikely
to have been conferred in recognition of pouring drinks. Not
that a knighthood was in any way intrinsic proof of being
much cop at anything, given that if your aristo family
successfully retained its wealth throughout your lifetime and
you could sit through a civic reception without spitting food
at other guests, it was pretty much impossible to avoid
getting some kind of honour from the establishment.
However, there weren't many aristos comfortable at the
sharp end of the service industry, so if Sir Lachlan was being
forced to slum it, then he was wearing it well (though the
odd fly snifter he was helping himself to was no doubtl
playing its part in easing his dignity).

With the atmosphere thus augmented, it was a while
before people started to notice that the passing of time had;
not brought the three magic words they'd been waiting for;
(and increasingly feared never hearing) since finishing their
sandwiches at the foot of the spur. Eventually, though, insistent
stomachs prompted the checking of watches and the
odd baleful glance at the thoroughly looted-looking lazy
Susan, now bereft of olives, peanuts and Bombay mix.

'Yes, I must apologise,' Sir Lachlan said, noticing the rising,
incidence of anxious glances towards the door. 'We've had
some problems with staff, and they're running a little shorthanded
in the kitchen. I'm sure it won't be long now.'

Baxter was looking to the door too, but it seemed that it
wasn't just his appetite that was prompting him. Campbell
hadn't returned from his SIM-retrieving errand, which
presumably hadn't required a round trip of this duration,
and with Rory staring expectantly at him every few minutes,
M-Kard in hand, his patience was clearly draining faster
than any glass in the room. Rory had been fidgeting since
he learned of the sabotage, presumably unable to function
properly without the assurance of knowing his digital-age
thumb was there to be sucked if he needed it.


224
'I'm going to see where the hell he's got to,' Baxter said
... -j-gbiy. If they shout for dinner, don't wait for the bugger.'
'We won't/ volleyed several earnest replies.


'You could say it's a matter of taste. They're playing on our
values as well as our expectations, particularly our expecIiations
of them, in terms of what we deem acceptable.'
It was Kathy who was talking, in between mouthfuls of
broccoli souffle, which looked even less substantial or satisfying
than last night's vegetarian option. Liz was the only
other herbivore of the group, Parlabane being grateful that
there weren't enough of them to merit any divisive ideological
confrontations over the issue. Kathy struck him as
plausibly tending towards the militant in her vegetarianism
as in the rest of her political make-up, but with her biz
partner and principal ally numbered among the bloodthirsty, it was unlikely she'd be getting in anyone's face over the
issue, unless provoked. He really, really hoped that didn't
happen. It had been a long day and he couldn't face another
night of pointless, entrenched squabbling, especially over
that issue. Having been through tunnels, under water, across
rivers, up hills and down slopes, burdened throughout by
a weight of wet clothes and the inhumane unpleasantness
of squelching socks, he felt he'd earned the right to tuck into
a hot meal without morally justifying its content.

In common with the rest of them, he'd no idea what Icare
d'Afrique was, but by the time it was finally sitting in front
of him he'd have eaten a farmer's arse through a hedge, and
so wasn't asking any questions. It was coated in beaten egg
and parmesan then shallow fried, which to Parlabane made
«taste like veal. Fact was, to Parlabane, anything coated in
beaten egg and parmesan then shallow fried would taste
^e veal, including the aforementioned farmer's arse. As
such, it was hearty and welcome, but tended a little towards me bland if he was being picky.


225
Discussion took a while to commence, and not because!
Campbell wasn't there to play pass-the-conch. Starters we
devoured with undignified haste, the etiquette of waiting
for all to be served before commencing feeling like
Herculean test of will power, especially with Sir Lachlan
alone providing both waiter and sommelier service. Neither,
of last night's waitresses had put in an appearance, and
sweat on their host's brow belied the calm smile he present
while ferrying plates from kitchen to table.

'I can only apologise again/ he said sincerely, noticing 1
ravenous looks that greeted his eventual appearance with
the first of the main courses. 'Our staffing crisis has actua
worsened since you had your aperitifs. One of our wa
resses is helping the chef and the other one has chosen,
singularly inopportune moment to disappear on us.'

'Maybe she's been kidnapped by Baxter and Campt
wherever they've got to/ Rory suggested. 'And our
mission is to rescue the help so that we get dessert befc
midnight.'

It was this, together with the relief of rapidly filling belli^
that finally sparked a conversation more elaborate thanl
few grunts in acknowledgement of the fare. Even these.
been offered grudgingly in some quarters because 'yes,
lovely' used up a good second and a half that could other
wise be spent shovelling food into their mouths. The or
of a degree of contentment and hence relaxation
conducive to a more detached discussion of what they
experienced earlier in the day, the pre-prandial reconst
tions having provided a less insightful commentary
even Jonathan Pearce could have offered. Nor did it
that their deliberations were conducted in the absence
Grieg, who, having finished his main course, had borrow*
the minibus keys from Toby in order to retrieve his me
from across the river where they'd left their cars.

'We assumed certain givens/ Emily continued, a forl<


226
,f Icare d'Afrique dancing in her right hand. 'And that's what
disposed us to believing the scenario. I assumed, for
' e mat UML wouldn't countenance a situation in
jch panic might lead to injury, such as having us all
^nning for our lives down a steep hill. It was the belief in
something as simple as that which made me think things

it be outwith UML's control.'

'What if we had injured ourselves?' Joanna asked. 'A
ted ankle or a broken wrist wouldn't have been a
ion-to-one shot out there.'

'We all signed waivers/ Liz reminded her. 'We assumed
as to cover activities like yesterday's or the tunnel thing,
; we didn't really do anything more risky or strenuous
the chase. It went through my mind, like it must have
through everyone's at first, that it couldn't be for real,
mally, the reason I bought into it was that I couldn't re they would do something that people might say
ted to a sick joke. From a corporate point of view, I
it they'd be on very dodgy ground. It worked, though.
;'t see many people coming on this weekend then taking
huff and complaining about it, even if they did think it
in poor taste at the time. The end justified the means.'
ictly/ agreed Emily. Taste was how they messed with
heads. We assume certain givens, so if the test you're
- such as the tunnel - is still comfortably PC in terms
assumed values, there's a psychological safety net.
lething happens outwith those values and you're
finely scared because you assume UML wouldn't cross
se lines.'

^Disneyland for adults,' Liz agreed. 'Like a rollercoaster,
' the illusion of a loss of control that makes it exciting.

*pt at Disneyland, you know it's an illusion. We didn't

there today.'

T^ez/ Rory said^ chuckling That,g a head_job/ isn't it? 1 means that pretty much anything goes from now on.


227
Because given what we already know - and what they know
we know - they'll really have to push the envelope if they're
going to scare us again.'

I'm not sure they would try/ countered Liz. 'For that very
reason. No matter what stunts they might pull, everybody
knows now that it's part of the "experience". The novelty
was in blurring what we believed was under their control.
You can't do that twice.'

'Fair point/ Rory conceded. 'But it doesn't mean now that
the game is afoot they won't be trying to put the wind up
us some way. I mean, doesn't anyone else think it's ominous
that both Baxter and Campbell are absent right now?'

There was both wicked and nervous laughter from around
the table, the sort of mixed anticipation you heard just before
the aforementioned rollercoaster reached the downturn.

'And those SIM cards never came back, did they?' Rory
continued, clearly relishing the ramifications. Rory was the
loud guy in the car behind you on the rollercoaster, who
held his arms up while yours gripped the bar, and bellowed
his exhilaration throughout. Even an extended period of
separation from a functioning mobile failed to dampen his
excitement.

Joanna gave it a go, though. 'Nah, too late tonight. They'll
be off preparing tomorrow's tricks or something. We've all
had a knackering day. If we were paying corporate clients,
we'd be expecting a degree of pampering to balance the
action. Nobody's going to recommend the UML experience
if it involves sleep-deprivation, are they?'

'Depends whether the end justifies the means/ Emily
reminded her. 'What are you doing but making more
assumptions about where the comfort zone begins and ends?'

'My comfort zone begins in my bed/ Joanna replied. 'And
it'll take more than kid-on soldiers to keep me from it
tonight.'

'It'll take whatever UML decides, if that's their agenda/


228
Rory argued. 'We can take nothing for granted. The hotel
staff could be in on it too, for all we know. Disappearing
waitresses, what's that about? Even the so-called staff
shortage and slow service could be part of the windup.
We're assuming the hotel wouldn't intentionally be running
a slow service with Sir Heedrum Hodrum roped in to pour
the drinks, but how do we know for sure?'

'It's insane,' Emily said, laughing. 'Brilliantly insane. We
can't rely on the veracity of anything here, even each other.
How do we know everyone at this table is really who they
say, or that one or more of us isn't a UML plant?'

'Oh no, please, make this stop/ Parlabane appealed. 'I feel
an Escheresque nightmare coming on.' He was therefore
enormously grateful for the interruption of Sir Lachlan and
- belatedly proving they weren't extinct - a waitress, come
to clear away the main-course dishes.

'Once again, apologies for the amateurish service,' Sir
Lachlan said. 'And by that, of course, I mean myself. Alison
here is a shining professional. Believe me, she and our chef
Gerard have worked miracles in the kitchen tonight.'

'And before any of you panic,' the waitress added, 'I'd
just like to say that me escaping from the kitchen doesn't
mean there's no dessert. It's all in hand.'

The girl looked post-flustered, her face flushed and her
hair a little damp from the heat, but with a certain glow
about her from knowing the hard part was over. She and
Sir Lachlan set about gathering the mostly empty plates,
asking everyone in turn how they found their meals and
being answered in all but one instance by the usual politely
appreciative platitudes. The exception was Max, who had a
left a small chunk of his meat at the edge of his plate.

'It was quite unlike anything I've had before,' he said.
'But would you pardon my ignorance - all our collective
ignorance, I believe - and put us out of our misery as to
what African Icare actually is?'


229
Sir Lachlan took an exaggeratedly deferential step back
to allow Alison to answer. She blushed a little at being put
under the spotlight, smiling nervously and clearing her
throat before she answered.

'Ostrich/

Parlabane took it to be a sign of Britain's recently
embraced gourmet ethic that nobody reacted with any
display of distaste at this revelation; not that this was an
accurate indicator of their true feelings. In these days of
food being the new sex, its countless magazines the equivalent
porn, nobody wanted to be the food-prude Mary
Whitehouse.

'Ah, I'd never have guessed/ Max admitted. 'It seemed
closer to red meat than fowl, but I was put off track by the
markings. I didn't know they branded them like cattle.'

The waitress looked confused. Max lifted his knife and
uncovered the uneaten piece of meat. 'It still had a bit of
skin on it, which I found a little tough so I left it.'

The girl looked at the plate for a moment, her eyes focused
in steady scrutiny before widening as the colour drained
visibly from her face. She let the pile of plates she was
holding drop the couple of inches to the table with a loud
clatter, and stumbled against Vale's chair. He reacted with
those inhuman reflexes of his, vacating his seat and spinning
it to catch her falling weight in one flawless movement.

Rory and Emily exchanged knowing looks, the pair of
them having been conspicuously pleased with each other's
company all evening and acting like the self-styled naughtiest
kids in the class.

'Give her space,' Vale said, ushering Max and Toby away
from their chairs.

'What is it, Alison?' her boss asked.
'It's nothing. I just got a bit light-headed. I'm okay now,
honestly.'

She waved away all ministrations and lifted the plates


230
again, exiting the room in a hurry. Sir Lachlan followed,
clearly still concerned despite her insistences.

Toor girl must be exhausted/ he muttered.

With staff levels already at critical, it wouldn't look too
impressive to the guests or the HSE if those remaining
started dropping from overwork.

'What was that about?' asked Joanna.

'She didn't like the cattle-mark thingy,' Max explained.

'Well, it's maybe just my natural meat-revulsion talking/
Kathy mused, 'but I thought the mark looked more like a
tattoo.'

'Oh don't/ said Joanna, wincing.

'Fuck off/ laughed Emily.

'You know, it did a little/ agreed Liz conspiratorially.

Fucking vegetarians, Parlabane thought. If they couldn't
make you feel guilty for eating meat, they'd try to put you
off it. It was good humoured, but with no lack of malice.
They knew that if food was the new sex, then there had to
be somewhere even the most liberal and adventurous drew
the line, and what they were suggesting constituted the
equivalent of incest.

The others weren't taking the bait, but Max, the mark
having been on his meat, looked decidedly queasy. 'The
waitress was certainly spooked by it/ he said. 'And she got
it out of here in a hurry.'

Rory laughed approvingly and began clapping his hands.
'Very good. I thought her wee funny turn looked pretty
staged, but you've got to hand it to them. We said they'd
have to push the envelope, and that is definitely pushing
the envelope.'

'It's disgusting, is what it is/ said Joanna. 'What on earth
would be the point of making us think we've been eating
. . . you know? Especially as they know we're on to them
and aren't likely to believe it.'

'It's like a knowing wink, if you ask me/ said Rory.


231
'Playing with our taste and assumptions again, setting the
scene with something a bit nasty, so we won't have a clue
what to expect next - other than the fact that it's liable to
be pretty macabre if this is the overture. Ah, and note again
that neither Baxter nor Campbell are here to be grilled.'

'Oh, are we eating them too?' asked Liz dryly.

Rory laughed, quite delighted by Max and Joanna's
discomfiture. 'You will taste man flesh,' he boomed, in imitation
of Christopher Lee in The Fellowship of the Ring.

Parlabane's constitution wasn't easily disturbed, and
certainly not by mere imagination, but he knew it might be
a while before any more farmers' arses featured on his
metaphorical menu.

Joanna got up from the table, drawing her eyes off Rory
with undisguised loathing. 'I'm sorry, everybody, but this
isn't my idea of a joke. I'm going to bed.'

'What about puds?' asked Liz.

'Do you think I've any appetite after that?' she retorted
accusingly.

Liz made a less then penitent Oops! expression once
Joanna's eyes were averted, a few shared smirks defying the
awkwardness of the moment.

I'm off too/ said Max, with restrained but discernible
indignation. 'Not to bed, but you'll forgive me if I don't
want to hang around the dining table. I'll be in the snooker
room later if anyone fancies a game/ he added, trailing a
late olive branch.

'Yeah, we'll have a few frames/ Rory called after him.
'Just as soon as we've finished our chilled monkey-brain
desserts.'


232
The Mark of a Man


'Are you sure you're all right?' Sir Lachlan was asking,
hirpling along behind Alison as she hurried for the kitchen,
its atmosphere of heat and pressure promising a sanctuary
of the familiar as her heart thumped. She felt inexplicably
cold in the corridor, and needed the embrace of that sometimes
stifling warmth like a lost toddler needed a hug from
her mummy. She'd never understood what people meant
when they said they felt like someone had walked over their
grave, until she'd seen that man's dinner plate. It was daft.
She didn't believe in any sixth-sense nonsense, but she knew
that events and circumstances could conspire - no, coincide
- to give the most rational person the shivers, and such a
confluence had washed over her in that dining room. Overheated,
dehydrated and running on empty, she was well
primed to let her imagination off the leash when she
glimpsed those leftovers.

'I'm fine/ she told him as he nipped in front and held the
door open for her. 'Just gave myself a fright. It's silly. Ger'll
laugh, wait and see.'

'Ger'll laugh at what?' the new head chef asked, pouring
whisky into individual steel measures for warming prior to
combustion atop dessert.

Alison put the pile of plates down on the worktop above
the dishwasher, the branded meat on top, surrounded by
scraped-away parmesan and uneaten veg. 'That doesn't
mean anything to you, does it?' she asked. 'I mean, I've only
heard you describe . . .'

Ger's gaze locked upon the plate as though it might rise


233
up and strike if he took his eyes off it. The 'cattle-mark' the
guest had referred to was a small logo, blackened on the
skin by the heat but still legible. It was in the shape of three
interlinked capital Ds.

Sir Lachlan had taken hold of the whisky bottle as soon
as Ger put it down, and was poking around in the wrong
cupboard for some glasses.

'Well, if you're feeling better, Alison/ Sir Lachlan said, 'I
think a wee dram might be in order in recognition of both
your efforts, and in recognition particularly of the creative
talents of this man here. It won't be the last time you hear
this, Gerard, I'm certain, and I'm sure it counts more if it
comes from the guests rather than the proprietor, but bugger
it, I'd like to heartily propose that we toast the chef.'

Ger looked up at last from the plate, his face a picture of
ashen disbelief. It wasn't the reaction Alison was hoping for,
and it didn't look very likely that he'd laugh.

'No, you can't,' he said, his voice hollow, throat dry. He
gulped, his eyes returning to the uneaten meat.

'Oh, don't be so modest. Why ever not?'

'Because it looks like I've already shallow-fried him.'

'What?'

The chef. Mathieson. I think that's his tattoo.'

'What the devil are you talking about?' Sir Lachlan asked.

Ger remained still, breathing deeply in a demanding effort
to retain calm.

'Mathieson was in a boy band in the late Eighties.'

'A boy band?'

'You know, like a pop group. One-hit wonders. They were
called Three-D. This was their logo.'

'Hang on,' Alison interrupted, relief hitting her like a
cooling breeze. 'Okay, I get it. Panic over: this was the
bastard's revenge. He took the meat then got someone - a
mate probably - to turn up at the door and sell us this stuff. He marked it with the logo for a sick joke.'


234
Ger shook his head, slowly and solemnly. 'I didn't even
know he had a tattoo, so how could he assume anyone
would recognise it? Fair enough, I wound him up yesterday
by playing his song, but he'd no way of knowing I'd seen
their logo or would remember what it looked like.'

'Wait a minute/ Sir Lachlan said, screwing up his eyes in
confused consternation. 'Are you saying . . . You're not saying

That we've just cooked the fuckin' chef, yes.'

'So how come you didn't spot this tattoo when you were
preparing the meat? How come it only came to light on a
dinner plate?'

'I don't know. I washed the meat and coated it. Yes, I'd
have expected to notice something like that, but . . .'

'But what, man?'

'A few pieces had a membrane above the meat. Tattoos
can penetrate well beneath the top layers of the dermis.
Underneath, the marking would be faint, but would show
up if . . .' Ger swallowed. 'Would show up if heated.'

'No,' said Sir Lachlan. 'I don't... I mean, I can't. . . You
can't . . . No. Where did it come from, for God's sake? No,
I simply don't believe it. There must be a more reasonable
explanation.'

'Look. A man turned up at the back door and sold us
some unidentified meat that he claimed was ostrich. I bought
it because we were desperate, and we were desperate
because our chef got binned and cleared oot the fridge. A
piece of skin on that meat bears a mark with, shall we say,
a significance regardin' the personal history of our departed
head chef. Those are the facts. If you can combine them to
produce a conclusion that doesnae involve me offering Long
Pig as my debut dish, I'd be delighted to hear it.'

Sir Lachlan gripped the whisky bottle by the neck and
put it to his lips, swigging it back straight. 'God almighty,
how the hell could this have happened?' he asked no-one


235
in particular. 'It just can't be true. After everything that's
gone on here and everything I've worked to overcome, I
refuse to believe that when we finally look like turning the
corner, we feed the bloody head chef to our guests as an
entree.' He took another swig and looked imploringly at his
employees. 'I mean, what the bloody hell else can go wrong
here? Is one of the guests going to reveal himself as an Egon
Ronay researcher? "Charming location, atmospheric establishment,
menu ideal for South American plane-crash
survivors. Avoid March as hotel is booked out by the annual
Sawney Bean ancestral family gathering."'

Alison took the bottle from him and placed it down away
from his grasp.

'With respect, sir, I don't think the hotel's reputation is
the issue right now/

'She's right/ agreed Ger. 'What we fed the guests is a
secondary consideration. The primary one is how it got to
the kitchen. If this is how it looks, then Mathieson was
murdered here today; in fact, murdered, skinned, butchered
and sold back to his place of erstwhile employment within
a couple of hours of leaving/

'By someone whose face Ger and I have both seen,' Alison
remembered with a chill. 'Oh, God, he even had bloodstains
on his boots. I thought he was a poacher. What kind of sick
bastard would butcher somebody and sell him for meat?
And what kind of nutter would do it at the expense of letting
us see his face? We could identify him/

'The kind of nutter who doesn't expect you to tell
anybody,' Ger said, quiet and cold.

'Why the hell wouldn't we . . / Her words tailed off, the
answer sinking in before she could finish her question.


236
After-Dinner Games


Vale appropriated the role of sommelier after what was
unanimously deemed to be an irredeemable lapse In service,
opening and distributing the bottle of Shiraz that had lain
on the sideboard since Sir Lachlan's hurried departure. He
had a lithe elegance about him as he moved around the table
filling glasses, a mercurial alertness about his features,
neither of these properties tallying with Emily's riotions of
long-serving civil-service desk-jockeys. Perhaps his late
career-change to photography had truly liberated the guy's
spirit. She would like to think so.

'I don't think Sir Lachlan will mind/ Vale assured them.
'Though we'd probably best lay off making free with the
optics in the lounge.'

'At least for another half-hour,' added Rory.

There were four of them remaining around the table,
following a slew of exits in the wake of Joanna and Max.
Emily wasn't sure whether it was the wine, the fatigue or
merely the perspective afforded by having been briefly in
fear for her life earlier on, but she couldn't motivate herself
to empathise with Joanna's indignation nor feel any disapproval
of those making light of her and Max's discomfiture.
Perhaps, just perhaps, with her PR hat definitely lying
crumpled and discarded in a corner somewhere and her
guilt-driven leftist reflexes dampened by last night's
rancour, she was learning to lighten up a little.

Kathy and Liz had both expressed their regret at opting
to forego dessert, but cited a combination of exhaustion and
grave doubt as to whether they'd be seeing it before dawn,


237
given the speed of service thus far. The ever-conciliatory
Toby had gone off to join Max in his mooted game of snooker,
an act of amelioration perhaps intended to prevent the latter
from thinking he'd painted himself into a huffy corner. Rory
had made his own gesture of solidarity by suggesting that
Toby take the open bottle from the table plus a couple of
glasses, though he might not have been so generous had he
known their host wouldn't be back to replace it.

They heard the distinctive slam of the heavy front doors
from down the corridor.

'Sounds like Grieg's back/ Rory observed.

'Could be Baxter,' Emily suggested.

'Nah. Him and Campbell are hiding in a cupboard somewhere,
waiting for us to go and investigate. Major tactical
misjudgement, if you ask me. After dinner, a few bevs and
a hard day's yomping in yellow, they've seriously miscalculated
if they think we can be arsed playing hide and seek.
Actually, maybe it's Sardines they're playing, and that
explains why all the bloody staff have disappeared.'

But Rory was wrong. It was Baxter who emerged from
the corridor, hair and clothes damp from the rain.

'Campbell show up?' he asked, a little breathless from
running.

'No, not that we're aware/ Parlabane replied.

'Shit.'

'Where have you been?' Emily inquired. 'You've been
ages. You missed dinner, and that's saying something, the
time it took.'

'Sorry. What did you have?' he asked distractedly, as
though from automatic politeness.

'Man flesh/ boomed Rory, looking around for a response,
but nobody was laughing. Baxter's face, in conjunction with
the duration of his absence, suggested all was not well.

'Look, I'm sorry to be a party-pooper, but I think we might
have a wee problem.' His voice was low and a little too


238
controlled, hinting at great efforts to constrain a less sober
delivery. The phrase 'wee problem' sounded anything but.

'What's up?' Parlabane asked.

'More a matter of what's down. As in the bridge.'

The bridge? Down how?'

'Down as in one end is bent and mangled and the other
is dangling into the ravine. You remember that clap of
thunder earlier? Well, I don't think that's what it was.'

'You've just come from there?' Parlabane asked. 'On foot?'

'Yeah. The road's longer than it seems because of the
loops, but on foot you can take a few short cuts. I went out
that way looking for Francis. We had something planned
for tomorrow involving a hidden shelter in the woods. I'll
come clean, he wasn't going to retrieve the SIM cards - he
was going to hide them there and tell you all they'd gone
missing. Then we were all going to "discover" them
tomorrow, big Abracadabra moment. But there was no sign
of him anywhere. I think something might be going very
wrong.'

'Nah, nice try, Donald, but we're not biting,' said Rory.
'We're too tired. Have a seat. There's still some wine left.'

'Rory, this is not part of the UML Experience, all right?
My colleague is missing and I need you all to be serious for
a minute. The fucking bridge is down. The bridge*. You know,
the thing connecting this place with the only road out of
here? It's wrecked. Do you think our budget stretches to shit
like that? It certainly wouldn't stretch to repairing it.'

'Whereas fibs and porkies cost nothing,' said Parlabane.
'Why don't you take a seat and wait for Grieg. He'll be able
to verify things one way or the other, unless he's driven the
minibus into the ravine, of which he strikes me as being
entirely capable.'

'The fucking minibus is right outside,' Baxter stated
angrily. 'He hasn't driven it anywhere.'

'It's what?'


239
'It's at the front door, where it's been since this afternoon.
Go and look, for God's sake. Jesus Christ, we've got a serious
situation on our hands and I'm stuck in some kind of boy
who-cried-wolf nightmare.'

'So where's Grieg?' Emily asked, checking her watch and
doing some disturbing arithmetic regarding the time since
Joanna's singularly gormless companion had left.

'Having a beer somewhere with Campbell and all the
missing staff members who've in on this nonsense/ scoffed
Rory.

'Missing staff?' asked Baxter.

'One of the waitresses is AWOL, according to Sir Lachlan,'
said Parlabane. 'And we've not seen him or any other staff
for a wee while either.'

'Does this not tell you anything?' Baxter challenged Rory.
'I mean, you aren't noticing a pattern here at all?'
Rory stood up and handed Baxter a glass of wine, which
he initially made to bat away, but thought better of it and
downed the lot like it was water. If this was merely his latest
in-character performance, then it was one Stanislavsky
would have approved of.

'Look, there's a simple way to get to the bottom of this,'
Rory said. 'We phone the cops, tell them about the bridge.
If you're shitting us, you won't allow that to happen, like
earlier today. Sorry if having your bluff called buggers up
your plans, but better the flaws get ironed out during this
dry run, eh?'

'Calling the police sounds like a very good idea/ Baxter
replied. There's a phone on the wall behind you. Do it now,
because the sooner you appreciate the gravity of this situation,
the sooner we can do something about it.'

Rory turned around and lifted the slim, black handset
hugging the wall next to the doorframe. 'What do I dial for
an outside line?' he asked.

'Nine/ said Baxter.


240
Rory hit nine and held the handset to his ear, then pressed
the cradle up and down before hitting nine again.

'No outside line. Very funny. Now what do I really dial?'

'You really dial nine/ Emily said, having made a call from
her room that morning.

Baxter tried to grab the handset from Rory, but he was
fobbed off as Rory dialled zero instead. They all heard a
phone ring down the hall at reception.

'Maybe it's just this extension/ Rory suggested, hanging
up and heading out into the corridor. They all followed,
looks being traded as they left the table and moved for the
door. Parlabane and Vale, she had already observed, were
schooled in an unspoken communication that suggested
they knew each other from more than just a few shared
assignments. They were both checking Baxter for the
sincerity of his expression, he expectantly examining theirs
for signs that they believed him. He looked Emily fully in
the eye for perhaps the first time since that awkward,
pseudo-clandestine reunion by the hill, and she saw genuine,
restless anxiety, an appeal that said: 'You know me and I
need your help.' It wasn't a card he'd ever play if his game
was a bluff.

Rory was holding out one of the receivers from the phones
on the reception desk, a blank expression on his face. He
was less cocky but he wasn't ready to admit he was worried
yet.

'It's dead as well.'

'The switchboard's blank/ observed Vale.

Parlabane hopped behind the desk and gripped the mouse
on the desktop PC, clearing the screen-saver. Its monitor
displayed a dial-up networking dialogue box informing the
user: Unable to establish connection. The phones really are
dead/ he confirmed. 'Internet access, everything.'

This proves nothing/ Rory insisted. 'In fact, what did I
just say? If you're shitting us, you won't allow me to phone.


241
Voila, I can't. Same as earlier, you'd already disabled the
phones. Back then it was the SIMs, now it's the landlines.'
Baxter put his hands to either side of his head in frustration.
j|j

'Take the fucking minibus, then,' he said. 'Check it out	3gj

for yourself. I just hope you don't run into whoever out
there is responsible for demolishing the only direct means
of escape.'

'Check it out for ourselves? Great idea, like phoning was
a great idea. Except that Grieg's got the keys to the minibus
and he's conveniently out of the picture. Remember what
Toby said? You are an unreliable source of information. You
have a vested interest in things appearing to be beyond your
control. Christ, I wish I'd gone to my bed like the others,
I'd be missing all this shit.'

'Okay, how's this for control?' Baxter asked, holding up
a set of keys.

'You've got a spare?'

'Of course I've got a spare. You don't think I'd entrust a
spanner like Francis with the only set?'

Rory took them. 'Let's go for a ride.'

'We've got to warn the others,' Baxter entreated.

'No, no, you're coming along where we can keep our eyes
on you. And when we get back, the Milky Bars are on you.'

'Fifty-year-old Springbank,' Baxter said as Rory pulled
open one of the front doors.

'Eh?'

'Fifty-year-old Springbank. It's in a locked cabinet behind
the bar. If it turns out I'm lying, it's yours.'

'And what's my stake if you're not?'

'The least of your worries.'

Rory trotted out into the wet night and hopped into the
minibus driver's seat, Baxter clambering into the row behind
him. Vale, Parlabane and Emily remained beneath the stone
pagoda that extended from the front wall above the storm


242
doors, deliberating the necessity and wisdom of them all
taking the trip.

'Do you reckon this is straight up?' Emily asked. 'Or is
us going off on a night-time trek in the minibus actually
part of Baxter's plan? He seems genuinely anxious to me.'

'See above, re Escheresque nightmare/ Parlabane replied.
'No point thinking about it. That way madness lies.'

'I'm staying put,' said Vale, resting his back against one
of the two stone pillars that supported the stone canopy. 'If
somebody has dynamited the bridge, then driving down a
road with no exit strikes me as extremely foolish. And if all
is well, it's a waste of time. My instincts are towards the
latter. Like this afternoon, why would some anonymous
ne'er-do-wells just happen to be targeting our merry little
group?'

To Emily's surprise, Rory climbed back out of the minibus
again and walked around to its front.

'Engine's dead,' he reported. 'Conveniently. Or inconveniently,
if you believe we're under threat from evil forces.
I'll just reconnect the sparkplug or whatever neatly reversible
damage Donald here got up to while we were eating.'

He popped open the bonnet, Baxter standing at his back.

'Shit,' Rory gasped.

'Doesn't look too fucking reversible to me,' Baxter
observed bitterly.

Emily stepped out into the rain, while Parlabane pulled
the front doors wide open to shed more light on the minibus.
There wasn't a cable left uncut, and the light spilling out of
the doorway illuminated a black patch of fluid oozing from
beneath the vehicle, the rainwater nudging the slick into
tributaries and rivulets but unable to wash it fully away.
Vale walked across the monobloc to the Range Rover Emily
assumed to belong to Sir Lachlan. He knelt down next to
the vehicle and patted the underside as well as the ground
next to it.


243

'Brake line has been cut/ he reported. Vale walked briskly
to the VW Golf a little further along the concourse and
repeated the drill. 'This one too. Can I
suggest we get inside?
I might be getting a little too caught up in the spirit of the
UML Experience, but I do rather think we might be in some
danger.'

Parlabane held open the door as they filed quickly inside;
all but Rory, who ambled at the back in a deliberate demonstration
of ongoing scepticism.

'Yeah, yeah/ he said. 'So the staff cars have been tampered
with. UML wouldn't cross that line, would they? Except that
the whole hotel is in UML's pocket for the duration of this
weekend. Look at yourselves. What are we doing right now
that we didn't do already today? Running around in a panic
thinking something scary's going on. Donald here even
mentioned what he called "that car-won't-start moment" to
me earlier.'

'"Only the true messiah would deny it",' quoted Baxter.

'Eh?'

'Meaning there comes a point where you have to listen
to what you're actually being told as opposed to what you
want to believe. Do you know what sub-dom is, Rory?'

'Yeah. It's the politically correct term for S&M. Is that
what we're playing tonight?'

'In sub-dom sex, the partners establish a codeword
between themselves so that if the sub wants the dom to lay
off, he or she'll know it's for real - as opposed to all the
"no, no, please stop I beg you" stuff that gets both their
rocks off. I realise I'm trapped in this cry-wolf shit of my
own making, but will you please, please, please listen to me
when I say that if we had established a codeword, then right
now I would be screaming it at the top of my fucking lungs.
This is not a joke, it's not a stunt and it's not a fucking team
building exercise.'

Rory shrugged.


244

I
'Yeah, but you would say that.'

Baxter lunged at Rory, Vale and Parlabane diving to intervene
before an event elsewhere served as sufficient distraction
to cool their passions. The sound of a seven-foot
window being panned in can have that effect.

'What the fuck was that?' asked Rory.

'Came from down the hall/ Vale said. 'Sounded like our
little private dining room.'

They ventured forward cautiously, the need to know
pushing them on against the resistance of what they might
find out. Rory took the lead, bolstered by scepticism more
than bravery. Vale gestured to Emily to stay back, but she
only complied as much as remaining a few paces behind. She was equally compelled by the desire to know what was
really going on as by an outright reluctance to be standing
near the front doors on her own.

Rory reached the open doorway first, followed by Parlabane
and Baxter a long second later.

A door swung open further down the corridor, sparking
a new wave of minor myocardial distress before Sir Lachlan,
the waitress and the chef emerged into view. For three people
out of the loop on recent developments, they looked disproportionately
concerned about investigating a sound of
breaking glass.

'It's Grieg/ Parlabane reported, while Rory stood and
stared, gaping like a goldfish on Quaaludes.

Emily swallowed, feeling a dryness in her throat as she
made to speak. 'How is he?' she managed to ask, though
she feared they all knew the answer.

'Shorter/ said Parlabane.

Emily made to move forward but Parlabane blocked her
path. 'You don't want to see this/ he told her.

'Now, Rory, you're the expert/ Baxter stated acidly. 'So
tell us, do you reckon that's an official UML mock-up headless
corpse, or what?'


245
The remark at least shook Rory from his catatonia. His
eyes lost their glazed stare and instead focused disbelievingly
upon Baxter, like he was blaming him for the reality
that had come literally crashing down. If so, he was only
shooting the messenger.

'That is the single most revolting thing I've ever seen/
Rory observed, his words flowing slow and deep.

'I'd be surprised if it retains that distinction over the next
few hours/ Parlabane predicted.

'We're in a lot of trouble/ said Rory, speaking barely above
a whisper.

'Oh yeah/ confirmed the hack.


246
Sunday, October 27, 2002
r

9
Much to Digest


Parlabane stepped aside to let Sir Lachlan and the chef look
for themselves. The girl wisely declined, and didn't look like
she needed any such bludgeoning visual cues in order to
appreciate the gravity of the situation. All three of them, in
fact, had appeared to be already fearing the worst before
they had any idea of what was lying front-down (he couldn't
accurately say 'face-down') on the dining table.

'I'm with your man Rory/ said the chef. That's the most
mingin' thing I've ever seen as well.'

Parlabane suspected that the sight was not without
competition in the chef's experience. He was a sinewy
looking hardcase with facial scarring unlikely to have
resulted from overuse of the same Bic disposable, and upon
first glance Parlabane was fantasising about the guy kicking
Gary Rhodes's spiky little head in.

'We need to call the police,' Sir Lachlan said.

'Your phones are out,' Vale told him.

'Well, one of you must have a mobile.'

'S'awright, I've got mine,' said the chef. 'It's in my jacket,
hangin' up.' He disappeared to the kitchen and emerged a
few seconds later with a depressing expression of concern
as it failed to respond. 'What the fuck?'

'SIM card's gone,' said Rory. 'Ours too.'

'How could it have . . . Fucking Mathieson,' he said,
answering his own question. Wrongly, Parlabane would guess.

'Who's Mathieson?' Vale asked.

'Ex-head chef/ Sir Lachlan said. 'He was dismissed today.
Ger here took over his duties.'


249
'Dismissed?' asked Baxter. 'Just like that? What for?'

'Does it matter?'

'Well, I'd bloody well say so if it could explain anything
that's happening around here tonight. How was his mental
state, would you say?'

'It doesn't matter/ insisted the chef, weighing in on his
boss's behalf.

'If he's a nutter and he's gone postal, I'd say--'

'It doesn't matter,' Ger repeated, with a certainty that
Parlabane didn't fancy one bit. 'He left in the huff and he
thieved all the meat en route, but he hasnae "gone postal"
and he's no' responsible for that poor bugger on the dining
room table.'

'How do you know?'

Ger sighed. He, Sir Lachlan and the girl, Alison, traded
looks.

'One moment, Gerard,' Sir Lachlan said, before stepping
into the dining room. He returned a few moments later
carrying the brass ice-bucket that had earlier been chilling
Liz and Kathy's Chardonnay. 'Okay, go ahead/ he
instructed, emptying the melting ice on to the carpet.

It was another Kodak moment, truly: Rory and Emily
engaged in Freestyle Synchronised Boak, each miraculously
getting their heads clear of the receptacle between heaves
to allow the other a shot. Sir Lachlan stood between them,
holding the cooler on his outstretched palms like he was
doling out the salver of Ferrero Rocher. Wiz zis spew-bucket
you are really spoiling us.

Parlabane closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for - and
in truth expecting - nature to take its course. It didn't, but that
wasn't to say it wouldn't any time soon. He felt saliva rising
around his gums and tongue, as though the cursed meat was
still in his mouth, but then that was always the sensation after
eating something he regretted, no different from a pudding
supper without first consuming six pints of Heavy.


250
Vale simply shook his head. It would take a lot to turn
that bastard's stomach, and Parlabane very much doubted
the Headless HR Officer would even make the top-ten most
revolting things the ex-spook had ever seen.

'How could you be sure?' Parlabane asked Ger.

'A tattoo. It made unmistakably specific reference to a
previous career.'

'He didn't used to be a farmer, by any chance?'

'No, he was in a boy band. Why?'

'Nothing.'

They moved back to the reception hall, away from the
dining room given what it now contained and what had
earlier been consumed there. Emily and Rory sat at the foot
of the grand staircase, a Y-shaped affair that split on the first
landing and doubled back on itself to reach an overlooking
gallery above. Alison and Ger stood leaning against the
reception desk with its useless phones, Sir Lachlan to one
side of the front doors he'd just locked. Vale stood next to
the seated pair, Parlabane opposite, as directed by a private
gesture no-one else noticed. Between the two of them they
had a view of all possible points of entry, if not much means
of defending themselves in the case of incursion, which was
where the reassurance of being with Vale broke down. The
more you realised he knew what he was doing, the plainer
it became that you didn't have a clue.

'So that's two dead and two missing/ Vale summed up,
once everyone had regained some approximation of composure.

'Not to mention no way of phoning for help,' Rory added.

'Never mind phoning,' said Ger. 'Let's get the fuck ootta
here and we can tell the polis at Auchterbuie.'

'You can't,' Rory informed him. 'All the vehicles have
been sabotaged and there's no way of crossing the river
anyway because the bridge has been destroyed.' Rory looked
at Baxter by way of acknowledgement, or maybe even


251
apology. Baxter was neutral in response. It was no time for
I-told-you-so. 'So not only can't we escape or call for help,
help would be a long time getting here.'

'How long before anyone's likely to notice the bridge and
raise the alarm?' Parlabane asked.

'Julia the housekeeper and the other domestics live in
Auchterbuie/ said Alison. They're usually in by seven.'

'Shit. So whoever's out there has at least until then to do
what they came here for.'

They?'

'Well, I hardly think this is the work of one person,
however deranged,' said Parlabane. 'If it was, he wouldnae
be announcing his intentions by lobbing corpses through
the window and feeding us chef parmigiana. He'd be picking
us off one by one with maximum stealth. Besides, what's
going on here must have taken planning and coordination.
Your average psycho doesn't wake up one morning and say
to himself, I think I'll lay lone siege to a Highland mansion
tonight/

'Jack's right/ said Vale. 'We're looking at above-average
psychos, plural, but psychos nonetheless. Whoever it is took
out transport and communications, then let us know most
blatantly that we were under siege. The first part demonstrates
tactical efficiency, which is worrying, but it's the
second part that's really bothering me.'

'How so?' asked Rory.

The second part is a luxury afforded by the first. They
know we can't go anywhere, so they're willingly giving up
the element of surprise, giving us a chance to dig in.'

'And why's that scarier than them just coming in and
killing us all without warning?'

'Because, one, it suggests they're confident nothing we do
will make a difference, but more terrifyingly, two, it means
they want resistance. They're not here to shoot fish in a barrel.
These bastards want some sport.'


252
r


'Why don't we kill ourselves then/ Parlabane suggested.
That would fucking show them.'

'Yes, thank you for that, Jack. Always good to know you
can be relied upon for constructive suggestions.'

'Sport?' Emily asked, as disgusted as she was incredulous.
'Are you serious?'

'I'm not saying it's the purpose of the exercise, just a byproduct.
The purpose of the exercise can be seen on the
dining-room table.'

'But why?' she asked, then turned to look at Parlabane,
who didn't believe he was being paranoid in thinking there
was a hint of accusation about it.

'Jesus, why is it that whenever there's homicidal
psychopaths on the loose, people automatically assume it
must have something to do with me?'

'I'm sorry, I wasn't . . .'

'It could be as much to do with the place,' suggested Alison
quietly, eyeing Sir Lachlan with what looked like apology.

This place?' Emily asked.

'It's been a nutter magnet for centuries.'

'Alison/ Sir Lachlan protested.

'I'm sorry, sir, but there's things these people ought to
know. Even the ancient names for the area refer to bloodletting.
It's been host to massacres, human sacrifices,
summary executions and occult rites.'

To say nothing of very dodgy Seventies prog-rock/ Ger
added. 'Stormcrow.'

'Stormcrow?' asked Parlabane. That was this place? Jeez,
it really has witnessed some atrocities. And Magnus Will
craft, then, too? The Crowley wannabe?'

That's right/ Alison said.

'It doesn't mean there's any kind of bloody--' Sir Lachlan
began explosively, then bit his lip and swallowed, calming
himself. 'There's no curse/ he said, almost in a whisper.
'And I don't believe in such things.'



253
The neither/ Alison told him. 'But there's obviously something
that draws headbangers to this place more consistently
than it draws tourists. I'm just saying if a bunch of people
were to get slaughtered here, it wouldn't be the first time.'

'I don't think history's going to help us, however we interpret
it/ interrupted Vale. 'First things first. We need to inform
the others of the situation - significantly poor Joanna - and
get everyone together. Then we need to secure this place to
whatever extent we can. Sir Lachlan, what do you have in
the way of weapons?'

'I've got two vertical-barrel shotguns, but I can't for the
life of me find any ammo. Been looking all afternoon.'

'With respect, sir/ said Ger, 'would it be possible Lady
Jane's hidden it? 'Cause if you can think where she might
have stashed it . . .'

'My wife?' Sir Lachlan almost laughed. 'You think she
wouldn't trust me with a gun. Little you know us, Gerard,
little you know us.'

'I don't doubt the ammo's been removed/ said Vale, 'but
not by your wife. Any other weapons?'

'Just the swords.'

'What swords?'

'On the walls. The rapiers and the claymores up the . . .'
Sir Lachlan took a few steps forward, staring up the staircase.
Every head turned to follow his line of sight. The
claymores that had hung criss-crossed on the walls around
the reception hall were absent, only the single painted targe
in the centre remaining. 'How could I not notice they were
gone? I've been buzzing about like a blue-arsed fly, serving
drinks and waiting tables while some interloper's . . . Oh
no.' Sir Lachlan's gaze finally settled on the glass cabinet
at head-height on the half-landing, ominously empty. Parla
bane vaguely remembered noticing that there was nothing
in it when he passed on his way down to dinner, but
couldn't recall for sure what had been in it the last time,


254
and assumed whatever it was must be away for cleaning.

'Oh good God/ Sir Lachlan said.

'What was in the case?'

'Rapiers. Kept behind glass because if you leaned on one
it would cut you to the bone before you even felt the pain
of it breaking the skin. The claymores were the real thing
too, but these were what you'd call battle-ready. Stone
sharpened once a year to keep them that way. A family tradition,
dating back to times when the McKinleys had to be
ready to defend themselves.'

'Is the targe serviceable?' Vale asked.

'Couldn't tell you. It's a reproduction. Wood doesn't keep
like steel.'

'Probably why they left it. Still, better than nothing. Do
we have knives?' he enquired of Ger, who nodded and took
off for the kitchen, Alison following. Hers looked less a
gesture of faithful comradeship than a belief that alongside
him was the safest place to be. Outside of Vale, Parlabane
reckoned she was probably right.

'Jack, you and Sir Lachlan go down to the snooker room.'

'Just Lachlan, please. I hardly think it's the time to observe
formalities.'

'As you wish. Donald, you and I will go and break the
bad news to Joanna. Emily, Rory, you two go and get Kathy
and Elizabeth. Together. Nobody goes anywhere alone. Then
we all meet back here ASAP, got it?'


'That Vale chap knows what he's about, doesn't he?' Sir
Lachlan said, leading Parlabane down an enclosed stairwell
at the south-west end of the main ground-floor corridor.
'Do you know much about him, or have you just met on
the weekend?'

'We go way back. It's a long story.'

'Did I hear someone in the bar say he was a photographer?'
he asked, with open surprise.


255
'That's right. Why?'

'He hasn't always been, surely.'

'Not vocationally, no.'

'I don't mean to pry. It's just, I'd have said he has a look
of the services about him.'

Parlabane said nothing. No matter what the circumstances,
it was Vale's call whether he wanted to divulge
anything about his past, and on this trip it would have posed
awkward questions had anyone found out that these days
he made his money as a security consultant.

'It's something I'm seldom wrong about. I was in the army
myself, you see. That's why I laughed at Ger thinking my
wife wouldn't trust me with a gun.'

'You saw active service?'

'The Falklands.' He stopped on the stairs and pulled up
his shirt and waistcoat to reveal a scarred indentation on the
right side of his midriff. 'Argie bullet took the ends off two
ribs. I still get the odd . . . well, it's not a twinge, just a sort
of memory of the pain. Never felt pain like it. Comes back
every time I see that woman,' he added with a bitter smile.

'Long as we're having that Jaws moment,' Parlabane said,
and pulled up his own shirt to show Sir Lachlan the three
inch scar above his navel. 'Assassin's blade. And I sure felt
the pain again when you started talking about those rapiers.
This was just a sharpened steel ruler.'

'Goodness, how ... vulgar. What kind of thug uses something
so crude?'

The kind who isn't allowed access to proper knives/

'A prisoner? What were you doing there, an interview?'

'Six months.'

Sir Lachlan held open the fire-door at the bottom of the
stairs. As soon as he did so, Parlabane could hear the clack
of snooker balls being racked and the low bass of a quiet
remark followed by laughter. It was a testament to the steadfast
structure that no sound from above could penetrate


256
down here, not even the crash of a seven-foot window
having a decapitated corpse hurled through it. Such insulation
made his perspective right then like looking through
a window in time, even if the aperture only looked out upon
the world of half an hour ago. They had no idea. Here were
two men having a post-prandial game of snooker, probably
finishing off that bottle Rory had suggested Toby take with
him, a pleasant end to a memorably diverting day. This was
how it should have been. Parlabane wished he could join
them in their time-bubble, adrift from the main flow of the
continuum, but instead he had to pop it, wake them from
their dream lest they be murdered in their slumber.

Oh well, at least coming from him there'd be no repeat
of Rory and Baxter's back-and-forth shite as to whether it
was another elaborate hoax. He was the last person anyone
would believe to be complicit in any UML-sponsored
shenanigans. The matter of how to broach the issue was
nonetheless problematic, to say the least. He'd never forget
telling the then greenhorned lawyer, Nicole Carrow, over an
otherwise civil cup of tea (and after apologising for necessarily
breaking into her flat), that a failed attempt had
already been made on her life and that a team of professional
killers were outside waiting to get it right next time.
It felt worse than telling an entire orphanage of under-sevens
that there was no Santa Glaus.

Tact and sensitivity were considerations, certainly, but
time was of the essence. Hmm. All those who didn't indulge
in inadvertent cannibalism this evening take a step forward.
Max, Toby, not so fast.

Maybe not.

'You know, this part of the building dates back to the
Fifteenth Century,' Sir Lachlan said, tapping a white wall
affectionately with his knuckles. 'It's basement level now,
because of the way the hall and the gardens have been built
up, but there used to be grand rooms with windows to the


257


L
south. You still get natural light in the games room, though.
The landscaper and the architect I hired for the renovation
worked wonders, and now there's these marvellous
skylights that sit in between flower beds at ground level.'

The older man clearly wished he was back in the world
of half an hour ago too, filling in a visitor on the history of
this place he was so proud of. The only history Parlabane could think about was Alison's allusions to the multiple acts
of slaughter that had taken place here, and whatever essence
a vicarious connoisseur of human evil such as Willcraft had
sought to distil from it. Like Alison, Parlabane didn't believe
in curses, but he didn't much believe in coincidence either.

As they ventured along the corridor, he could see further
into the games room. Toby was bent over the table, spotting
the black, then gave the frame of reds a shake before
lifting the triangle, which was when he noticed the new
arrivals. He placed the frame upright behind the reds,
presumably a signal for Max not to break yet, and stepped
away from the table.

'Jack, Sir Lachlan. Just in time for a game of doubles. You
can toss a coin and the loser gets me for a team-mate. How
was dessert?'

'Dessert's off,' Parlabane said.

'Is something up?'

Parlabane stood in the doorway, surveying the games
room, this sanctuary of innocence, appropriately festooned
with playthings. The full-size snooker table dominated, but
there was room also to accommodate a tennis table, bookcases
and a sideboard bearing chess sets and board games.
He'd have expected to see a hooded light suspended above
the baize, but instead the room was illuminated by wall
lamps and a few ceiling spots, the ceiling itself being distinguished
by the two huge latticed-glass panels Sir Lachlan
had modestly described as skylights. With near-midnight
darkness above, they appeared merely as black rectangles,


258
and Parlabane reckoned he might not have noticed them at
all but for Sir Lachlan having made mention of them and
for the fact that a man came crashing through the one above
the snooker table just as they were about to enter the room.

Max stepped back in reflex and caught the edge of the
tennis table around the top of his thighs, which sent him
tumbling backwards upon the blue-painted wood. Toby also
managed to trip himself in fright, having been in the process
of turning away from the table when his attention was
rapidly dragged back there. Tripping over his feet, he landed
on his bottom on the floor in a squatting position, looking
up at the figure who had landed, upright, on the green baize.

He was dressed in dark grey, streaked-camouflage battle
fatigues, heavy boots on his feet, his face an intense snarl
of aggression. He looked late thirties, maybe early forties:
tall, muscular, fit, formidable. And in either hand he held
glinting swords that Parlabane now recognised as having
been in the glass cabinet that morning.

'Fuck me/ he gasped.

The man gave a roar in response, and began whirling the
swords in his hands with an expertise that appeared as spectacular
as its ramifications were dreadful. His wrists rotated
like they were servo-assisted ball-joints, his fingers flashing
like a speed-metal guitarist's as they altered their grip, interchanged,
compensated. Parlabane felt a spasm in his guts
as he thought of the damage one malnourished halfwit
junkie had done him with a flimsy, planed-down measuring
implement. He thought of Sir Lachlan's words about stone
sharpened blades, cutting to the bone through the mere
weight of being leaned against; he thought of poor, glaikit,
shite-talking, gormless Grieg's head, wherever the hell it
was; and he thought of a dozen scared eejits trying to fight
this off with a few Kitchen Devils and a reproduction targe
from Ikea.

The invader ended the display of flailing steel with the


259
swords crossed in front of his camouflage-jacketed chest.

'Right, come on/ the man growled, stepping forward
along the snooker table, eyes focused on Toby, who was
paralysed by shock and disbelief.

If Parlabane felt time had stood still during the
swordsman's display, then it seemed to accelerate in that
moment as the intruder lifted his foot to advance. He too
had been transfixed by the sight, this terrifying demonstration
of portentous proficiency, and the spell seemed only to
be broken in that micro-second when the swordsman made
to move towards his victim, at which point it was too late
to intervene, even if there had been any way of doing so.
Toby was isolated, closer to the table than to Parlabane.
There was no way of getting to him before this assassin,
whose first, decisive step signalled death as surely as any
signed order of execution.

It was over in less than a second.
The intruder's eyes fixing on Toby, his black-booted right
foot came down on the blue as his other foot left the table.
His momentum brought the ball of his left foot down on
the pink and the first of the reds, which rolled away instantly
and whipped his leg out backwards from under him. He
fell forward, his hands thrust out, still gripping the crossed
swords as his considerable bodyweight fell towards them.
The hilts landed simultaneously on the baize about half a
metre apart, either side of the upright wooden triangle.
Acting as a fulcrum, the frame forced the ends together in
a scissor effect and most efficiently cut off his head. It
bounced once and doubled against the black, knocking it
off the jaws of the corner pocket as the head came to rest
against the bottom cushion.

There was a moment of total stillness, no words, no
breathing, just the whir of a convection heater and in
Parlabane's head the repeated sound of metal on metal
together with the snicking noise that had accompanied it.


260
He stared at the body on the baize, the head lying a foot or
so distant, the image of how it got there looping in his mind.
It had been so spectacular, he was half expecting the corpse to kneel up, arms out and the head to go: Ta-daaaaa! Ayyy
thangew!'

Toby looked to Parlabane and then to Max, glances traded
all around as though seeking confirmation from an independent
source that what they'd just seen did actually
happen. Parlabane, realising time was still a major factor,
decided to provide it.

'Well, are you not going to give the man a round of
applause?' he asked. The mean, that was fucking amazing,
didn't you think? Honestly, if you'd asked me ten minutes
ago, hypothetically, if it was possible to cut your own head
off, I'd have said unequivocally no. You've really got to hand
it to the bloke - though it's fair to say luck was involved. I
mean, there's no way he could do it again/

Max looked at Parlabane as though he'd grown a second
head, perhaps in compensation for their visitor losing his.
'What in the name of God is going on?'

'We're in a lot of trouble, guys, that's what's going on.
We're two men down already, though I suppose you could
say we've now pulled one back; not that it was down to our
efforts. I haven't seen an own goal of that calibre since Terry
Butcher retired.'


261
Repulsion


What a mess, what a bloody mess. It was just plain wrong,
like the editor of his personal biopic had accidentally spliced
in footage from the life of some poor fucker in Somalia or
Rwanda. 'Nightmare' was the word everyone else seemed
to be muttering to express their mixture of horror and
violently enforced credulity, but that didn't cover it for Rory.
A nightmare was some girl you'd brought home browsing
on your PC and accidentally opening your history folder. A
nightmare was his candidly snapped nude pictures of June
Shelley finding their way on to the internet. A nightmare
was your business partner telling a room full of near
strangers how you'd asked a B-list model to feign a desire to be anally penetrated. Besides, actual nightmares were
unreal terrors in your sleeping state. The sleeping state
tonight had been where they were all safe and comfortable,
two days into a jolly where the only fears were a controlled
part of the entertainment and the only danger was that the
wine might run out. No, this was not a nightmare. This was
waking up to find your sheets soaking wet and realising
you'd only dreamt you'd got up and gone for a slash.

He was supposed to be back in the lounge bar at this point,
sipping single malts and trading tales, maybe even catching
that one extra smile, that sly, shared secret one, from Emily,
with whom he'd begun to build up some quality rapport.
Not that he'd have been in with a shout of anything like that, nor even necessarily looking for it. They'd been getting on
kind of like . . . well, like he'd have expected to get on with
one of the blokes on this trip, just somebody you sparked it


262
off and wanted to jaw with. Somebody whose take on things
you wanted to listen to, whom you most wanted to hear
laugh when you told a story, whose face you looked to for
a shared reaction when someone did or said something you
both knew the other would find entertainingly stupid. What
had been most surprising was that there was no hangover
from the previous night's hostilities, as though neither felt
there was anything to forgive or even get hung up about.
He'd expected that, between the politics and Liz's revelations,
he'd be doing well to get a civil word out of her, as in
his experience lefties bore grudges and did not consort with
the enemy lest it be interpreted as tacitly condoning their
atrocities. Instead, she'd seemed to find him funny, and any
digs she made had been either good-natured or almost daring
him to transgress her perceived lines of political acceptability.
She'd been taking the piss, and he liked that. The banter
should have been flowing along with the wine and the
whisky, but instead . . .

Fucking hell.

Rory had had it good in life so far. He knew that; in fact
considered it important to acknowledge. You've got to
appreciate when you're having a good time at the time, so
that you didn't end up a miserable old sod in an armchair
wishing for days that weren't coming back. He'd been dealt
a good hand, been given plenty, and taken more than was
rightly offered at times (his personal Christmas morning
ritual of earlier years being a case in point). He saw that as
a mark of character rather than a flaw. Life was for living,
and it was the people who were prepared to reach out and
take more than their allotted portion who drove civilisation
forward. Not all progress was down to altruistic motives,
however we liked to romanticise ourselves. Truth was, if we
weren't greedy, selfish and hedonistic, we'd be without most
of the things that made life worth living. However, somewhere
in his mind there had always lurked a fear that one


263
day the bill was going to arrive. This wasn't a sign of a guilty
conscience - Rory didn't spend many nights awake weeping
for the little children - but just a symptom of realising that
what you've taken for yourself can be taken back. One day,
he'd always worried, life might find its way of exacting dues
and exerting a kind of balance. Bereavement, injury, disease,
June Shelley's pics going public and the bitch suing him for
every penny he had. That kind of thing.

Not this. No chance. For one thing, that bill was to be
marked for the exclusive attention of Rory Glen, Esq, and
no karmic sin he'd committed could possibly justify what
was being exacted from all these people.

They were assembled around the grand staircase, a ragged
and sorry bunch. Joanna was sitting on a sofa adjacent to
the front desk, Baxter next to her with an arm around her
shoulders. Her eyes were red but she looked too shocked
to really cry, too numb to feel the things that would course
through her when she was able to let go. She wasn't the
only one to look numb, though if the others were like Rory,
it had to be a defence mechanism: the mind anaesthetising
itself against the effects of the single, dominant emotion that
might otherwise paralyse them or turn them into quivering
wrecks.

Toby was a sight to behold, his white shirt soaked with
blood, his face smeared, hair stuck by it where he'd run his
fingers through. He'd been 'hosed', according to his own
description, being caught right in the firing line of the
intruder's secondary but non-lethal weapon: carotid arterial
spray. Sir Lachlan had a few dark, damp patches too,
sustained while retrieving two of his heirlooms from the
gatecrasher's still-twitching hands.

Emily and Kathy sat together on the stairs, the latter
sporting some quality pokiosity that now seemed so irrelevant
as to be barely worth noticing. Having been called from
her bed, she'd grabbed a pair of jeans and her shoes, leaving


264
herself braless under the grey sweatshirt she'd been wearing
as a nightie. Actually, there'd been plenty of visual goodies
on offer when it meant nothing and he was in no position
to enjoy it. He'd accompanied Emily to rouse their respective
colleagues, and though he'd stayed at their bedroom
doors, the hour of the night and the urgency of the situation
had afforded glimpses that would otherwise have been
treasured. Tonight they felt like the nude scenes in Schindler's
List. Liz had hurriedly answered the door in a towelling
dressing-gown that she hadn't quite pulled across, and
seemed thereafter less concerned about her modesty than
by haste to pull on some clothes. Hadn't it been one of his
admitted wishes for the weekend to see Liz in something
more revealing? Wish granted. Whoop-dee-doo. Next time
wish for a fucking machine gun, you tool.

Standing in the centre, of course, all eyes upon him, was
Vale. That quiet little man, fading into the shadows for two
days, but decisive whenever he stepped out from cover. Rory
had all but forgotten he was on their team during the CTF
match, as he'd been anonymous, invisible, until emerging
to make the crucial contribution of taking out Parlabane
when it was all or nothing. Politely enduring their half-cut
bluster like he was too shy to speak, then cutting through
the posturing and histrionics to the inalienable truth.
Nothing to look at on the surface but a nimble elegance and
modest charm, hinting at no greater hidden qualities than
the old guy at the wedding who has the ladies queuing for
a dance because he still cuts a rug better than the young
bucks could ever hope to.

Talk about keeping your powder dry. Throughout all the
phoney wars and team-building charades, where leadership,
character and other such qualities were supposed to emerge,
he'd kept his head down and let everyone else get on with
it, clearly aware it was all just a game. Then the minute it
became real, he had been the one to stand up, hold the centre


265
and tell the others what to do. Nor had Rory missed the
significance of Parlabane's conduct, looking to Vale for
instruction with implicit trust. Parlabane was the type of
guy who instantly derided pretensions towards authority,
as well as someone who'd come through plenty of scrapes
himself, and yet he was regarding Vale like he was his
commanding officer. Photographer? Yeah maybe, if it was a
hobby in semi-retirement. But civil servant? Your arse. There
was more to know than Vale was owning up to. In that
respect he wasn't alone, though at least Vale's secrets were
likely to be of use and of relevance.

The bloody Toby kept sending meaningful glances Rory's
way, as he had done once or twice the night before, when
Rory had been crapping it that the wet and woolly bastard
would decide he needed to unburden himself before the
gathering. It would have been far worse than anything Liz
could contrive to reveal. He knew Toby was just seeking an
unnecessary acknowledgement of the perspective their
shared past afforded upon the excesses of the discussion,
but at least last night it would have been pertinent. Right
now it had fuck-all to do with anything, and opting to blurt
it out would contribute nothing to their situation apart from
perhaps making everybody else hate the pair of them. To
avert that end, Rory had returned Toby's glances with a look
that said: 'Keep it shut.'

Vale recapped the situation for the newly arrived and
newly bereaved.

'We are isolated with no means of communication or
transport. There is no way of crossing the river other than
how we did so earlier today, which I would file under
"suicide" as it would involve going out there into the darkness
on foot. It would also be pointless, as it strikes me as unlikely that the cars on the other side of the river would
have escaped the same attentions suffered by those outside
the front door, and it's fourteen miles from that car park to


266
Auchterbuie. Our adversaries, having engineered this situation
and having thus flaunted their deeds so far, can only
be assumed to intend the same fate for all of us.'

'Killing every witness means never having to say you're
sorry/ offered Parlabane.

'Or indeed having to explain your actions and motivations,
never mind being caught/ Vale resumed. 'Happily,
one of them has fallen on his sword, though not, it would
have to be said, out of honour or conscience. We can assume
that there are more - many more, given the confidence
implied by their actions and by their choice of weapons.
Men with the wherewithal to blow up a bridge could be
reasonably expected to lay hands on firearms if required,
and yet they come at us with blades: butcher one and decapitate
another. As to why, my only guess is sadistic pleasure.
It doesn't matter. What does is that until or unless we can
find a way of raising the alarm, we have to do whatever is
in our power to fend off further incursions.'

'And that's going to involve killing the bastards/ said
Max tetchily. 'Just in case any of the bleeding hearts among
us thought we'd manage it with a peace protest.' He didn't
sound as angry or defiant as his words suggested, merely
a scared man short of someone to blame.

'Actually/ Vale told him, 'for the time being it's going to
involve preventing conflict by keeping solid stone between
us and them. But if it comes to hand-to-hand fighting, I don't
want bodies, I want prisoners.'

'I'll get you prisoners/ said Joanna, her voice weak and
croaky but her tone gravely sincere. 'As long as you pull
me off the bastards in time.'

'Prisoners?' Max asked, appalled. 'What, are you worried
about the Geneva Convention?'

'No/ interjected Parlabane. That would suggest we'd be
concerned for the welfare of any prisoners we took. We need
information.'


267
'What are they going to tell you? Why they're doing it?
Knowing the motive, if there is a fucking motive, isn't going
to make me feel any better about getting run through. We're
under siege and you want to ask them questions? Believe
me, mate, violence is the only language they'll understand.'

'Can I ask a question?' It was Liz who spoke, putting her
hand up as though to apologise for the interruption. 'It's
kind of a communications issue, and apologies if I've missed
something and we're going over old ground.'

'No, by all means, please,' invited Vale.

'Well, you said they took out the bridge, cut off the land
lines and disabled the cars. What about the mobiles?'

Rory was swallowing back a sarcastic enquiry as to just
how much she had missed, and whether she'd even caught
the part about headless corpses in the dining room and basement,
when he realised what she was saying and that he
was the stupid one for missing it. To be fair to himself, Liz's
perspective had the clarity of her being starkly confronted
with all the facts and details, compared to the muddier view
of those who'd been in the centre as those facts and details
emerged and developed around them. Nonetheless, he still
couldn't believe they'd missed it.

'I mean, the other stuff some intruder could pull off, sure,'
she continued, 'but how could they know all the SIM cards
had already been removed from our mobiles?'

As the implications sank in, all eyes turned to Baxter, who
sat up straight, a startled rabbit in twelve pairs of headlights.

'We told no-one,' he said, shaking his head. 'I swear. No
one. Why would we? The UML Experience, everything we
were building, none of it would have worked if we let the
details slip. The only people who knew anything were the
guys who played the soldiers, and they only knew their
parts, not ours.'

'Which leaves only you and Campbell,' Parlabane pointed
out.


268


'Francis? Come on, you've met him. Did he strike you as
someone complicit in a conspiracy to mass murder?' He
looked imploringly at several faces, alighting last and
longest on Emily's, Rory noticed. It was odd, as if he
expected her more than anyone to believe him.

'No, but if he did strike us as such, he wouldn't be much
use in said conspiracy, would he?' Parlabane said.

'Sounds like we're back to "only the true messiah would
deny it".'

'Yeah, except this time it's you who's being asked to accept
what the facts are telling you. Campbell was the first to
disappear. He was also the only person with a functioning
mobile phone. His SIM was never removed, was it?'

That's true/ Baxter conceded. 'But that's just the way we
split the tasks. It could as easily have been me who had the
shadowing role today, and him accompanying you on the
trek.'

'Could it?' Parlabane asked. 'Was he the architect of those
games? Did he decide those roles, and therefore who would
and wouldn't have a phone by tonight, Donald?'

This time it was Rory who looked to Toby when the word
'architect' was mentioned. He wasn't seeking a response,
rather hoping not to see one. He got his wish, Toby still
intent upon Baxter.

'He did,' Baxter conceded quietly, his voice burdened
with defeat. 'Mind you, if ... no,' he decided, shaking his
head.

'What?' asked Vale.

'Ach, I was thinking if he wasn't part of this, there's a
chance his mobile could be in his room, but who am I
kidding?'

'We'll search his room anyway,' said Vale. 'See if there's
anything in there that can give us a few pointers.'

Till come with you,' Baxter volunteered.

'All in good time. First priority is defence. They could be


269


coming through the windows any minute. We've got work
to do/


Baxter and Campbell couldn't have dreamt up a more effective
bonding exercise than this one, Rory reckoned, as the
unlucky thirteen set about barricading themselves inside.
History offered encouragement. As Sir Lachlan pointed out,
it wouldn't be the first time the McKinleys had turned their
home into a fortress, and the first McKinley construction
had been precisely that. Less encouraging was Rory's
assumption that the first McKinley construction probably
didn't have quite so many invitingly pregnable windows,
and that its defenders were not only better armed but better
trained in fending off invaders. The only thing he considered
himself adept at fending off was Jehovah's Witnesses.

Nonetheless, the admission that he'd done a bit of fencing
at school and uni had been enough for Vale to assign Rory
one of the bloodstained rapiers and the targe. Vale had been
coaxing anyone who had - or even thought they had - any
kind of potentially useful skills or abilities to sound off, on
the grounds that they had to make the best of whatever they
had, no matter how modest. Toby owned up to his student
time in the Officers Training Corps, Max to a spell in the
TA, and Sir Lachlan to having been an officer in the full-on,
nae-kiddin' army. It would have meant more if they actually
had a gun between them, but there you go: it was better
than nothing, and that was Vale's point. Once again, Baxter
might have been looking on jealously at this spontaneous
pooling of resources and burgeoning one-for-all spirit if he
wasn't simply bricking it like the rest of them. Vale didn't
mention specifically what he was bringing to the table, or
where he'd learnt it, but nobody was sufficiently distracted
from the impending danger to ask.

'The twenty-first century,' Rory had muttered as Sir
Lachlan handed over a blade and Vale fetched the targe


270


down from the wall. 'And we're looking at hand-to-hand
fighting with . . . these. If we could muster a bow and arrow,
it would constitute an arms race.'

'Meantime/ said Parlabane, 'heart and hand and sword
and shield, we'll guard McKinley Hall.'

'Aye, very good.'

Rory stood by in case of attack while Toby opened the
front door in order to bolt the heavy double storm doors in
the vestibule. Once secured, with the front doors locked once
again, four of them put their backs into shifting the reception
desk across the entrance as a further brace. The polished
floorboards were never going to look the same again, but
as this was a far smaller aesthetic deterrent to potential
guests than a blood-strewn pile of corpses, Rory didn't
imagine Sir Lachlan having a hissy fit about it. Meanwhile,
Emily, Kathy, Liz and Joanna, having collected everyone's
keys, were raiding bedrooms for double mattresses, carrying
one at a time between each pair, then chucking them over
the gallery banister. From there, they were dragged to either
side of the front door and leaned against the windowframes
atop tables taken from the main restaurant. They were then
secured, if that was the word, by bedsheets and lengths of
torn-down curtain material nailed to the wall at either side.

'It won't hold them out for long,' Vale said, 'but nobody's
going to come bursting through at speed either, and they'll
be on their faces when they do.'

Further mattresses were ordered to be taken, along with
bookcases and an antique bureau, to block the enclosed
stairways each leading up to the first floor and down to the
basement level, where the snooker room had already been
breached. These stairways were at the far ends of the two
main corridors extending from the reception area, the
extremities obscured from the centre by S-bends in either
hallway. Alison and Ger were working their way around the
interior doors, Alison locking them while Ger stood by with


271


the kind of kitchen knife that Rory associated more with
Jason Voorhees than Jamie Oliver. They had started with the
makeshift dining room, primarily because it had already
been established as a point of entry, but also to close off any
view Joanna might have caught of Grieg's body as she
helped hump furniture along the corridor.

Rory, with his absurdly anachronistic armaments, was
assigned to assist and escort Liz, Kathy and Joanna in barricading
the eastern stairwell. They took two mattresses there
first, then two tall bookcases from the lounge bar, roping in
the assistance of Ger and Alison to unlock the door again
and ditch the contents. Meanwhile Sir Lachlan led Emily,
Max and Toby at the western stairwell. They put their backs
into shifting a bureau from the drawing room as a foundation
for their barricade, a task that seemed to be testing
the strength and coordination of all four of them.

Rory looked at the two mattresses buckled between the
wall and the banister on the landing. They didn't so much
comprise a barricade as a handy cushion to protect invaders
should they trip on their way up to kill everybody.

'We need to take these out and start with the bookcases,'
he said, standing the rapier on its point outside the door
and resting the targe against the foot of the second stair
going up. The others nodded their agreement. Unsurprisingly,
nobody had been feeling particularly chatty, and
anybody who gave an indication of having some kind of
plan in any given situation was unlikely to meet with
dissent.

Quietly, wordlessly, they got on with pulling the
mattresses back into the corridor, then manoeuvred the first
of the bookcases through the narrow fire-door. Awkward as
it was, Rory was still grateful he wasn't at the other stairwell
attempting the same negotiation with the bureau.

He and Liz first tried wedging the bookcase the way they
had the mattresses, but it was too wide, and whatever force


272


they could use to jam it in at a diagonal, if matched by their
adversaries would simply dislodge it again.

'I reckon the best bet is to turn both of them on their sides
at an angle across the landing/ Liz suggested. Then have
bookcase, mattress, bookcase, mattress.'

Rory pictured it. There'd still be a gap at the top, but the
barrier would be four widths thick, meaning anyone
climbing over it from below would be prostrate to the point
of lying flat as he did so. If Rory was waiting with a sword,
it would be like sticking their heads through the guillotine.

'Why can't we just pile them up this side of the fire-door?'
asked Kathy through the glass, the door having been closed
to give them more room to manoeuvre. Then get some tables
from--'

Her question was answered by a figure in combat fatigues
lunging down the stairwell from the landing above. He was
already in mid-air as Rory turned to see him, proving their
barrier was too late even if they could decide how to erect
it, the invader having presumably entered through the
snooker room and ventured upstairs while they were deliberating
in the hall. He bore a claymore above his head in
two hands as he leapt, the hilt facing forward, the blade
ready to be brought down with all murderous weight upon
Liz and Rory, pinned on the landing between the closed
door and the bookcase.

Rory heard a tinkle of metal as he reached for his shield,
and saw that the intended arc of the claymore was at least
a foot greater than the sloping ceiling would allow. The steel
bit hard into plaster, killing its momentum and twisting the
hilt in the intruder's grip. His feet came down a few stairs
short of the landing as he attempted to arrest his lunge, his
momentum sapped by the unintended blow struck above
his head, but not enough for him to stop. Rory grabbed the
targe as the intruder toppled forward, the claymore loose
again. Its movement remained restricted in the narrow


273


passage so that it could not be swung, only thrust, but
between bodyweight and gravity it was still enough to meet
Rory's shield with shuddering impact.

Muted screams rang out from the corridor as Kathy
witnessed the attack from through the fire-door's thin, wire
latticed window. The tip of the claymore and the first six
inches behind it passed through the wood of the targe, but
the collision deflected its course just past Rory's side
before the intruder's body slammed into his and drove him
against the wall. Unfortunately, the first thing in the blade's
deflected path was Liz, who was sent sprawling over the
side-turned bookcase. The attacker recoiled a few inches and
pulled back his sword, which Rory noticed from the tugging
against his fingers to be stuck in the targe. His eyes locked
on those of his adversary, Rory tightened his grip and
pushed forward with the shield, trying to prevent the
intruder from dislodging his weapon.

'Rory!' Liz warned as she spotted the intruder loose his
left hand to unsheathe a knife, with which he slashed out
in a narrow arc. Rory stepped back against the wall and let
go of the targe as the knife whipped across his chest, tearing at least three hundred quid's worth of jacket. The intruder
rocked on his heels at the sudden absence of resistance, his
broadsword now awkwardly encumbered at one end. He
gave it a wiggle, as if trying to flip it away, or maybe testing
whether he could just club Rory with this new combined
implement. Evidently deciding against both, he dipped the
targe to the floor and placed his foot on it, as a second
swordsman appeared on the upper landing, also bearing a
claymore. Rory knew this was his only chance, but before
he could hurl himself, the fire-door flew open like a grenade
had gone off behind it. The edge of the door caught the
intruder a glancing blow to the head that spun him against
the banister and tangled his legs around the embedded claymore
as he fell.


274


He turned around to discover what had hit him, but it
was questionable whether he would have had time to fully
focus upon what would be the last thing he ever saw: Joanna
stepping through the doorway, swinging Rory's rapier with
both hands in merciless, like-for-like vengeance.

'God almighty/ gasped Liz.

There can be only one/ Rory added.

'Eh?'

'Nothing.'

Someone who did have time to focus was the second
swordsman, who watched his comrade's head bounce and
roll to the lower landing like it was on the end of a hypnotist's
chain. He stopped in his tracks, frozen a couple of steps
down from the landing, until he caught sight of whatever
was in Joanna's eyes, at which point he uttered 'fuck this',
turned on one heel and took off.

Rory looked to Liz, as much surprise as horror reflected
in her face, which meant she was thinking the same as him.

'These guys are shite/ Rory exclaimed.

The erstwhile force of vengeance stood, trembling, her
knuckles white and every sinew stretched as she gripped the
sword. Kathy put an arm out slowly and gently to touch her,
the sound of several footsteps thumping along the corridor
outside the fire door. Joanna almost jumped at Kathy's
contact, suddenly shaken from her trance. She stared at what
lay before her then at Rory, as if asking him how it happened.
The rage that had seized her was exhausted, leaving her
merely its spent and bewildered vessel. She dropped the
rapier and burst into sobs as Kathy led her away.

Rory helped Liz over the bookcase, noticing with concern
that she had a patch of blood on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

'You're cut/ he said.

'Barely broke the skin/ she said. 'Bigger bruise than a cut,
the point was so dull. Get after the bastard.'


275


Rory lifted the rapier and began climbing the stairs as
Parlabane and Vale arrived at the fire-door, further footsteps
behind them announcing more tardy reinforcements.

'Jeez/ Parlabane remarked. 'Store janitor to the ketchup
aisle,'

'They were already inside, upstairs/ Liz said. 'Two of
them. There could be more.'

'Finish the barriers, both of them/ Rory heard Vale order,
his voice cut off as the upper-level fire-door swung shut
behind him. He thought he heard screaming too, but it might
just have been Kathy's echo inside his head.


Emily recognised Kathy's scream instantly. She'd heard it a
hundred times, usually at around eleven o'clock on a busy
Monday when her mid-morning caffeine hit coincided with
the second post or when Carol the secretary told her their
accountant was on the other line. This was louder, even from
the other end of the building, and didn't descend into self
conscious giggling at the end.

'That's Kathy/ she informed the others, all of whom had
reacted to the sound.

Max and Toby immediately let go their end of the mattress
they'd just lifted and went haring down the corridor in
response. Emily was inside the stairwell, standing on the
bureau, her role more about guidance than muscle, which
meant the loss of their hands left her stranded for a moment
as she prevented the mattress from toppling down the flight
below. She stretched a hand out to Sir Lachlan, seeking assistance
in getting down so that she could follow the others,
but instead he stepped around the desk and shouldered the
burden they'd just abandoned.

'Stick to your task/ he said, in a tone that told her this
was not a suggestion. 'Whatever's going on up there, it's
out of your hands. We need to get this barricade up.'

Emily bit her lip and nodded. She didn't like it, but she


276


understood. Not knowing was the hardest part of fear. So
far there had been several horrible developments, but they
had come in the form of reports and revelations. This was
the first time there was something going on live that she
was aware of, something she had an invaluable stake in,
and yet she just had to ignore it, do her job and wait for
news.

They had lodged a mattress beneath the front legs of the
bureau, pinning one end of it at the top of the flight so that
intruders would have to walk up it, rather than the more
conducively tractable stairs, in order to approach the barrier.
The second mattress, they were planning to wedge upright
between the desk and the corner of the banister, presenting
a six-foot vertical obstacle in front of the bureau. The weak
point was that it could only be pinned in place on one side,
creating a hinge effect allowing the enemy to pull it open
like a door. However, the weight securing the pinned end
would mean it wouldn't be a very easy door to open, and
after they squeezed through it, they'd still have to get over
the bureau, all the time vulnerable to defenders' blades.

Between them, Emily and Sir Lachlan edged the mattress
over the bureau and into the waiting slot, then she stepped
back to the floor. They both crouched down to put their
shoulders against the desk in readiness to pin the second
mattress in place.

'After three,' said Sir Lachlan. 'One--'

'Wait,' warned Emily, sure she could hear heavy footfalls
on the stairs above. She and Sir Lachlan got to their feet in
time to see two men, one with a broadsword, the other with
a machete, come charging down the upper flight towards
them. Sir Lachlan grabbed a fistful of Emily's dress with one
hand and his rapier from the floor with the other, pushing
her towards the door as he lunged forward on to the stairs
to meet them. She screamed and heard a clash of metal as
she pulled the handle, the door only swinging in a few feet


277


before jamming against one end of the bureau. On the stairs,
Sir Lachlan was parrying the broadsword to force back one
opponent, but the other was shaping to launch himself
through the gap between them and the wall. Sir Lachlan
spotted this intention and called to Emily to run as he
launched a kick into the second attacker's path. She saw his
right leg buckle as the left made contact, the assault on the
second man disrupting his balance in fending off the first,
and she had to dive through the narrow gap between door
and frame before the three toppling bodies came down on
top of her.

She heard thumps and cries as she rolled into the corridor,
then the sound of the fire-door swinging open and once again
finding resistance. Emily looked back. The man with the
machete emerged through the gap, his face blacked out with camouflage paint but his eyes burning with eminently readable
intent. There was movement behind him, a thrust-out
leg slamming the door closed while he was halfway through
it. The impact whacked his head against the frame, but he
merely shrugged it off as the door rebounded from his burly
figure. He raised the machete and began moving forward.

Emily turned and scrambled to her feet, finding herself
facing down a long corridor, at the end of which Alison was
locking a door, Ger standing over her protectively with a
knife.

'Get down/ Ger called, but Emily could feel, not just hear,
the heavy paces behind her, and her legs refused to cease
taking her away from the imagined down-swing of that
machete.

'I SAID GET FUCKIN' DOWN,' Ger shouted, stepping
across her path and altering his grip on the enormous knife
he was carrying.

Emily heard something whip just over her head as she
hit the deck, turning on to her back instinctively to face her
pursuer.


278


He was no longer pursuing, knocked clean off his feet
like he'd run into an overhanging branch. Emily heard a
truly revolting thud as his head hit the thinly carpeted
wooden floor, but any neurological damage was rendered
moot by the fact that Ger's knife had already diverted his
brain's blood supply on to the walls and carpet.

'Sir Lachlan/ she remembered. There's another one in
there with him.'

Ger walked past her and knelt down to remove the knife
from the intruder's neck, also prising the machete from his


grip
As he stood up, the fire-door swung open and a claymore

was tossed through it, landing on the lacquered wood that
flanked the carpet with a ringing clang. Sir Lachlan stepped
awkwardly through the gap, wincing as he did so. There
was blood seeping from his right thigh and his left hand,
his fingers clenched over his palm.

'Bugger got away. Took a dive into the mattress and disappeared
through the gap.'

'What happened to you?'

'Oh, the bastard with the machete had a swipe at me on
his way past to get to you. And I got this on my hand from
my own bloody sword. I whipped his claymore - I should
say my claymore - from his grip and he let it go more easily
than I was expecting. He was more interested in getting out
of there than standing up for a fight. I could see it in his
eyes. Who the hell are these people?'

'Not exactly the musketeers, are they?' observed Ger.

Sir Lachlan surveyed the mess on the floor of the corridor.

'Not exactly, no. Mr Vale wanted a prisoner to interrogate.
D'Artagnan here isn't going to tell him much, is he?'

'I hope I'm wrong, but I expect there'll be others.'

The too. There's no way the clowns we've just seen off
were running the show.'


279


Rory charged after the sound of footsteps, urged on by an
adrenaline surge that he hoped would continue to provide
such an imperative drive if and when he caught up with
his quarry. He could see no-one in the first-floor corridor,
but estimated the fugitive to be only a few yards ahead.
Once around the S-bend, the bastard came into his view,
pounding towards the next fire-door, through which lay the
gallery overlooking the grand staircase and reception hall.

'Come back and fight, you useless fucking shitebag/ Rory
called after him, hardly a compelling invitation, he'd have
to admit. That said, it felt good to watch him run, felt like
the tide had turned after the hopeless, numbing dread that
had descended since Grieg came crashing through the
window sans under-used head. He braced his shoulder for
impact and powered through the fire-door as the escapee
kept going headlong, not even checking over the banister
to the lower floor as he passed. The guy wasn't looking for
options: he knew exactly where he was headed.

'We've four people on the far stairway/ Rory shouted,
'and they've all got swords as sharp as the one that cut your
pal's visit short.'

The logic seemed impeccable at the time, until the runner
did the arithmetic and came to the conclusion Rory intended,
at which point it didn't seem such bright thinking. He
stopped short of the next fire-door as though Rory's words
had locked it, and turned to face what was now the only
obstacle between him and, if not escape, then at least
temporarily keeping his options open. Rory now realised he
hadn't exactly been expecting the guy to lay down his
weapon and say 'it's a fair cop'; in truth, he hadn't been
expecting anything in particular, as he hadn't been thinking
any further ahead than getting the bugger to stop running.

He had a desperate look in his eyes, as much fear and
horror as Rory himself had been feeling before, mixed with
the same leavening of sheer survival instinct. Doubling his


280


grip on the claymore, he charged towards Rory, shouting a
wordless, inarticulate war cry as he did so.

The world slowed, like Rory was in bullet-time, or, more
accurately, claymore time.

Shit. He was four yards away.

Okay, moment of truth. Own up: how many fencing
classes did he go to? Quite a few back at school, all of twenty
years ago, then a few in early student days before the pursuit
of a different swordcraft laid claim to his enthusiasms. You
scuttled back and forth along a line, dressed like an anorexic
bee-keeper, facing a similarly prancing tit with his similarly
pathetic-looking foil, and you got points for touching. Touching, for fuck's sake. 'Stand back lest I touch you, ye filthy
blackguard.'

Nope, touching wasn't going to do it, and even if he had
his face-mask, he couldn't quite picture the claymore reverberating
off it and giving the guy pins and needles in his
finger.

Three yards away, the claymore held to one side, ready
to be swung in towards him.

So, to recap, touching and white outfits. Those were the
main memories. Any principles still lingering in there,
dormant, ready to be awakened by something like, ooh, let's
see, a crazed and desperate assassin now two yards from
cutting him in half?

Rory's head still drew a blank, but his legs had total
recall. Balance and timing, they reminded him, as his knees
bent automatically and his feet took him a short half-yard
to the left, outside the path of the unstoppably swinging
claymore. His torso turned as if on ballbearings, affording
him a view of his attacker stumbling against the banister,
his feet unable to compensate for the absence of impact as
he swung the heavy sword at a target who was no longer
there. The war cry spent and a dollop of doubt diluting the
blind confidence of his desperate purpose, he righted


281


himself and lunged again. This time, Rory's arms got in on
the act too, bringing the rapier up with no great power, but
more than enough to deflect the attack as his feet had
already angled him away from its focus. He wouldn't
exactly say it was all coming back now, but clearly what
basics his body had retained were more than this chump
ever had the benefit of. The guy was sapping his own
strength, allowing Rory to use his momentum against him
with minimum effort on his part. On the third lunge, Rory
dropped his centre of gravity and moved in before the attack
could advance, bringing his rapier up so that his opponent
stepped forward on to its point. Rory stopped the blade at
the man's sternum, the tip already through a layer of
camouflaged material.

'Drop it/ Rory said.

He did.

Rory kicked the sword away and stepped back, still levelling
the rapier at his opponent's chest, as Vale emerged from
the fire-door bearing a claymore of his own.

'Your prisoner, Mr Vale.'

'Sterling stuff, Mr Glen. Now you'd better get downstairs
and have that looked at.'

'Have what looked at?' Rory asked, glancing down at
himself like someone had told him his fly was open. There
was a damp red patch visible on his shirt where his jacket
flapped open. He put his hand to it instinctively and felt
the sting that adrenaline had been suppressing since he'd
been slashed across his chest on the stairwell. It felt like
getting a speeding ticket through the post. 'Bollocks,' he
said.

'It looks superficial, but it's going to need some antiseptic
and dressing,' Vale advised. 'Go get yourself a seat. Donald
and I will handle our new guest.'

Till tell you nothing/ the man said, sounding more scared
than defiant.


282


'Want to bet?'

'You can't threaten me because I'm dead anyway. They'll
kill me if I talk.'

'See?' said Vale. 'Bet lost. You're telling us things already/


283


Recoil


'Only one made it back out. No response from the rest.'

'Yes, I do have eyes and ears myself.'

'First wave was a wipe-out. And they've got a prisoner.
Brian, I think. I'm not confident he won't talk.'

'Let him. He can't say anything that can possibly be of
practical use. And whatever else they learn won't matter.
They'll be too dead to tell anybody.'

'Not if we don't raise our game, they won't. Face facts,
we just got a kicking in there. Let's get the second wave in
before this shitstorm gets any worse.'

'Calm down, for God's sake. Neither of us came here for
a turkey shoot. What would that tell us about anybody? We
planned for losses, you know that.'

'Yeah, a few of the fucking try-outs, but we lost Marko,
for fuck's sake. He was one of our best.'

Indeed he was, Shiach reflected. Battle permitted no
quarter for mourning, but he was acutely aware of what had
just been lost, not only to him personally as a friend, but to
their undertaking. Marko was a man of initiative, an invaluably
distinguishing quality when so many thought that
following orders was the most that was expected of them.
Marko understood the practical principles of what they were
about and could adapt accordingly in the moment. This had
been typified earlier in the day when he'd encountered that
bloke in the Peugeot, who happened to be driving by when
two of them were disabling the vehicles in the carpark at
the gates to the estate. Your average grunt would need to
be told that the guy had to die. Your above-average one


284


would take it upon himself instinctively. But it took a man
of Marko's calibre to interpret the implications of the man's
clothing and his car being full of butcher-meat, and thus
come up with such a use for the body. If the cops weren't
baffled enough by what they would find tomorrow, then the
coroner's revelations about the condemned's last meal
would put the tin lid on it.

It was a bloody shame. He had sent Marko in to lead the
first group because he wanted to get things off to a good
start and thus encourage the recruits. Shiach had watched
events unfold on his laptop, white icons denoting the guests
and black his men within the wireframe model. Moments
after Marko went in, the three white ones were on the move,
while Marko's black one remained motionless. In its topological
simplicity, it was a stark way to watch a friend die.
But now was not the time to dwell upon it.

'Keep the head, man/ Shiach told him. 'Marko's a hell of
a loss, one we'll feel all the more after the dust's settled, but
don't lose perspective. It was bad luck, that's all. He had an
accident, and they ended up with a few weapons. We'll deal
with it.'

'And you sent in the four try-outs right behind him
regardless, so now they've got more weapons.'

'We had to find out what we were up against. Now we
know.'

'Yeah, and so do they: idiots, that's what they'll be
thinking. Which is why we should go in heavy right now
and put them straight.'

'No, it's why we should hold our ground and remember
that we control this whole situation. They aren't going
anywhere, you know that.'

'Sure, but they're fortifying their positions and working
on how they're going to keep us out.'

'Let them. And let time work for us. Right now they're
flush with victory, high on relief and endorphins. They got


285


lucky, and at the moment they might even believe this is a
fight they can win. Go in now and they'll still be psyched.
We've got all the time we need, not to mention a few secret
weapons. Let's let the excitement wear off and the self-doubt
wash in, give them a while to simmer in their own fears.
Then we'll show them what we're really made of.'


286


Information


'We're not seriously going to torture this guy, are we?'
Parlabane asked.

Vale's face lacked its customary mercurial levity even the
signs that were sometimes presented in wider company for
only confidants such as Parlabane to read.

They were standing in the central reception hall again,
rapidly established as their base of operations, and, increasingly,
as a makeshift field hospital. The small roll of bandages
in the reception desk's first aid kit was accounted for
by Liz's arm and Sir Lachlan's hand, enforcing a resort to
bedsheets for the latter's thigh and Rory's chest. The Dettol
hadn't gone very far either, which meant a bottle of Glen
fiddich had to be cracked open for a less than celebratory
early-hours toast.

Rory, having apparently endured his injury obliviously
while pursuing and apprehending their prisoner, must have
come close to expelling his own larynx when the single-malt
antiseptic was applied. He'd protested resentfully about the
cure being worse than the disease, until Vale described the
symptoms of a few wound infections he'd witnessed in his
time.

Sir Lachlan was more stoical, perhaps assisted by having
had the foresight to take some of the antiseptic internally
before allowing it to be applied. Kathy affixed all bandaging.
She was the only one with a first-aid qualification more
recent than a Boy Scout or Girl Guide merit badge, having
done a six-month voluntary stint in Sonzola a few years
back. She'd gone there, she explained, to help dole out food


287


parcels but ended up, like all her fellow volunteers, helping
treat the endless civilian casualties in a state that resumed
its ongoing civil war any time it took a break from fighting
with its neighbours.

'See, these lefty pacifist types can be quite handy to have
around sometimes/ Emily had said to Rory.

'Yeah, it's all the practice you get, patching up bleeding
hearts/ he replied. It could have been a nasty and inappropriate
echo of the night before, but it sounded more like
laughter in the dark than point-scoring.

Sir Lachlan insisted on returning to man one of the stairwell
barricades, despite the encumbrance of his injuries and
Kathy's concern that what she had done would merely stem
the blood loss.

'You need to get to a hospital/ she told him.

'All the more urgent that we see off these scoundrels, then,
isn't it?'

Two guards were posted to man the barricades at either
stairwell, Sir Lachlan partnering Toby while Joanna insisted
upon doing her bit by joining Max. If anyone was inclined
to be old-fashioned or even merely chivalrous regarding
traditional gender roles, then Joanna's earlier contribution
held their comments in check. Nor was she deterred by
sharing a post with the remains of her act of rage, refusing
suggestions that they drag the constituent parts out of sight
with a stated intention to use the head as a missile if it came
down to it.

Their prisoner was seated cross-legged on the floor, his
hands tied at the wrist behind his back with ripped bedlinen.
Vale had retrieved a wet bar-towel from the lounge and used
it to wipe away the camouflage paint from the man's face.
Without the streaked markings and the scary-macho signals
they sent out, he appeared ordinary to the point of frumpy,
and the main thing the paint had been camouflaging was
fear. He looked early forties, losing it on top, fairly well built


288


but a bit of a pot belly suggesting the pub might be winning
out over the outdoors recently. Not exactly a killing machine,
as had been adequately demonstrated.

Vale was eyeing him with curious intent, a weighing-up
going on inside his head that made Parlabane very apprehensive.
He'd known Tim a long time, but he'd never have
felt confident about saying he knew him well, or even
believing that there was anyone who did. Much like himself,
it had been Vale's life to know about other people, particularly
the parts they didn't want anyone else finding out; but
while Parlabane had merely negotiated whatever obstacles
lay between him and what he needed to know, Vale had
been engaged with the very science of secrecy. As such, he
was far better equipped, and definitely far more inclined,
to protect what he wanted to keep back about himself.

They had frequently joked about Vale's past: mainly,
Parlabane thought, as a means of two otherwise close friends
skirting around an area that one of them was not prepared
to open up about; even as a means of skirting around the
acknowledgement of that. Parlabane knew very little for
certain, but there had been hints enough to understand that
Vale had been in some very serious situations and had
doubtless done some horrible things in the name of survival.
The most he'd ever said about it was to confess he had 'done
things I wish I hadn't had to; wished it had been someone
else doing them; wished they hadn't been necessary'.

The sole such circumstance he'd discussed at any length
was his involvement with the disaster aboard that Floating
Paradise oil-rig place, whatever it was called. Vale had taken
out a number of hijackers in what was a pretty morally
straightforward kill-or-be-killed scenario. Parlabane had
once killed a man himself in similarly nonnegotiable
circumstances, and knew he wouldn't flinch tonight if he
had to do it again. He too wished it hadn't been necessary,
and he too knew that horrible things sometimes had to be


289


done in the name of survival. But looking at Vale as he
surveyed their captive wretch with intent, he couldn't help
doubting whether this poor clown could tell them something
that was so valuable as to be worth tainting their
collective conscience with something the self-defence stain
remover couldn't be applied to.

That said, the guy was only here because he wanted to
play his part in killing everyone in the room. It could be
argued that he owed them a reason more than they owed
him any mercy. It could be argued, but Parlabane wasn't
sure he wanted to.

'Rory/ Vale said. 'Give me your sword, I need one that's
razor-sharp. In fact, I need more than one. Take this claymore
to Lachlan and tell him I need a loan of the other
rapier.'

'You got it/ Rory said.

Emily stepped into Rory's path and put a hand out to
stop him.

'Hang on,' she said, looking at Vale as well as casting
appealing glances towards Kathy and Baxter. 'Are you
sure about this? I mean, defending ourselves is one thing,
but. . . Christ, what can he tell us that'll make a difference?'

'We won't know until we ask.'

1 know, but . . . Jesus. You're not going to torture him,
surely.'

'Of course I'm not going to torture him/ Vale replied,
sounding hurt, which Parlabane knew to be bollocks: if you
wanted to hurt Vale, you'd need more than words. 'I'm not
even going to touch him. I'm simply going to engineer a
circumstance in which cooperation would serve his best
interests.'


Parlabane guessed their prisoner wouldn't have been the
first person to consider a Life Fitness FlexDeck treadmill as
an instrument of torture, nor was he the first to persevere


290


against the complaints of his tired limbs out of a desire to
keep his body in optimum shape. His predecessors,
however, would have been more concerned about love
handles, cellulite and general cardiovascular well-being than
the avoidance of impalement. So far, it was proving a far
more fertile means of tapping into those deepest stamina
reserves than the prospect of being able to fit into that once
favoured frock or in penitence for that sinful second helping
of tiramisu.

Vale had nominated himself the fitness instructor from
hell by lashing the two rapiers, at head- and stomach height,
to the vertical steel support-bars of some weight-resistance
apparatus, then maneuvering the contraption until the twin
blades overlapped the rear of the treadmill, upon which their
prisoner was standing. With his hands tied behind his back,
he had no way of climbing out or interfering with the
settings, especially not once Vale had set the thing running,
starting at twelve kilometres per hour.

'It's entirely in our visitor's gift to extricate himself from
this predicament/ Vale explained, as if the poor sod wasn't
there. 'He talks, I stick the brakes on. So, let's start with an
easy one. How many?'

Baxter had joined them in the fitness room, though fortunately
not in the proxy Amnesty observer role requested by
the squeamish Emily. Parlabane hadn't been entirely
comfortable with what they were up to either, but he had
confidence enough in Vale's scheme that he could do
without someone else's Jiminy Cricket act. He had therefore
suggested that Baxter might prefer to join Ger and Alison
in searching Campbell's room, but Baxter put him straight
regarding his real reason for being in on the interrogation.

'I don't want to know what's in his bedroom: I want to
know who the fuck Campbell really is. Six months I've been
working with this prick, eating with him, drinking with him,
looking him in the eye, and all that time he's actually been


291


planning to kill me. I've got some fucking questions of my
own.'

The prisoner was jogging fairly comfortably, probably
feeling like he could hold out for a while at that speed, but
his face betrayed his awareness that Vale only had to press
that circle with the upwards-pointing triangle to accelerate
the pace. Nonetheless, he said nothing, a look of compelled
determination setting his features. Parlabane read it and so
did Vale: he really was more scared of his comrades than
he was of them.

Vale upped the speed to fourteen kilometres per hour. The
whine of the treadmill got higher, the footfalls quicker, the
sharp exhalations more frequent. He still looked compelled
and still looked scared, but every footfall was one nearer
the point when he'd start thinking of the more immediate
danger and the simple way he could avert it. Vale studied
his face, looking for a sign, a cue. It came with a grimace,
a tell-tale that he was feeling the effort, and Vale responded
to it by upping the speed to fifteen. It wasn't a huge increment,
but it must have felt like enough. There was a moment
of panic in the man's eyes at the initial increase, followed
by relief that it wasn't as much as he'd feared, followed in
turn by despair in the realisation that this wasn't going to
get any slower and there might not be much left in his tank.
He looked to Baxter and Parlabane imploringly, hoping one
of them would play dove to Vale's hawk. Going by Vale's
cold determination and Baxter's seething anger, Parlabane
reckoned he was the closest thing present, so merely looked
away. Baxter and Vale simply gazed back imperviously,
which was when he decided to answer.

'Maybe twenty/ he said, breathing harder. Talking wasn't
going to make the running easier, he knew. 'Minus the dead.
Don't know exact. Around twenty.'

'Who are they?'

'Don't know. Nobody . . . knows surnames. First names


292


only, false ones at that.' He exhaled sharply again, his face
showing the strain in repeated grimaces of effort. There'd
be no resistance now, only thoughts of the growing pain in
his legs and chest, and the swords they were working to
keep him away from. 'No identifying . . . materials/ he
added.

'I wasn't expecting names. I meant, are they all as good
as you, or do we have something to worry about?'

'Don't know. There's pros at the top.'

'Is one of them Campbell?' Baxter asked.

The prisoner stared blankly back at him, genuinely
confused. Chances were the name Campbell meant nothing
to him. Baxter belatedly realised this.

'Who's the guy on the inside?' he demanded angrily.

The guy looked around his three interrogators, alighting
last on Baxter with an expression that suggested his last
question had been in Chinese.

'All right, an easier one/ Vale resumed. 'Who are these
pros?'

'Soldiers, mostly, I think. They set the stage. Then we got
. . . got greenlight.'

'Was the greenlight throwing our decapitated fellow guest
through the window?'

He looked surprised. 'I guess. Only told us ... you'd
know we were coming.'

'How many of these pros?'

'Four. Three now. One of them . . . first man in. Snooker
room.'

'Armed? Guns?'

'Not sure.'

'Bollocks you're not/ Vale said, reaching for that upwards
triangle again. He didn't have to press it.

'I mean . . . they're not . . . planning to use guns. Only
blades, that's the order. I heard something about. . . about
darts. But we were told . . . only blades.'


293


'Why?'

'Same reason as ... they told you we were coming. A
test. Anybody . . . can kill with a gun.'

'A test? Of whom? For what?'

'I can't . . . keep this up/ the prisoner breathed.

'Then you'd better answer all my questions quickly.'

'I've got one too/ Parlabane ventured, impatient that
Vale's understandably pragmatic line of inquiry wasn't
addressing his own greatest curiosity. 'Why? Why us, why
here?'

'Don't know. Told nothing . . . about targets.'

'What are you, auditioning for hit men?' Parlabane asked.
'You didn't ask any fucking questions about who you'd be
killing or why?'

He swallowed, looked to the ceiling, his expression
contorted by the strain of more than effort. They were
definitely into the territory of what he was still scared to
reveal, but the bastard definitely had something to say. Vale
saw it too, and upped the speed to sixteen.

"Threats and witnesses/ he blurted immediately. 'Please
turn the speed down, I'll talk. Please.' Vale instead crossed
his arms and took a step away. 'Okay. That's . . . what he
said. Here to eliminate threats. But once it starts . . . everybody's
a witness. Every witness is a threat.'

'And what's your end?' Parlabane asked. 'Money, or just
kicks?'

'Thirty K/ he said, the heavy exhalations now coming
every three or four breaths.

Thirty K per head? Fuck off. You wouldn't even be getting
that if you were any good.'

Thirty K. That's the bond.'

Vale and Parlabane's eyes met, one of those 'did he really
say that?' mutual exchanges.

'You're paying them?' Vale asked rhetorically.

'Non-returnable security. Proof you're serious. Same


294


bond, whether trialists or tourists. Tourists . . . just paying
for ... safari. Chance to kill ... no strings, no comeback.'

'And what are the trialists aiming for?'

'Make the team.'

'What team? A team to do what?'

'Only find out ... if you make the team.'

'Bloody hell,' said Vale, exasperated.

'How did you get the trial?' Parlabane asked. 'An ad in
a shop window?'

The prisoner's eyes narrowed in strain. He was channelling
more of his concentration into maintaining the pace
than into thinking of his answers. Parlabane now fully
understood the method in Vale's apparent barbarity: the guy
wouldn't have the spare energy to dream up any lies.
However, that finite energy would only keep him away from
those blades for a limited time, and it appeared to be fast
running out.

'I think we should slow him down a bit,' said Baxter,
evidently having noticed the same thing. 'Come on, he's
talking now.'

'Yes,' Vale retorted, 'and he'll shut up again if we cut him
any slack. Keep it coming,' he told the prisoner. 'Who the
hell are you? How'd you get the gig?'

'A guy in ... the TA. He's one of the . . . soldiers. Chance
to ... join the elite.'

'Is he the man in charge?'

He shook his head, saving some breath.

'Who is?'

'Is it the insider?' Baxter asked. 'Is it Campbell?'

'Told you. Don't know ... names. Don't know ... anything
. . . 'bout him.'

His face was reddening, sweat pouring off his head and
into his eyes, his hands unable to wipe it away. The heavy
exhalations were now coming every breath.

'Oh God, please,' he appealed, looking to Baxter, the UML


295


man having recently identified himself as the closest thing
to a voice of clemency as he was likely to hear.

Vale stared at the prisoner. 'If you don't have his name,
you better give me something else. A description, age, accent,
anything.'

'A tattoo/ he wheezed. 'On his arm. Please, the speed. I
can't ... I can't keep up.'

'Come on, Vale,' Baxter appealed. 'He's tiring, and he's
no use to us dead.'

Parlabane shared Baxter's anxiety, but remained silent.
Whether this was because he trusted Vale or merely feared
crossing him was something his conscience did not wish to
contemplate.

'And if he doesn't talk, he's no use to us alive.' Vale took
a further step back, arms still folded. 'You were saying, about
a tattoo.'

'A tattoo,' the prisoner repeated, as though having to work
hard merely to refocus his brain. The footfalls were duller,
heavier, and from the colour of his face he looked as much
at threat from imminent cardiac arrest as from the rapiers.

With a frustrated sigh, Baxter leaned forward and stabbed
a finger at the control pad, pressing down before Vale could
intercede. 'He can't tell us anything if he hasn't the breath
to fucking speak,' he muttered.

'Tattoo,' the prisoner gasped in a desperate whisper, a
look of sudden terror on his face contrasting with the mildly
indignant petulance on Baxter's as he calmly held the button.
That was when Parlabane looked at the speed readout and
saw it flash up 17 18 19 20. The fucking idiot was looking
at the control arrows upside down.

Terry-aaaah,' the prisoner yelled as one of his flailing
boots caught his other ankle and he stumbled, prompting
an effect like he'd been running against the resistance of a
bungee cord. He was thrown backwards as though yanked,
driving his body upon the waiting swords: one point jutting


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through his neck and the lower through his abdomen.

The upper blade must have severed his spinal cord,
because he was dead in the blink of an eye.

'Oh my God/ Baxter yelped, holding his hands either side
of his face, staring in horrified disbelief. 'Oh my God.'

'You fucking idiot/ Vale shouted. 'What the hell were you
doing?'
'I was trying to slow him down. I pressed the thing,
I ... oh my God, I pressed the . . . but I was on the opposite
... oh my God. I think I've killed him.'

'Ach, no, he's just winded/ said Parlabane. 'Christ
almighty, Baxter/

'I'm sorry. Oh my God/

'Just promise you won't try and help me if I'm in danger/

'I won't. I will. I mean . . .'

'Get him out of here, Jack/ Vale said with laboured calm
as he began to unlash the rapiers.


297


Medieval Bastards


Baxter wandered down the stairs in a disconsolate daze,
requiring no further urging to exit the fitness room. Vale
emerged a few moments later bearing both of the blood
smeared swords. Down below the grand staircase, Parlabane
could see Alison and Ger seated on the floor against a wall,
the girl's head rested against the chef's shoulder, her eyes
red with crying.

'What happened to the prisoner?' Rory asked.

'Assisted suicide,' Vale replied. 'Ask Jack Kevorkian over
there/ he added, indicating Baxter.

'He's dead?'

'Only in the sense that the oxygen supply to his brain has
been cut off and he's been partially disembowelled.'

That would do it/ Rory agreed. 'He tell you anything?'

'More than nothing, less than enough. I'll bring you all
up to speed in a tick. What of the search?' Vale asked Ger,
an almost hushed gentility to his tone anticipating stark
news in response.

'We found Charlotte/ Ger reported, the mention of the
name eliciting a sob from Alison. 'She was in the bath.' Ger
made a tiny gesture across his throat, little more than an
outstretched finger and a flick of the wrist. It was enough,
and they knew he didn't just mean she'd had her throat cut.

'It's official/ Ger went on. 'Campbell is with the bad guys.
The SIM cards were in his bin, ground into pieces.'

'Did you find anything else?'

'Didn't exactly use a fine-toothed comb. You'll understand
if we didn't feel like staying long.'


298


'Quite/ Parlabane agreed. The fine print doesn't matter.
We've seen the headline. Campbell's with the bad guys, and
as this isn't the kind of undertaking you can exactly be
recruited to from management consultancy, we can assume
he's been with the bad guys from the beginning. We can
only guess at how far back that beginning might have been.'

'But what I don't get is that it was me who brought in him/ Baxter stated. '/ came to him.'

That might have been how it looked to you/ Parlabane
told him, 'but you'll never know what lengths he could have
gone to to put himself in your path. If you didn't bite, he'd
have had others in mind. By this stage, you probably don't
know which aspects of UML were your idea and which he
only made you think were your idea.'

'It's possible/ Baxter conceded, looking like he couldn't
remember which way was up. 'We met at an exhibition. I
was still working for, well, it doesn't matter. I had this idea
and he was very encouraging of it, so when I decided to
take the plunge and fly solo, I had his card.'

'And don't tell me, when you ran the idea past him, he
said he could raise the investment.'

'Yes.'

'Well, now we know how/ Vale said. 'Around fifteen
people paying a thirty-grand fee to take part in a human
safari.'

'You're fucking kidding me/ Rory said.

'Not-so-cheap thrills, and a chance to try out for some
other undisclosed undertaking,' Vale went on. 'Seems Campbell was dedicated to an all-action team-building exercise
after all, but we aren't the candidates. We're the obstacle
course.'

The poker-faced bastard/ said Rory. 'He was there
amongst us all the time, observing us, acting the shepherd
when he's really the fucking gamekeeper. Watching us from
his tower yesterday, tracking us in the woods today,


299


sounding us out during dinner last night. Dresses us in luminous
yellow so we're easier to keep an eye on. Sends us on
a big long trek up hill and down dale, in wet clothes, running
from an imaginary enemy, all the while he's spying. And to
top it all, the whole UML is-it-real shenanigans lull us into
a false sense of security, you could say a false sense of insecurity,
where we ignore all the danger signs and become
incredulous of what we should be wary until it's too late.'

'But this took months to set up,' Baxter protested. 'Have
you any idea how much work and planning went into it?
Business plans, research, tenders, the kit we laid out for, PR
. . . and it was all a front just for one night of carnage?'

'In my experience,' Parlabane said, 'people are prepared
to dedicate extraordinary time and effort in order to get
away with one murder. Now multiply that time and effort
by tonight's intended body-count. Besides, the preparation
wasn't all about providing a front. Look what else it
provided: an isolated location, an environment they could
control, the conditions Rory's just described. Plus, it didn't
only supply the victims - it allowed them to be handpicked.
This isn't just a safari or just a test. This is a hit.'

'But I thought you both chose the guests,' Kathy said to
Baxter. 'Mind you, it was Campbell who told me that.'

'No/ he replied. 'The guests were all his choices. I
suggested plenty, but there was always a reason why they
were unsuitable, according to him.'

'And some weird reasons why his choices were suitable/
Emily suggested.

'Seventh Chime and Reflected Gleam were both
approached at his suggestion/ Baxter added. 'Oh God, that
means . . .'

'What?' Parlabane asked, clocking Baxter shooting a
panicked look towards Emily, not the first time he'd spotted
such an unspoken exchange.

'Never mind, there isn't time. But you're right. The only


300


people here at random are the staff and the "plus ones".'

'Who are the plus ones?' Liz asked.

'Grieg, Tim and yourself/ Emily told her. 'Rory was
named on the invite.'

'He wanted Jack Parlabane/ said Kathy 'no question,
despite you being the worst journalist to possibly invite on
this kind of junket. He wanted Max and Joanna, despite
neither being in a position to directly bring UML any future
business. Toby too, despite working for a charity that doesn't
have a pot to piss in.'

'Our prisoner talked about threats and witnesses/
Parlabane said.

'Who the hell can we be a threat to?' Kathy asked. 'I work
in PR, for Christ's sake.'

'Well, speaking as a plus one/ Vale observed, 'I think that
matters less right now than the fact that they're definitely
here to kill everybody, named invitee or not. They got a
panelling in round one. They wanted resistance, but they
won't have been expecting that. They'd cleared the place of
all decent weapons, which should have made it safe for them
to send in their B or C team. We got a lucky break with the
incredible self-decapitating man. But just because we fought
them off doesn't mean they're going to 'call it a night. Once
it begins, everyone's a witness, that's what the prisoner told
us, and all witnesses are to be eliminated. They've fallen
back to regroup. When they come in again, they'll come in
with everything they've got. We need to be ready.'

'How many, did you say?' Emily asked.

Three who know what they're doing and maybe a dozen
would-be warriors.'

'And would coming in with everything entail more than
swords?' enquired Rory darkly. 'I mean, if they're not taking
any chances . . .'

'That's the doomsday scenario, yes/ Vale conceded.

'Wouldn't they have used guns already if they had them?'


301


Emily asked, sounding desperate rather than optimistic.

'The prisoner claimed it was part of the trial/ Parlabane
informed her. 'It doesn't mean they don't have any. But on
the other hand . . .'

Vale looked at him with genuine puzzlement. He seemed
surprised not to know where Parlabane was going with this,
but he shouldn't have been. Vale might be the one who
understood tactics, combat and subterfuge, but when it came
to comprehending outright deviousness, Parlabane was the
ranking officer.

'The trial is a secondary consideration/ Parlabane
explained. 'Number one is the hit, and getting away with
it. They might be testing recruits and giving some psycho
tourists the trip of a lifetime, but what's the gain to balance
the added risk factor of blades over guns? It makes the hit
harder than it needs to be, as we've amply demonstrated.
Why the hell wouldn't they properly arm these guys?
They've got the resources, so there has to be another reason,
and I reckon it's that they've got an interest in making this
look like something primitive, something utterly fucking
medieval.'

'Why?' asked Emily, but Parlabane could see Vale was
catching up.

To disguise the motive/ Vale said, an answer that seemed
to strike a disturbing chord with Rory.

'Confusion in the aftermath/ he said in apparent disbelief.

'Bullets make it a hit/ Parlabane went on. 'It's clinical,
precise, calculated, so the intention is clear. Cops start
asking the who and why, looking for links, connections;
normal, rational fucking reasons for why someone wanted
all these people dead. This way, instead there's a macabre
mystery in a place with a blood-drenched past, carved-up
corpses in a spooky house, murdered using swords pulled
from the walls and display cabinets. No witnesses, no
suspects, and no motive because it's clearly an act of


302


insanity. Jesus, think about this: post-mortems would reveal
that several of the guests had undigested human flesh in
their stomachs. Mathieson's skeletal remains will no doubt
turn up, proving that we ate the fucking chef. The attention
of the whole country gets focused on the murders, but
everyone is asking why the gothic bloodbath in the gothic
mansion.'

'Instead of why us,' Emily observed.

'Precisely.'

'Yeah, well, even if you're right and they don't use guns,'
Rory said, looking more rattled than the rest, 'there's still
more of them than there are of us, and I doubt the swords
they took from here are the only blades they've got.'

'True/ conceded Vale, 'but swords aren't the only
weapons we've got.'

'Eh?' Rory asked. 'Am I forgetting something?'

'Yes. Who we're up against. They might have fancied
themselves as assassins, some of them might even believe
they've got what it takes to pass this so-called test, but
there's no way these wannabes coughed up thirty grand
for a fair fight. They paid for the chance to live out their
sickest fantasies with minimal risk and no comeback. Well,
let's find out what kind of appetite for horror they've really
got. If violence is indeed the only language they understand,
I'd like to show them who's got the wider
vocabulary.'

'Fuck yeah/ agreed Ger, lifting his bloodstained kitchen
knife from the floor and getting to his feet. 'Vale's right:
their trialists have been piss. I havenae seen a less promising
line-up since Barnes and Dalglish. Enough aboot team
building. These bastards killed Charlotte. I'm up for some
team-demolition.'


Vale doled out the duties to anxious but willing volunteers,
some sent on specific tasks, others on errands of information,


303


replacing and reassigning those previously posted to the
barricades. Parlabane remained without a stated purpose as
this ferment got underway, an oversight he was not inclined
to believe meant Vale needed him for tactical consultation or
as a personal bodyguard.

Vale glanced at him and then at the half-landing, by way
of requesting a quiet word, and Parlabane suspected he
knew what it was about. He responded with a nod and
swiftly made his way up.

'You did well at rummelling up the troops, Tim,' he said,
the pair of them sitting down together on a stair like it was
a bench in a quiet pub. 'But what you didn't say was probably
better for their morale than what you did.'

'Yes, well, I wasn't the only one holding back. We both
know these guys will have a last resort.'

'No shit. And they're bound to engage it pretty soon
seeing as their trialists didn't get on the scoresheet.'

'Maybe not right away, though.'

'Why the hell not? There's going to come a point when
the job needs done and they need to get out.'

'Yes, but if you ask me, they budgeted for losing at least
one of their own. They bet on it, arguably. We've even saved
them the bother of lopping the head off.'

'Bet on it?'

'Fixed odds on the final score. They need an extra headless
body for that aftermath you described.'

Parlabane got it. Tor Campbell.'

'Bit of a giveaway if everybody's dead and he's missing.
Francis Campbell won't be his real name, but the nonresident
staff could give a detailed description.'

'Plus a hunt for him points the investigation straight at
UML,' Parlabane agreed.

'And that's why they decapitated the girl too. Leave some
corpses headless and some not, and the cops are going to
wonder why, and check that bit closer to confirm identities.


304


But if all the corpses are headless and the heads never
found

'Lovely thought.'

'And here's another, regarding that last resort. If they're
planning to take our heads and the fight gets too tough,
they could just put a bullet in each of our skulls and still
leave your mystery horror show.'

'The prisoner mentioned darts.'

'Could be tranquillisers. Same principle, same result: they
put their target down from a safe distance, then it's heads
you lose.'

'Safer from their point of view, too,' Parlabane observed.
They can make as much mess as they want, but one telltale
stray bullet, one overlooked shell-case even, and the
charade is blown. Plus it's less risky if a weapon should fall
into enemy hands.'

'Indeed. And the bad news is, darts or bullets, that's not
the only part worrying me. Look at the kit bought just for
UML's sham: clothes, paintguns, radios, badges. What's the
chances their budget didn't stretch to a few pairs of night
vision goggles?'

'Pretty slim,' Parlabane answered. Vale didn't have to
explain: when the pros in charge decided it was time to mop
up, they'd cut the power, leaving everyone else blind.

'If the lights go out, we're finished,' Vale confirmed

'Do you reckon there's a backup?'

'I'm betting my life on it.'

'Yours, mine and everybody else's. Where's Sir L?'

'On his way. I sent Rory to relieve him.'

Sir Lachlan was indeed limping down the corridor when
they descended the stairs. He had good news, bad news
and, for Parlabane in particular, extremely bad news.

'There is a generator, yes. The bad news is it's down in
the basement level. It's oil-fired, a bit of a relic.'

'But serviceable?' Vale asked.


305


'I couldn't honestly say. We've only had one power outage
since I bought the place, and the electricity was restored
before we managed to put it to the test.'

That doesn't sound promising/ Parlabane observed.

'No, no, I mean we didn't get as far as turning it on. There
was no fuel for it; I mean, none handy.'

'None handy? And is there any handy now?'

'It was one of those things that should have been done at
the time, but, well, once the crisis was averted, you know,
there's always something more pressing . . .'

'We'll take that as a no/ Vale said.

'There is fuel, though. There's cans of petrol in the
outbuilding: it's where we keep the gardening machinery.'

'That outbuilding has to be seventy yards from the nearest
outside door/ Parlabane said grimly.

'More like fifty/ Vale estimated. 'But might as well be a
mile.'

The don't suppose there's a secret tunnel known only to the
keepers of the ancestral family home?' Parlabane asked
dryly.

'Not that the ancestral family thought to impart to me,
no. Plenty of chambers and passages down below, but no
way out except the way you go in. I suppose there is always
. . . no.'

'What? Tell us anyway.'

'Well, the telephone cable passes over the outbuilding, but
you'd need to be Spiderman to get up and down from there.'

Vale smiled. 'I know just the chap.'


306


Improvisation


Alison looked at her watch. It had been an hour and a half
since the attacks at the stairwells, and the longer they went
without a reprise, the more the tension grew. Nobody was
about to start kidding themselves that the bloodied enemy
might have run off with their tails between their legs; the
growing delay just meant that they were regathering their
forces and choosing their moment to strike. She remembered
the unforgiving time-scale as calculated by the earliest
possible discovery of the downed bridge. It was two fifteen,
and these bastards had all night.

Waiting was the worst of it. Okay, obviously it wasn't
worse than when they had been actually under attack, but
that at least passed in a blur of reflex, panic and shock, over
before she really knew what the hell was going on. When
she looked back upon events, they played out in slow
motion, certain moments stretched and suspended, whereas
at the time, they had unfolded so quickly that she'd felt no
more able to react and respond than she was able to dodge
bullets. In retrospect, she could see Emily crouch, scrambling
an eternity on the floor as the man with the machete
loomed behind her, then her running, as though through
knee-deep tar, before Ger told her to get down and launched
his knife. Live, in real time, it had just been a staccato of
snapshots, glimpsed in about two seconds: Emily, bad guy,
Emily running, zing, bad guy dead. Not enough time even
to take a deep breath, never mind a decision, but time
enough for Ger to heft his knife, pick his spot on a moving
target and bring the guy down.


307


I was a bit mental when I was younger.

'What were you inside for, Ger?' she asked him, when at
last he looked her in the eye after the mutual shock of the
kill.

'It wasnae tax evasion/ was all he would say.

He'd reacted very swiftly in Campbell's bedroom too.
Alison only caught a glimpse of Charlotte's feet sticking over
the edge of the bath before he'd grabbed her shoulders and
wheeled her around.

Poor Charlotte. She was only eighteen, younger than
Alison. She'd been planning to travel too: she was saving
up to go to Australia. Her big sister had spent a year there
and knew a few places in Cairns she could find work. They'd
talked about it some nights, when the two of them weren't
both so knackered that they coveted even minutes of sleep
time. Charlotte had been trying to sell Alison the idea, intoxicated
by her own enthusiasm to the point where she already
had the two of them sharing a beach-front apartment. Cairns
hadn't sounded like Alison's thing, but it had been fun to
ride shotgun on someone else's dream. Now it would never
be more than that.

Ger's was a solid shoulder to cry on, but while she leant
on it for comfort, the tears didn't gush the way she felt they
ought. True cathartic grief took time and abandonment.
Alison could afford neither.

She was grateful to have a task, grateful further that it
hadn't involved lugging corpses up the stairs to the
windows at the front of the gallery. She was assigned to the
kitchen for her contribution, though it didn't completely
spare her an eyeful of gore. Vale had warned her to wait
outside for a few minutes while he and Ger took the body
of the man Ger had killed and laid it on the island worktop
in the centre of the kitchen. They emerged shortly afterwards,
Ger with the body over his shoulder and Vale
carrying something in a canvas bag. She'd expected the


308


stainless-steel worktop to be more bloodstained when she
went back in, but there were only a few smears, the corpse
having bled all he was going to on the corridor floor. The
smell, however, was revolting, causing her to gag and run
to the sinks. She expected to throw up but didn't, which
was when she remembered that she hadn't eaten anything
since lunchtime.

Having something to physically get on with was a
welcome distraction, but it wasn't as though she could
exactly lose herself in her work. The possibility that they
could come crashing through the windows any second was
a hard one to lose sight of, and every time the wind gave
the back door an otherwise familiar rattle, she was halfway
to the corridor.

It could come any time, that was the truly horrible part.
There were moments when she could almost - almost concentrate
so hard on the task in hand that she almost almost
- forgot what the task in hand was in aid of, and
then the bigger picture would return to central focus. This
was a temporary lull; the storm could resume at literally
any second, and when it did, its rage would be terrible. She
busied herself on the far side of the room from the windows
as a precaution, gathering what she needed and performing
the requested preparation with trembling haste, the sooner
to get herself back out to the central reception area. Oven
cleaner, hob-cleaner, caustic soda, anything that bore the
legend 'Avoid contact with eyes and skin' was bundled into
a cardboard box, then she took every chilli in the cupboard
and whizzed them in a blender with wasabi powder and
vinegar.

The crashes of breaking windows shuddered through her,
reverberating unmistakably into the kitchen despite the
sound of the blender. Alison ran from the room, forgetting
even to lock the kitchen door behind her, the very act she'd
been rehearsing in her head every few seconds as she


309


prepared herself for sudden flight. Not only had panic
erased her awareness of vital procedure, but it caused her
to run directly towards the source of danger, simply because
that's where other people were.

It wasn't what she'd feared. Under the circumstances,
there was hardly such a thing as a false alarm, but it was,
this time at least, not the bad guys who were lobbing dead
bodies through the windows. Vale, Ger and Sir Lachlan
stood at the front platform of the gallery, above the main
doors and their flanking windows, each before a now pane
less frame.

She understood. This was what Vale had meant about
wannabe-warriors and their appetite for horror. All of the
enemy's attention would surely now be focused upon the
front of the house, where three of their own had been thrown
down to the monobloc: hacked, skewered, headless, dead.
How's your stomach for the fight now, boys?

The message was clear: come and have a go if you think
you're hard enough. She just hoped it wasn't equally clear that they were bluffing. As many as sixteen left, Vale had
said: homicidal, pissed off and already committed to a task
they now could not afford to leave unfinished. A besieging
force, superior in number, tightening its grip on a less-than
impregnable fortress, while inside they were scrabbling to
furnish means of resistance from anything that came to hand.
The grand piano had been disembowelled and its wires were
being fastened by Baxter at neck-height across every
inwards-opening ground-floor doorway. The resistance
machines had been carried down from the fitness room and
were having their cables restrung by Toby, more piano wire
attached to their weight pegs. Emily was sharpening the end
of a broomhandle with a kitchen knife. Crockery and cutlery
were being stockpiled at those now glassless upstairs
windows. Sir Lachlan was soaking bedsheet rags with spirits
from the bar then twisting them into the necks of the bottles


310


to furnish extremely upmarket Molotov cocktails. And
Alison was bottling 'ocular marinade' for Vale. It was Zulu against Home Alone.

Vale knew it, too. He was readying them for resistance,
nothing more. When battle came, he did not expect victory.
He had asked Sir Lachlan whether, when it came to it, there
was somewhere to which they could fall back, some place
where they could make a final stand. The only options Sir
Lachlan could offer were barricading themselves in the
tower, behind its heavy oak door, which carried the risk of
the invaders simply burning the place down around them;
or to descend into the chambers and passageways beneath
the building. This had the advantage of its entrance being
concealed and therefore buying some time before the enemy
discovered them, but Alison liked the sound of hiding out
down there even less than the tower. Those chambers were
the places excavated by Willcraft for the remnants of past
slaughter, site of his own evil dabblings. With death beckoning
them to come on down and join the party, it would
be like sealing themselves inside their own tomb.


The sound of synchronised freestyle deid-bampot window
plummeting was Parlabane's cue. It would draw maximum
attention to the front of the building and thus lessen the
chances of his being spotted scrambling above the rafters at
the rear, where he was reaping the whirlwind sown by a
lifetime of misspent agility. He kept telling himself that Vale
wouldn't have sent him out to do this if they had any alternative,
which was undeniably true, but there was no way
the swine hadn't enjoyed landing Parlabane with this just a
tiny little bit.

Access to the roof was via a window halfway up the tower,
above which was the turret from where Campbell and Baxter
had observed their game of Capture the Flag. There
wouldn't be much to observe tonight without the aid of


311


infrared, which made him further regret that his wife Sarah
had made him ceremonially dispose of his Jaguar
Nightscope a few years back, amid other accoutrements of
his less orthodox journalistic methods. (The explained monetary
value of the device had almost won it a temporary
reprieve until she had a peep through it at a less than
serendipitous moment and saw the couple in the ground
floor flat across the street having a shag on their settee,
behind the normally reliable cover of closed Venetian blinds.
Copulating blurry white blobs weren't exactly hand-shandy
material, but the damage was done.)

Down below, there was blackness beyond the short reach
of the hotel's exterior lamps, no moon or starlight above due
to the cloud cover. He could picture how black it would be
if the power went out, which concentrated his efforts on
picking his way across the roof to where the telephone cable
was terminated. The rain had stopped at least, but the tiles
were still slippy, and his balance had to compensate for the
canvas bag on his back, the handstraps encircling his shoulders
schoolboy-fashion.

If he moved too sharply, he could feel the weight in the bag shift in a revoltingly languid way. It didn't smell quite
so strong now he was outside, but still the slightest whiff
prompted his sensory memory to fill in the rest.

There was no rope. Ordinarily, that wouldn't have been
a major concern, as it would be accurate to say that scaling
rockfaces and man-made edifices with his bare hands was Parlabane's idea of a good time. Climbing along an inch
thick cable thirty feet above the ground was not a daunting
prospect, nor would have been shinning down and then
back up a telephone pole, even with a tin of petrol in a bag
on his back. The problem was that the said telephone pole
was close to a hundred yards past the targeted outbuilding,
and the avoidance of traipsing across sword-wieldingnutter-infested
territory was the very reason he was taking


312


the elevated route. He needed a means of getting down and
up again at the point where the cable overhung his destination.
Unfortunately, the piece of kit he'd spied some hours
back that was ideal, indeed designed for just such a purpose,
was probably several miles downstream by now, having
been swept away during Baxter's fake demise.

Bedclothes were out, despite being in abundant supply.
A figure dressed in black, his face darkened with beef-stock
powder that the chef only reluctantly owned up to being in
possession of, could plausibly make his way across the
moonless night sky without being detected. Start hanging
white sheets down from the phone-line and you might as
well be banging cymbals and playing a kazoo.

That was when Vale came up with a solution. Parlabane
supposed it was in keeping with the group's necessary
efforts to make use of whatever was to hand, but you never
saw shit like this on MacGyver. The only practical resource
they had passed up was the headsets from yesterday's
headgames, on the grounds that Campbell had been monitoring
then and so would plausibly be monitoring now. The
chance to eavesdrop might even be why he hadn't removed
or destroyed them.

'Yeah, but can't we use them to mislead, the way we did in the game?' Parlabane asked.

'Not if he knows we know he's listening. Betting on a
bluff is dangerous enough, but betting on a double-bluff is
like playing Russian Roulette with three chambers loaded.'

Parlabane conceded the point, but mourned the passing
of the principle. It had been encouraging to briefly imagine
making the bad guys look one way while they snuck out
the other, but it failed to address the next, larger question
of where the bloody hell he thought they could sneak out
to. Defending the house at least gave them somewhere to
make a stand - as long as the lights stayed on.

'Still bored, Jack?' Vale had asked, as Parlabane prepared


313


to embark on his mission. 'Or is the day job looking a bit
more attractive right now?'

'Jury's still out, Tim. I mean, do you know how many
times I've sat in a press conference and heard Nicola
Sturgeon say the minister should resign? I think she must
say it in her sleep.'

'Still, a fine mess old chap, eh? Gives a rather vivid
perspective regarding what Kipling was on about.'

'Kipling?

'Yes. If you can keep your head when all about you are
losing theirs . . .'

'Indeed. And I'd have to say that between them, Campbell
and Baxter have really dropped us--'

'We've been friends a long time, Jack,' Vale interrupted.
'I adore your wife and I know what you mean to her, so I
have to warn you that if you attempt to finish that sentence
I shall feel compelled and justified in killing you.'

'Come on, I let the "heads you lose" remark go. And the
Kipling.'

'Get busy, Jack. And remember . . .'

'Yeah, yeah. No guts, no glory. Very fucking funny'

The cable was terminated a foot or so below the eaves at
the westernmost end of the building. It was damp and therefore
a little slick, but consisted of a reassuringly thick interwoven
spiral, supplying the two dozen or so connections the
hotel employed. Parlabane reached down with his left leg
and hooked his foot around the line, giving it a tug to make
sure it wasn't going to rip from the wall when he applied his
weight. He leaned out to grip it with his left hand, but couldn't
reach without committing his balance beyond the point where
he could still keep hold of the eaves. Breathing in, he loosed
the fingers of his right hand and let himself drop that last
few degrees, crossing both feet around the cable. It held. Gripping
with both hands, he pulled himself tight against it, the
weight in the bag shifting to the centre, rugging at his oxters.


314


He felt a sharp pain in the left side of his chest, but knew
despite the multiplicity of anxieties and physical demands
being brought to bear upon it that it couldn't be a heart
attack, as the said organ was still pounding away like the
bass inside a ned-driven Fiesta at traffic lights. Before an
exploratory hand could reach the spot, he realised that the
pain was being caused by the cable pressing upon the stupid
UML 'campaign medal' he was still wearing.

He unhooked it and let it drop into the darkness, thinking
once again of the man who had pinned it there, smiling,
looking him in the face, looking everyone in the face. What
a piece of work. As he had mused earlier, they could only
guess at how far back the beginnings of this thing lay. This
guy, whatever his real name was, had to be an accomplished
infiltrator: experienced and adept at the exhaustive duplicity
of deep cover. The level of patience, planning, anticipation,
calculation and contingency was soberly cold-blooded. He
was a professional, all right, but a professional what?

Whoever, whatever he was, he wanted Parlabane dead himself
and several named others - even though Parlabane
had never seen him before. In fact, he had never seen any
of these people before. The only person he knew on the UML
jaunt was Vale, and he was present at Parlabane's own invitation.
Who were they? What connected them? Maybe there
were no connections, except the one they each unknowingly
had to whoever was behind it, and perhaps that was the
perverse genius of it, of a mass hit. You invite the victims
to their own murder, hand-picked: disparate, unconnected
people you wanted dead for disparate, unconnected reasons.
Perhaps, even, it was disparate, unconnected people who
wanted them dead, too. A job lot of contract kills, erasing
any apparent individual motive as the authorities searched for a collective one.

Wouldn't that be worth months of preparation and an
investment outlay? For what kind of 'team' could they be


315


putting together but an assassination squad? Sure, between
the sick thrillseekers and the testosterone-pumped thugs,
the organisers knew they might not get many decent recruits,
same as many of the participants knew they'd no chance of
making the team. But that was about money: stake money
for the future of Assassinations Inc. They were here, the prisoner
had said, to wipe out threats. Clearly, someone somewhere
still had a higher opinion of Parlabane's influence
and abilities than he did these days, but at least there was
a precedent for people wanting him dead. Who the hell was
Joanna Wiggins a threat to? Or Uptight Emily, or an amiable
eejit like Rory fucking Glen?


316


Night of the Eighties Undead 2


Rory looked at Emily again, each offering the other unconvincing
but sincerely meant attempts at reassuring expressions.
They stood side by side at the barricade, rapier and
Sabatier.

'I like a girl who's handy with a kitchen knife,' he wanted
to say, but couldn't bring himself. The self-aware chauvinistic
double-entendre was the kind of patter that was
sparking between them earlier, but while doing so now
might offer a bit of laughter in the dark, for him it would
only serve to underline what he was about to lose, even if
they did get out of here alive.

They had relieved Toby and Sir Lachlan when Vale
required them elsewhere, Toby being belatedly offered the
chance to put his engineering degree to some practical application:
something to do with gym equipment. Sir Lachlan
was being ostensibly sought for his knowledge of the house,
though Rory suspected he was being relieved from the barricade
as much because he was in an increasingly bad way,
losing blood despite Kathy's bandaging. Rory's own injury
wasn't causing him too much discomfort, certainly not that
he'd complain about for fear they'd threaten to pour more
whisky on it. But he wasn't without his pain.

He and Toby had stood saying nothing for a moment as
Toby prepared to leave the barricade, each knowing what
the other wasn't talking about. Rory broke the silence,
because he knew Toby wouldn't, not this silence nor the
other one, without his consent. He was a good man, a far
better man than Rory could ever hope to be. He was loyal,


317


m

considerate, conscientious and utterly selfless. Toby had
been young and stupid once too, but the difference was that
one of them had grown up.

Toby, it's time to tell them/ he said. Tor whatever it's
worth.'

Toby had put a hand on Rory's shoulder for a second,
then gone off to whatever Vale required of him.

'Tell them what?' Emily asked.

He wanted to put this off, and he did for a while. It was
easy for them both to let the question slide, unanswered,
amidst the kind of distraction that was around them: people
hauling things about, nailing wire to doorframes; Ger and ;
Vale coming by to collect the corpse that was lying in the
hall outside.	:

Rory moved in a world where women were impossibly
beautiful, rendered thus with the aid of digital manipulation,
surgery or the regular application of two fingers
towards the oesophagus. It set a benchmark that was so high
as to be beyond even a natural ideal. Emily didn't resemble
those women, and yet it felt a greater pleasure to look at
her. Nobody would say she wasn't pretty, but it was something
beyond the aesthetic and the physical that was
touching him. Extreme circumstances like this could sell
your emotions a dummy, he knew, but he honestly couldn't
remember the last time he'd felt this way when looking at
a girl.

There must have been such a time, though: a time before
sex, a time when all you wanted was to be with that certain
girl, to be hers, to be kissing her. Yes, you knew you'd want
other things, but they seemed secondary, things that could
wait. A time when mere smiles meant more than a glimpse
of underwear - amazing as that was then too.

What happened? Where did it go? Was this what was
meant by innocence? He hated that word for how it had
been appropriated, and by whom. If their idea of 'innocence'


318


was a lack of carnal desire, then there was no innocence
about even fledgling sexual relationships. And yet there was
truly an innocence to things that would appal the prudes:
a journey of mutual discovery in those trembling shared
acts, touches, partial undressings. Innocence wasn't lost in
crossing lines and doing these things. Innocence wasn't lost
in the passing of virginity when it was between two people who cared for each other. Innocence was lost when you
stopped caring about the person and even stopped caring
about yourself, only about the end product, and in his case
product was definitely the word. Creature of Thatcher, he
had become the quintessential consumer in his attitude to
women, to sex, to life in general. It was all about what it
brought him, what he could reach out and take, procure for
himself. He wasn't on a journey like once before, encountering
and experiencing. Instead it was gratification on
demand, and not just in his sex life. That had been the motto
of his whole life. Gratification on demand, and with deep
pockets like his you could demand a lot. Material wealth
and personal kudos brought most forms of gratification that
he'd sought, and what they couldn't bring wasn't worth
having.

Or so he'd thought.

In the currency required to give him what he wanted now,
he feared he was bankrupt. If he wasn't already, then he
certainly would be once Toby cashed his blank cheque. What
would that leave? The knowledge of his worthlessness made
Emily look all the more special, all the less attainable. Maybe
the last time he'd felt this way was the last time he'd felt
prepared to surrender so much of himself.

Time to tell them this/ he said . . .


They were rearranging the deckchairs on the Titanic, but
Alison was a rapt observer nonetheless. She knew she, Ger,
Sir Lachlan and Charlotte were among the plus ones, simply


319


in the wrong place at the wrong time, but for that it felt
somehow all the more imperative that there should be an
explanation for why the others had been targeted.

She'd overheard Baxter ask people individually whether
a tattoo of a boat meant anything to them, restlessly interrupting
their tasks like it might precipitate some breakthrough
that would change everything. He received no
significant response, as she heard him stress to Vale. While
they worked, waited and worried, posted around the grand
staircase, the big question kept circling like a plane over
Heathrow, with so far no sign of clearance to land.

'I wasn't aware I had any real enemies since Carol Clark
stopped talking to me for three days in Primary Seven,' said
Kathy. 'Why would anyone want all of us dead? Apart from
the people we came with, none of us even knows each other.'

Toby spoke quietly as he re-fed a cable across one of his
improvised siege-engines. 'That's not entirely true,' he said,
instantly commanding the attention of everyone in earshot,
which was pretty much everyone bar Parlabane and the four
who were manning the barricades.

'Rory and I knew each other once/ he went on. 'But this
is the first time we've seen each other since then.'

'Since when?' Kathy asked.

'Since we were students together in the Eighties. St
Andrews. It's a small world; I suppose we were bound to
run into each other again sometime, but that it turned out
to be on this weekend might not be a coincidence.'

'Why?'

Toby sighed resignedly. 'It might mean nothing still, but
no matter what, you're not going to like either of us much
after I tell you this. Please remember it was a long time ago
and we're different people now.'

This doesn't sound promising,' Liz remarked.

'No. Well, I suppose we all found out where each other
stands - or in some cases stood - politically last night. Rory


320


and I met because we were both members of a campus
Conservative group that was, shall we say, not at the wetter
end of the spectrum.'


The lefties were just spoilsports to me/ Rory explained.
Emily nodded understandingly. After last night, none of this
was exactly coming out of left - or should that be right field,
but it was early yet.

'I knew fuck-all about politics, I just knew they were the
ones trying to take away my fun. And to me, student life
was about having fun. My parents saw me all right, thank
you, with my flat and my car and my endowment, and
suddenly the benefits of freedom were at my disposal. Yet
here were all these dedicated killjoys bringing down the
party buzz by whining about everything and organising
demonstrations. The country seemed to be doing very well
from where I was standing, and yet they were determined
to do it down and latch on to every negative issue they
could lay hands on. If they couldn't find a native issue,
they'd import them, like apartheid or whatever. I know, I
know. You think I'm scum. These were important matters.
They just weren't important to me at the time.'

'I don't think you're scum,' Emily said sincerely. 'I would
have back then, but . . . well, maybe some of those issues
weren't as important to me as I'd convinced myself. Perhaps
I could have done with having a bit more fun. It wasn't
exactly a barrel of laughs being a lefty. Do you know what
it's like to feel guilty about every good time you have? Drank
beer. Was that a Coors? They're funding the Contras. Bought
a new top. Is it from Gap? Was it made with sweatshop
child labour? Went to a club. What, while the rest of us were
holding a candle-lit vigil outside the South African
consulate? You're right, we could find an issue to get angry
about every minute of the day.'

'I wasn't interested in issues, apart from us and them, us


321


being the cool, have fun, cars-and-girls set, them being the
"carpers", as Thatcher called them. I came up with the name
Conservative Student Forum because it abbreviated to CSF,
which was close to "C as F": that's what we said to describe
something we liked, and to describe ourselves. C as F. Cool
as fuck.'


'Oh God,' said Kathy. 'Was that the lot whose little drinking
song was: Singing Thatcher, Reagan, Botha, Pinochet to the tune
of She'll Be Coming Round the Mountain? "Hang Mandela"
T-shirts? Didn't Tebbit disband you for being too extreme?
A bit like getting thrown out of Oliver Reed's house for
being too pissed.'

'That was the Confederation of Conservative Students, to
which some people I knew were affiliated, yes. But we were
a localised affair, less bothered about Party policy and the
like; being a national body, that was more the CCS's thing.
We'd have had to actually know something about politics
for that. We were just a glorified campus clique, a bunch of
spoiled kids too used to getting our own way, brought
together as much as anything by collective umbrage at the
antics of the lefties. I don't know how much any of us
believed what we thought we believed. There was a large
element of posturing about it: adopting positions and
professing statements in a kind of pee-the-highest contest
to see who could outdo the others, or what we could do to
outrage the lefties most. So yeah, if the lefties said "Free
Mandela", we'd have said hang him, even if we didn't know
who he was. It was schoolboyish tit-for-tat. You remember
what it was like in those days.'

The don't,' said Alison. 'My parents hadn't even met when
Margaret Thatcher came to power. All I know about her is
that my grandfather won't hear her name uttered in his
house.'

Till place you on the spectrum,' Kathy said. 'How many


322


of the following do you hate: black people? Scottish people?
The working classes? Gays? Intellectuals? Artists? The Irish?
The French? Foreigners in general?'

'Eh, none of the above.'

Then trust me, you and she wouldn't have gotten on.'

Thank you, Kathy,' Toby said, 'for illustrating exactly
what we were reacting to.'

'And how exactly did you react?'

'With much anger and self-righteousness. We felt inclined
to fight militancy with militancy. I think the bottom line, the
defining emotion, was a desire to shut the lefties up. They
weren't in power, the overwhelming majority had voted
against them, so we didn't see why we had to listen to them.

Then came the Brighton Bomb. We saw it as an attack on
ourselves, and part of the greater whole. It wasn't so much
like Sinn Fein was the political wing of the IRA as the IRA
was the paramilitary wing of this perceived lefty coalition,
from Scargill to student agitators to the BBC. It didn't matter
who they were, they were all out to do us down. And after
Brighton we wanted to hit back. We wanted to defend
ourselves. The SAS in Gibraltar felt like Mrs The was telling
us that's what she wanted too.'

'What did you do?' Kathy asked accusingly.

'You remember the Death on the Rock programme? I think
we felt more outrage over that than about the Brighton
Bomb. It seemed like conclusive evidence of the enemy
within, making our side look like the bad guys.'

'What did you do, Toby?' Kathy repeated.


'It was a fantasy that got out of hand,' Rory said. 'Haven't
you ever wished you could just silence the people you
disagree with?'

Emily nodded, an uncomfortable expression on her face,
like she was feeling ashamed on his behalf, or maybe just
having to work hard at politely hiding her disgust.


323


'We talked ourselves into believing... I don't know, everything
seems so certain when you're that age. The SAS had
just gone right in there, bang bang bang. Why couldn't it
be like that, we asked ourselves. If people want to hurt us,
let's show them we can hit them just as hard. Except, we
weren't talking about the IRA. They were just one part of a
bigger problem. What if we could silence these agitators,
these enemies within, we wondered. Not up-front, obvious
execution-style, because we saw from Gibraltar how that
could backfire. But what if we could kill these people in
ways that made sure no-one suspected a political assassination,
or even a murder?

It was just talk, just late-night fantasies. But the problem
was, Toby met someone who wanted to make our wishes
come true.'


The was in the OTC, the Officers Training Corps/ Toby said.
'It's kind of the student TA. I got friendly with one of the
army liaison guys, found we had a lot to talk about, having
some of the same conversations with him as with Rory. The
difference was, this guy was in the position to walk the walk.
His name was Shiach. Maurice Shiach. He claimed to have
connections in the intelligence services as well as the security
services. More than connections, as it turned out. He
was an informant. His role meant he had dealings with OTC
and TA groups around the country, and he was officially
supposed to be gathering intell on militant far-right elements
in these reservist forces. There were a few such cells broken
up around those days, but not on Shiach's watch. He was
using his position to recruit like-minded volunteers for a
little project he called the MoV: Ministry of Vigilance.

'It was going to do things for the defence of this country,
Shiach said. Things that the government needed done but
couldn't do for itself, or couldn't be seen to do for itself. He
meant killing people who were, as he put it, a threat to


324


security. Killing them in ways that would deflect suspicion
from those benefiting from their deaths. He hinted at unofficial
sanction from higher up, but I'm not sure how true
that was. There were certainly no resources forthcoming. At
the time we were happy to convince ourselves, but let's face
it, if the powers-that-be really wanted to set up a covert
assassination bureau, they'd hardly pick students and TA
weekend soldiers to do it.'

They might if they wanted them to be disposable/ Kathy
said. 'People they could easily disavow if it went wrong.
Who the hell would believe you were anything other than
fanatics acting off your own steam?'

'But that's exactly what we were. There was another intelligence
agent involved, or so Shiach claimed. We never met
him or learned his real name, because he was engaged in
undercover work, infiltrating left-wing organisations. Shiach
referred to him as the Architect, which suggested he was
the brains behind the operation. He talked like this guy
was the greatest, said he was a genius at blending in and
earning the trust of the people he was there to spy on. You'd
never suspect him in a million years: he could be your best
friend, a guy you thought you knew inside out. You could
look him in the eye and see no trace of deceit, yet all the
while he was the enemy in your midst.'

'Campbell/ said Kathy.

The guess ... I don't know.'

'Of course it's Campbell/ said Baxter. 'You just described
exactly what he did to me, what he did to all of us.'

'You don't understand. At the time, Rory and I weren't
entirely convinced the Architect existed, and in retrospect
I've always doubted he was anything more than a figment
of Shiach's imagination, to help convince us we were part
of something greater, something semi-official. He was also
a convenient source of propaganda, allowing Shiach to gee
us up with stories the Architect told him about just how evil


325


and threatening these lefties he spied upon were. Rory and
I came to the conclusion that in reality Shiach was the biggest
fantasist of us all, just a nutter who was dragging us way
out of our depth.'


'So you didn't go through with anything?' Emily asked.

'Of course not. We were just wankers, not murderers. We
sat around thinking up schemes, ways of selling a murder
as something else, such as the robbery-gone-wrong
scenario. You find out where and when the target regularly
buys his paper, say. You stage a botched robbery down the
street, at the bank or Post Office, all masked up. Then in
your plausibly erratically driven getaway car, you mount
the pavement and run him down. It was my introduction
to the ethics of advertising, you could say: selling an impression
that disguised the truth. But believe me, the minute it
threatened to get real, we bailed out. Shiach came up with
a target, or rather, he said the Architect had. He wouldn't
tell us the name, "for our own protection", but he was
talking dates and locations. Toby and I, as they say in the
common tongue, shat it. We told Shiach we weren't up to
the job.'

'How did he react?'

'Spat the dummy, but it looked like the tantrum of a helpless
man. He called us traitors and cowards and ranted about
finding people who had the balls to go through with it. That
didn't sound very likely, seeing as we were the best he'd
come up with so far. And that was the end of it. We never
heard from him again, and Toby and I didn't see much of
each other after that either. Mutual disgust, it would be fair
to call it. We'd learned some things about ourselves and
each other that we didn't much like.

The felt like I'd had a lucky escape. It taught me that I didn't
care about politics, didn't even hate the lefties as much as
I'd convinced myself. Toby was more chastened by it,


326


though. He's got more character than me. We had a few
mutual acquaintances, so I heard about him here and there.
The summer after graduation, he went off and did some
voluntary work with underprivileged kids in Tyneside.
Ended up staying there and running his own charity. Meanwhile
I just got on with what I always did best: pleasing
number one/


The was pretty scared for a while in case Shiach showed up
again. I half expected to see a news story reporting a death
that bore a resemblance to one of the plans we'd discussed,
or more likely to see that Shiach had got himself arrested
in a failed attempt. But there was nothing.'

'Just because you noticed nothing doesn't mean nothing
happened/ Kathy said. 'I mean, wasn't that the point?
Unsuspicious deaths don't make the news.'

'True, but... a lot of these plans were things that would have been reported: they weren't all supposed to look
accidental, just incidental. Innocent bystander scenarios,
or--'

'Something that would conceal the true motive and
intended target/ Vale interrupted. 'Such as a medieval
massacre of unconnected strangers.'

'It's a lot more ambitious than anything we dreamed up,
but the principle is the same/ Toby conceded. Though if it
is Shiach, then at least we're not up against any kind of military
genius. He was a failure, posted as liaison to the
weekend soldiers because he was no use to the real ones.
That's why he wanted to wage his own private war with
his own secret army. If it hadn't been for the lefties, I don't
know what he'd have done for an enemy.'

The only thing the prisoner could tell us about the man
in charge was that he had a tattoo/ said Vale.

'A boat/ Baxter added. 'I mentioned it earl--'

'He didn't say boat, he said ferry.'


327



1

'Sorry. I was being more general to widen the net.'

Teriens Tego/ said Toby with a nod.
'What?'

'Feriens Tego. I don't know about a tattoo, but that was
the MoV motto. Rory and I thought it sounded really cool,
but then we were idiots who still thought the problems of
the world could be solved by eliminating the people who
disagreed with us.'

'What does it mean?' Kathy asked.

'Get your retaliation in first, attack is the best form of
defence. Literally: "Striking, I defend". The kind of
simplistic, half-witted macho bullshit that makes perfect
sense to people who need an enemy in order to define themselves.
It's Shiach, all right. And it sounds very much like
Campbell was - is - the Architect. It's taken them more than
fifteen years to get their project off the ground, but in order
for it to succeed, they'd need to silence the people who can
identify its hand. No use suiciding a dissident if there's
people out there who recognise the MO.'

'Yeah, but what the hell did I do?' Kathy asked. 'Or
Joanna, or Max?'

'Max said he was in the TA,' Liz told them. 'And he was
pretty hawkish in his views last night.'

'But presumably not hawkish enough,' Toby observed.
'Otherwise he'd be on the outside of the building.'

'Brilliant,' said Kathy. 'So it's psychopathic right-wing
extremists on the outside trying to get in to kill the right
wing not-quite-extreme-enough-ists on the inside.'

'And maybe it's not quite as simple as that,' Baxter said
meekly. 'Rory and Toby aren't the only people here who
knew each other in the past, nor the only ones with something
to be ashamed of. Hate to break it to you, Kathy, but
you're actually a plus one. Campbell hired Seventh Chime
for the same reason he came to me, and he must have been
pissing himself the whole time to know how much I was


328

squirming. So I guess your pal Emily didn't tell you the
whole truth about her own student radicalism.'


It was slow going, more out of cautious necessity than
Parlabane's physical abilities. He could have hauled himself
along a lot quicker, but the greater his movements, the more
sphincter-puckering the dip as the cable's brackets strained
to support his weight. Keeping it slow, steady and smooth,
his body tight to the spiral, lessened the bounce effect that
threatened to bring his mission to an abrupt end.

Since being stabbed in prison, he had embarked upon an
unprecedented commitment to his personal fitness in an
overcompensating attempt to prove to himself that his
recovery was complete. The approach of the big four-oh had
also donned its own tracksuit and whistle, and between the
two it would be accurate to say he was in the best shape of
his life, other than missing a few feet of gut. It meant that
he was ably disposed to haul his own weight and that of
his burden across the blackened void without breaking too
much of a sweat, but the irony of the bag's contents was as
prominently vivid in his mind's eye as the prospect of what
he was required to do with them.

He remained still for a moment in order to arrest the
cable's swing, having reached the point where he'd have to
descend. The outbuilding was a tantalising few feet to the
left of the phone-line; once he'd climbed down far enough
he could probably swing to its roof, but while he was already
nervous about the strength of the cable, that was nothing
compared to his dubiety with regard to Vale's improvised
climbing cord. Parlabane hooked the crook of his right arm
around the line in order to allow his left arm to wiggle free
of one canvas strap. The bag then dangled beneath his back,
requiring him to swing to and fro a little until his right hand
could get hold of the zip. Immediately he pulled it, he could
feel the weight inside press forward and squeeze into the


329


opening gap, the touch of it against his knuckles a hideous
foretaste of what was to come. He stopped the zip where it
was. If he opened it any further, the whole lot would simply
tumble out and disappear, which was admittedly a tempting
prospect in isolation, but less so when the consequences
were factored in. Turning himself on to his front, the bag
now dangled in front of him, allowing him to get hold of
the loose handle with his right hand. Another semi-rotation
flipped him over again, this time leaving the holdall resting
on his chest.

The smell was like low tide on the shores of Loch Shite.

Parlabane's motivations had had plenty of aspersions cast
upon them in his time, rightly and wrongly. For the things
he had done, the lengths he had gone to, the acts he had
committed, he had been variously described as self-aggrandising,
egotistical, self-loathing, isolationist, monomaniacal,
eminently slappable and just plain nuts. Fair enough, he'd
thought. Not even all-American comic-book superheroes
were pure and uncomplicatedly altruistic in their deeds, and
he'd never attempted to justify his activities by depicting
himself as a champion of the people. Tonight though, he
figured he must be on some kind of all-time shortlist of the
selflessly heroic. Batman was out for revenge. Superman
was trying to earn the approval of two dead father figures.
Indiana Jones wanted fortune and glory. Luke Skywalker
was a bored farmboy looking for kicks. Han Solo just wanted
the cash and to grope Princess Leia's tits outside the force
field generator. Other than its necessity in helping stave off
a massacre, there was no personal pay-off for Parlabane in
taking twenty-five feet of human small intestine from a
canvas bag and using it in lieu of climbing rope.

It was very slimy. This tactile aspect was naturally a major
consideration in the potential boak factor, but an even
greater one with regard to grip. Going down would be an
express ride, but the return journey promised to be more


330


problematic, especially with a can of fuel on his back.
Gagging reflexively at the combination of touch, smell and leave d'Afrique recall, he tugged a length from the bag, letting
it spill out until one end was free. It was going to be a long
time before link sausages were back on the breakfast menu
back home in East London Street.

Supporting himself with his ankles and the inside of his
left elbow, he tied the end around the cable in a practised
knot, yanking at it to check it wouldn't slide undone. His
fist slipped along it at first, due to his reluctance to squeeze,
but when he did, it appeared to be holding. He let the rest
of the intestines drop from the bag and dangle into the darkness.
There was so little light from the rear of the building
that he couldn't see the ground, but from the free movement
of the 'rope', he could tell it hadn't touched the bottom.
He wasn't worried about the drop at the end, but if it was
too high to reach when he went to climb back up, it would
be gauntlet time.

Parlabane climbed forward a few inches and uncurled his
right foot from the cable so that he could hook his ankle
around the descendant. He was about to let go of the bag
as a potentially entangling encumbrance when he heard the
sound of hurried footsteps heading his way.

Keech.

He'd been made. All the way across, he'd been scanning,
albeit upside down, for any sign of human activity on the
horizon, but just because he hadn't seen them didn't mean
they couldn't see him. If they were using those infrareds he
and Vale discussed, he'd have been easier to spot than if
he'd been doing this in daylight. His mind raced ahead,
extrapolating scenarios. Armed only with a blade, the bad
guy wouldn't be able to get him without climbing up
himself, but he could call for help, which would mean
someone shinning up the telephone pole and cutting the
cable to bring him down. Could he make it back to the house


331


before they made it to the top? Alternatively, of course, they
could just shoot him in the head, or with one of those postulated
tranquilliser darts. Again, survival would hinge on him
reaching the roof before the shooter got a bead on him,
assuming the guy whose footsteps he could hear wasn't
packing a gun himself.

It was all rendered moot as the footsteps passed underneath
and he saw the man, bearing a machete in both hands,
charge forward, intent upon attack but oblivious to the target
suspended above him. He watched in grateful disbelief as
the man headed towards the house, his back now to Parla
bane. That the guy had failed to see the intestines didn't
augur well for the height of that final drop, but from Parlabane's
angle it was hard to tell whether they'd have been
in his line of sight anyway.

The man rounded the corner at the end of the house,
where he slowed his run, pulling up like he'd twanged a
muscle or was giving up on a forlorn pursuit. Parlabane
watched him look around, cautiously at first, holding the
machete now in preparation to defend rather than strike,
then drop his guard altogether and wander rather purposelessly
about the area. It seemed, as ever, incredible that he
would not at some point glance up and spot Parlabane, even
in this darkness, but the earthbound human tendency to
survey only two dimensions had rendered him effectively
invisible plenty of times before, and seemed to be protecting
him again now.

There's nobody here,' he heard the man say, though to
whom was less apparent.

He walked around some more, poking half-heartedly at
a shrub with his machete.

'Yes, I heard you, and I'm standing ten feet from the northwestern
wall,' he replied, to whatever had apparently been
said in between. He wasn't holding a radio, but was clearly
in remote communication somehow. 'Nah, it wouldn't be


332


the transmitter. More likely a clipping error with the wireframe.
The fucker's probably just inside. Yeah, okay. I'll have
another quick check. Gotcha.'

WTF?

The guy had been running full tilt, determined upon
something even though he couldn't see it. Determined upon someone, in fact, given that he was in machete-wielding
mode. Then when that someone turned out not to be there,
whoever he was talking to had insisted this target, this
person, was a few feet from the north-western wall; insisted
according to his faulty information, which involved a 'wireframe'
with a 'clipping error'.

Parlabane didn't consider himself a computer expert by
any means, but he would lay claim to a solid grasp of
modern PC fundamentals, such as how to bypass the office
security to surf proscribed sites at work, and where in the
system to hide certain jpegs so the wife won't stumble across
them; as well as, naturally, the basic console commands for
cheating at most of the best-known video games. Clipping
was what you switched off when you decided it would be
easier and/or more interesting to be able to walk, fly or
drive your seventy-foot Japanese mechanoid through walls.

The bastard this bloke was talking to was looking at a 3D
model. A transparent, wireframe one to be precise, and
inside it he had a means of pinpointing the location of his
targets. The machete bloke had been despatched to kill
because according to their computer, someone was outside
the building. However, the position had been wrong,
perhaps because Parlabane was not only outside the wireframe,
but thirty-odd feet up at a point not triangulated in
the model.

No. Even allowing for it wrongly positioning him on the
vertical axis, it didn't explain why the guy was looking forty
odd yards away on the horizontal from where Parlabane
was silently hanging on.


333



I

Unless it wasn't wrong.

The medal, the fucking UML campaign medal: that was
the transmitter. Campbell had pinned one to each of them
at the start of the evening, so that some swine with a laptop
could keep track of everyone inside. He was then relaying
that information to his cohorts via some form of concealed
comms system, maybe an in-ear sub-vocal rig, and they were
acting live on that information.

That was why they had launched an attack through the
snooker room: they knew there were two isolated targets
down there, with more on their way. Easy pickings and an
encouraging start for the trialists, or it would have been
but for that once-in-a-lifetime, unrepeatable circus feat.
Then on the stairs, when they knew they'd meet resistance,
they sent two guys to attack Rory, Liz, Joanna and Kathy because they thought there was only one target. The girls had
gone to bed early due to events at dinner - Joanna in the
huff, the others despairing of ever seeing dessert - leaving
their medals in their rooms when they were roused.
Everyone goes to assist Rory, leaving Alison and the medal
less Sir Lachlan vulnerable at the far end of the house: cue
attack at the other stairwell. Right now they'd know everybody
was sitting tight, waiting for the next wave, so the
bastards could take their time and choose their moment,
only reacting, as now, if someone appeared to be escaping
from the house.

Parlabane feared that any degree of optimism in the
current circumstances was the equivalent of saying 'so far,
so good' as he plummeted from a skyscraper, but couldn't
help thinking to himself that he might just have found the
edge they needed. Which, of course, wouldn't count for dick
if this guy looked up, something that seemed an excruciating
eventuality as he ambled unhurriedly in Parlabane's
direction, moving ever closer to where the human creeper
was dangling from the phone-line. It was murkily dark and


334

he didn't know how close to the ground the thing reached,
but it had to enter the periphery of the bloke's vision at
some point, surely.

He held his breath, aware he could make out even the
bemused tuts and sighs of the man below, followed by a
sharp bout of nasal inhalation.

'God, sniff that,' the man muttered distastefully,
wandering within mere feet of the smell's source.

The next thing Parlabane heard was a splat as something
dripped from the end of the intestine and hit the wet stone
below. The man turned his head, zeroing in on the spot
where the droplet had landed. There was only one place he
was going to look next.

Parlabane had no choice but to let go of the cable
completely and slide down the length of slimy bowel. He
was already falling at speed as the man looked up, eyes and
mouth agape, in time to be sprayed liberally in both by the
matter that was being squeezed from the intestine by his
rapid descent.

Up above, Parlabane's slimily lubricated knot slipped free
under the strain of his weight, but his fall was broken by
landing upon his erstwhile hunter, the pair of them tumbling
to the ground a few feet apart. Parlabane reacted quicker in
getting to his feet, less out of superior reflex than his opponent
being temporarily blinded by faeces and convulsed by
vomiting. The poor bastard was on all fours, wiping at his
eyes with his sleeve while his stomach contents sprayed
from his face. The machete lay on the monobloc closer to
Parlabane, who quickly picked it up.

He stood over the man, wondering for a second what to
do next. He had nothing to restrain him with, and even the
dry heaves weren't going to keep him demobilised forever.
Others, he knew, would have been sorely tempted to dish
out what the bastard had had in mind for him, but
Parlabane's vengeful instincts were far more spiteful than


335


that. Whatever these pricks were specifically here for, the
general principle was to silence the people who posed them
a threat, whether that be those who could bear witness to
events tonight or those who perhaps had testimony of a
more vintage hue. Killing people was a lot easier than
winning the argument, a lot easier than explaining yourself
or justifying your actions. These bastards were here because
of arguments they couldn't win and deeds they didn't want
to own up to. That being so, Parlabane wanted the fuckers
taken alive. It wasn't easy when they were proving to be
half-psycho, half-lemming, but it was the principle that
mattered.

He stepped forward and kicked his conquest as hard as
he could in the left temple. The man keeled over as though
his body was dragged by his neck's recoil, then lay unconscious
on his back. Parlabane knelt down and cradled the
man's head, turning it on one side and then the other until
the device he sought dropped into his waiting, cupped palm.
He slipped it into his left ear and set about dragging his foe
to the outbuilding.


'Maybe I should have worried a bit more about number one
myself/ Emily said. Then I might have been a bit more
balanced. You know what they say, you can't love anyone
else until you learn to love yourself. When I was a student
in Edinburgh, I was just guilt-ridden and angry all the time.
We live in an age when communications media can immediately
bring to our attention every last tragedy that can
befall our fellow man, however remote, and every last
cruelty we can visit upon each other. Wars and famines
you'd never have even known about a hundred years ago,
in countries you'd never have heard of.'

'But isn't that a good thing?' Rory ventured timidly.

That is a good thing, yes, in that it keeps us aware of
what we ought to sort out, but if you're sensitively inclined,


336


half an hour in front of the box is enough to make you feel
thoroughly inadequate, sheltered and privileged just to be
alive, Western European, HIV negative, heterosexual,
unraped, unbombed, unstabbed, unmutilated, unhandi
capped, uncancerous, unaddicted, unburnt, unflooded,
unmugged, unpersecuted, unshot, unmined, unmolested or
unsacked.

The girl with the weight of the world in her hands. That
was me. My heart was always in the right place, but it was
never done bleeding. I joined every demo and fought for
every cause because I felt it was my responsibility. But as it
was said last night - might even have been you - did I really
care so deeply about all those issues? How can you? You
can only feel like you ought to care. It's so pathetic: I was
a vegetarian as a student because I moved into a flat where
all the other girls were vegetarians and I didn't have the
nerve to tell them I wasn't. It was like: shit, how could I
have been so remiss, how could I have not got around to
turning veggie? It was an orthodoxy that I accepted without
asking myself what / wanted, what I really believed/

'Bet you're wishing you'd stayed veggie tonight.'

'No, I'm wishing I'd indulged myself when I had the
chance. I could die here tonight and I'm starting to realise
how little I've really lived.'

'At least you tried to make a difference. Look where my
ideas of student activism have got us.'

'Mine aren't blameless either. This must have something
to do with me too.'

'How do you work that out?'

'Because of Baxter. It's not really for me to say, but it
hardly matters now. That's not his real name. Campbell must
have known that, known about both our pasts.'

'Not his real name?'

'His real name is Daniel Brown. We were fellow student
lefties, him being about the only one more conscientiously


337


committed to absolutely bloody everything than me. He was
a few years older, worked for a while then went back to
nightschool to get his Highers. There was Danny, myself
and a guy called Philip Young who were pretty close, considered
everyone else trendy lefties or plastic socialists.'

'Philip Young. Why do I know that name?'

'He's a civil rights lawyer now, spokesperson for Taking
Liberty. Max had a go at him last night.'

'Oh yeah. He's the guy they always wheel out for the
TV news to denounce the Home Secretary's latest crime
prevention proposals.'

'Well, if you mean he believes we should retain the
presumption of innocence until proven guilty, then yes. He's
the only one who really went on to practise what he
preached. Back then we were all on umpteen of the same
committees, and Danny in particular seemed to be involved
in so many things, I don't know how he ever managed to
attend a lecture.'


'We were as sure of ourselves and every bit as self-righteous
as Toby's CSF/ Baxter said. 'And ironically we perceived
ourselves to be at odds with one of the same enemies: the
media. It was all Tory-owned, all part of the grand right
wing conspiracy to silence dissent and spread their propaganda.
We hated Rupert Murdoch and Roland Voss as much
as we hated Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan. And
like Toby and Rory, we decided it was up to us to strike
back.

'We hatched our own little gunpowder plot, to burn down
Roland Voss's Scottish printing plant. You know, silence the
mouthpiece of the oppressor and all that; or the same as
Toby, silence the people who disagree with you. Well, we
knew it wouldn't exactly silence them, but it would still be
a blow. Best-case scenario would be they'd have to import
the English editions, which would have buggered them up


338


editorially because the southern versions weren't quite so
sensitive to Scottish feelings.

'It was pitiful. Three of us and a van full of Molotovs.
Before the internet, it was actually a lot harder to learn your
amateur anarchist basics. The plan was to drive there in the
middle of the night and lob petrol bombs over the perimeter
fence to the warehouse where they stocked their paper
drums, then hope for a chain reaction. I guess we were also
hoping for the staff to evacuate without getting burned to
death, but we didn't give them a lot of thought. It was a
mercy for all concerned that we never made it. If we hadn't
killed some poor bastard in the warehouse, we'd have probably
torched ourselves.'

'What happened?' Kathy asked.


'We got pulled over on the way there. No, actually, we didn't
pull over, not at first. A police car came up behind us and
put its blue lights on to signal us to stop. Danny was driving,
and he panicked, just put the foot down. Like we were going
to outrun a souped-up police Sierra Cosworth in our knackered
old Honda Acty that could barely break forty with a
steep downslope and a tail-wind. Turned out the police were
only pulling us over because we had a broken tail-light, but
obviously we'd just announced that we'd something to hide.
They found the petrol bombs and took us in.

The plot all came out. I might have considered myself a
hardliner, committed to the cause, but when they told me
it would go down better with the judge if I cooperated, I
blabbed everything. They seemed to know a lot anyway,
from the questions they were asking, so I suppose I wasn't
the only one to crack.

'We were found guilty of conspiring to commit arson. The
cops had scared the shit out of me by initially saying we'd
be up on terrorist charges, but I think they just recognised
I was a silly wee lassie who'd give them all they needed if


339


they gave her a fright. Philip and I got suspended sentences.
Ironically, our lawyers played the "good little middle-class
kids who'd learned their lesson" card. We still had criminal
convictions though, which didn't exactly make us hot
prospects at the milk-round.'

'And what about Donald, Danny, whatever you call him?'
'He wasn't tried with us. He got taken away to London
by Special Branch who were investigating his connections
to other potentially subversive groups. He had previous
convictions he never told us about; arrested on one too many
demos. We never saw him again, just heard through the
cops. He got jailed. Three-year sentence.'


'I've been rebuilding my life ever since/ Baxter said, 'and I
suppose you could say I've come full circle, seeking the
corporate shilling. But look where the revolution got me. I
decided to change my name so that I could make a fresh
start. Emily recognised ine, but she was good enough to
remain circumspect about it. Neither of us wanted to pick
at that particular scab, but... I don't know. I thought I had
escaped the past, but that the two of us were brought
together under these circumstances would suggest otherwise.'

He picked up a claymore and began walking towards one
of the corridors.

'I'm off to talk to her,' he said. 'She deserves the courtesy
of knowing our sad little secrets are out in the open.'


Parlabane lay the unconscious body down less than gently
next to the outbuilding's wooden double doors and reached
into the still revoltingly damp bag for the keys and torch
Sir Lachlan had laid on. Turning on the second revealed an
absence of need for the first: the lock had been crowbarred,
and another look at the doors showed that they were not
closed properly, just pulled to. He nudged the overlapping


340


one with his shoulder to give a gap of about three feet, then
gripped his captive under the oxters and dragged him
inside, wiping his hands on the guy's jacket when he was
done. Parlabane reckoned it was some kind of miracle that
he hadn't spewed his load tonight; indeed would have been
relieved had his stomach decided to purge itself of his first
involuntary helping of cannibal cuisine. Unfortunately, and
perhaps disturbingly, his stomach seemed to like it just fine.
There'd been no end of doner kebabs and late-night pudding
suppers about which the same could not be said.

He played the torch around the inside of the building, his
nose unusually grateful for the fusty smell of encrusted
grass-cuttings. His beam picked out machinery around the
floor, accessories and tools about the walls and shelves: a
petrol-driven mower with a seat and steering wheel, like a
scaled-down tractor; a v-shaped raking attachment; a leaf
blower, two edge-strimmers, a pressure-washer, hoes,
spades, rakes and watering cans. There were a number of
conspicuously empty spaces beneath hooks, Parlabane
trying and failing to prevent himself guessing what they
were there to accommodate. There were a lot of trees around
here that would need regular TLC ... Oh boy. Tobe-Hoopertastic,
as Rory the Tory might say.

The cans of petrol for the fuel-driven machines sat resting
on a wooden shelf at the back, alongside lubricating oil,
weedkiller and pesticides. It occurred to him that Vale would
probably be able to make explosives, a space rocket and
possibly a time machine out of the stuff in here, but the
petrol cans were less than dainty so it was going to be no
easy feat just getting back to base with what he'd come for.

Power was the priority, and it looked like he might still
have time on his side to ensure it stayed on. The guy he'd
flattened was not equipped with any night-vision gear, so
it was likely none of his fellow trialists were either. They
wouldn't kill the lights while they reckoned they could still


341


make use of their footsoldiers, whom Parlabane guessed
probably had one more chance at proving themselves.

His captive moaned a little as Parlabane zipped the bag
closed around the lightest of the petrol cans, prompting him
to have another scan of the available equipment. The strim
mers were electric, so there had to be extension cables here
somewhere. He trained the torch below where the shimmers
hung, and saw a pile of coiled orange flex sitting on
the floor next to a heavy polythene refuse sack.

Perfect. There were two separate leads. One would do for
the shit-gargler, and the other he could use for climbing:
toss the end weighted with the plug over the phone cable
and he'd have a double-strength, unlubricated rope to get
back up with. He dragged the captive further inside and
knelt down again, placing the torch on the floor next to him.
With its light casting knee-high shadows upon the polythene
sack, Parlabane looped the flex around his prisoner in a tight
spiral from his ankles to his mouth, then down his back to
where he bound his wrists together, and finally back to his
feet where he knotted the plug end around the jack.

Time to go. He hopped over the prisoner to get back across
to the second coil of flex, accidentally kicking the polythene
sack as he landed. Something inside it shifted. Rolled.

It had felt solid yet soft, and Parlabane's stomach briefly
considered (but declined) one more opportunity to eject his
dinner as he realised it was the second time in half an hour
that he'd kicked someone in the head.

Despite the movement inside it, the sack's neck remained
mercifully folded over. He already knew what was in there;
there was no need to confirm. Except that in the limited,
low torchlight, it looked like there were four lumps, and as
far as he was aware, they were only missing three: the chef,
the waitress and the twat. He put his hand down and patted
the plastic. It was no trick of the light: there was a fourth
head in that bag, and he now had no choice but to open it.


342


Still suffering the cumulative effects of his intestine
squeezing descent, Parlabane felt he was seriously pushing
his ick tolerance levels. He thus opted to spare himself the
added tactile displeasure of lifting the heads out individually,
instead taking the machete and ripping the sack apart.
Three of them looked towards him with open eyes and
lolling tongues, looks of permanent, horrified surprise cast
on their features. He recognised two as the waitress Charlotte
and poor, hapless Grieg. The third was unfamiliar, but
it occurred to him then that he wasn't sure he'd seen Math
ieson to know what he looked like. Perhaps the fourth would
be similarly unidentifiable.

He wasn't granted any such mystery, any more than he
was spared having to lay hands upon a decapitated napper.
Parlabane turned the last head around and found himself
staring into a face that told him what had for hours been
staring into his own.

The face was that of Francis Campbell.

He wasn't the infiltrator and he wasn't the enemy.

But it was me who brought in him. Baxter had said. I came
to him.

He wasn't lying, but as Blake put it, a truth told with evil
intent beats any lie you can invent.

Baxter. The fly bastard was so subtle, he'd got them trying
to persuade him Campbell was the spy. He'd got them to
convince themselves of his own lie.

And yet the evidence had all been there. He'd come to
the interrogation instead of joining Ger and Alison's search
of Campbell's room, even though the latter would open the
book on this guy whose deceit he was so avowedly furious
about. He'd joined in the interrogation because he had to
know how much the guy told them, and had to make sure
he didn't finger the traitor in their midst. That was why the
prisoner looked so baffled when he asked about 'the guy
on the inside'. He was the guy on the inside, and it was his


343


way of warning the prisoner not to give him away. And then	s j

when he knew the prisoner had broken, knew he'd tell them	j

anything to stop the torture, he'd pressed the accelerator to	ffj

kill him.	if

He was everything they'd feared of Campbell and more:	*

not only had he been observing them in the phoney war,
but he was still among them right then, to monitor, maybe
verifying what he feared they knew, picking up leads to
further threats, future targets. He was an enemy agent
walking free among them, able to choose his moment, to
undermine, to sabotage, and secretly to strike.


344


Stronghold Opposition


There was a knock at the window. They both looked around
to see Baxter send them an acknowledging wave through
the small pane, a precaution against getting run through by
Rory if he'd just opened the door and given them a fright.

'Rory, I'll take over here for a bit,' he said quietly, as
though burdened. 'I need a word with Emily.'

'Rory knows/ Emily told him. 'Sorry.'

'Well, don't be. Everybody knows now. There's no secrets
left tonight.' This last he said with a look to Rory. 'Don't
worry,' Baxter assured him, 'they're not going to lynch you.
I'll take over here, on you go.'

He looked as reluctant to leave as Emily was to let him,
but awkward as it would be, she understood Baxter must
need this moment. Rory shuffled past in the narrow stairwell,
Baxter holding the door open for him.

'I'm the one who ought to apologise/ Baxter said as the
door closed. 'But it would have been tricky to ask your
permission before--'

'It's okay. It's nothing, in fact. It seems so small now,
looking back. For years I've never been able to bring myself
to admit it to anyone who didn't already know, and I've
steered clear of most of them. But having finally told
someone, it just looks like an overblown student prank.
Everybody gets to screw up once when they're young, don't
they? It's how we learn.'

True. We were hardly going to bring down the state.'

'No/ she agreed. 'Couldn't see us edging Carlos the Jackal
off the World's Most Wanted list.'


345


Neither, given that point, could she see why the pair of
them constituted a threat. Why would Shiach and the Architect
be worrying about a couple of failed radicals, so much
so as to not merely invite but recruit both of them to this
venture? Rory and Toby could identify Shiach and his
methods, but what did Emily know that was so dangerous?

Then she saw that the answer was standing right beside
her.

'Hey, can I see that knife a second?' he asked casually. 'I'll
show you how you should be holding it/

Oh shit.

'The Architect worked undercover, infiltrating all these
left-wing groups/ Rory had said. 'Shiach told us you
wouldn't believe how close he was to these people and they
didn't have a clue.'

What about Donald, Danny, whatever you call him?

He got taken away to London by Special Branch . . . Danny
was driving, and he panicked, just put the foot down . . . They
seemed to know a lot anyway, from the questions they were
asking . . .

She didn't just know he was the Architect, she now knew
why she had been invited and who was next on the death
list. She was the third side of a triangle connecting an MIS
agent, intent on building his own covert assassination unit,
to a high-profile civil rights campaigner whose demise
would suit the more hawkish elements of the security and
intelligence services down to the ground; precisely the kind
of 'enemy within' the Ministry of Vigilance had been
dreamed up to get rid of.

Emily looked him in the face before she could stop herself,
and he saw it immediately, saw everything she knew. He
lunged for the knife, which she twisted in her grip to avoid
his grasp and thrust into his chest just under his right arm.
Baxter's own weight forced it deep through his armpit and
into his shoulder, lodged so firmly that she lost her hold of


346


it when he spun away, grabbing for the claymore he'd rested
against the wall behind him. Emily slipped through the exit
as the heavy steel blade clattered low against the edge of the
open door, Baxter unable to get much power or control to
his one-handed swing. She emerged into the corridor, where
Rory was still in sight, turning as he heard the commotion.

'It's Baxter/ she shouted. 'He's with them.'

Rory began running towards the fire-door, rapier at the
ready. She looked behind through the window and saw
Baxter take something from his pocket then put it in his ear.
He pulled clumsily at one of the mattresses in order to get
down the stairs, the knife still lodged in his shoulder. Emily
held the door open to facilitate Rory's charge, but before he
got there, Baxter broke through the barrier and began scrambling
down the stairs, talking to some invisible partner as
he retreated.

'It's me/ he said loudly. Tm blown. Send in everything
we've got, full assault, now.'

'You're fucking dead, Danny boy/ Rory shouted after him,
but Baxter disappeared without retort.


Parlabane was thrusting his arm through the second coil of
flex when he heard a voice and almost impaled himself on
the nearest hoe in his startlement. It sounded so close that
it could have been one of the heads addressing him, until
he realised it was coming from the device in his ear.

'Charlie, get back here, I want everybody front and centre.
Truck's ready, we're going in. This is it.'

'Roger/ Parlabane said, deliberately hoarse, after a gathering
pause. A truck. Front and centre. They were going to
pull the bloody doors off, or maybe just ram them down.

Well, fuck it, at least he could ditch the coil. If everybody
was piling in the front, he could spare himself the climb and
risk making a run for it at the rear. With his campaign medal
lying in the flowerbeds, he was radar-invisible.


347


He stepped over the woozily struggling prisoner and
lifted the bag. It felt a lot lighter now that he wasn't faced
with lugging it up twenty-five feet of electrical flex and
across fifty yards of telephone cable. There was just about
room in the bag for a second can, and if he slung it satchel
style again, his hands would be free to carry something else.
The generator was unlikely to need anywhere near that
much fuel, but he had spotted something that could definitely
use up the rest.


They're coming,' Liz reported.

This is it/ Vale called out. Take positions.'

Alison only thought she'd been scared before. What she'd
felt during the waiting had been mere hyper-agitation, a flickering
of pages depicting scenarios and possibilities, some of
horror, some of hope, and none that she could bear to linger
upon. It was the fear of not knowing, of projecting and imagining,
even when you were trying not to. As she looked out
of the empty windowframe, however, she felt something altogether
different. This wasn't fear, but something heavier,
duller, immovable and definite. This was dread.

There was a vehicle moving slowly towards the building,
as though lumbering under its own weight. She didn't know
much about the terminology of these things, but the phrase
'armoured personnel carrier' popped into her head. There
were men walking behind it, fanned out on either side,
dressed in camouflage greens, faces blacked, carrying
swords, machetes and, in one case, a long-handled axe. She
counted twelve, but couldn't be sure, as the ones closest to
the truck were frequently obscured from her line of sight.

A man stepped from the cab of the truck just before it
halted a dozen yards from the front door. He began talking
and gesturing to the others, clearly the man in charge.
Shiach, she guessed. He was squat and looked podgy, better
able to command than to act. Tubby little ageing thug who


348


was right now ordering her death, but wouldn't last a
minute in a square go with Ger. The infuriating sight of him
helped shake a little of the hollow, gut-tightening paralysis,
but she didn't like to wonder how long her defiance would
last, nor how it might end.

Baxter was gone, back among his murderous conspirators,
and with him had gone vital information. He knew of
the plan to use the emergency generator and he knew where
they planned to fall back to. The infiltrator didn't know
where the entrance to the underground chambers was, but
it wouldn't take all night to find it, after which they'd be
trusting their survival to whatever they could find to barricade
the door.

There was no call of attack to begin the onslaught, though
it was not without its herald. An outstretched arm from the
glorious leader was accompanied by a chainsaw buzzing
into action, the sound reverberating ominously through
every head in the hall.

The chainsaw and axe-bearer broke away from the
advancing party and headed to the west.

'That's our bloody chainsaw,' Sir Lachlan observed. 'And
our bloody axe. They've been in the outbuilding/ he added
gloomily, his tone conveying depressing implications.

They're going to ram the door,' Liz said, though the truck
remained in place, engine idling.

'Good,' said Sir Lachlan. Those stone pillars will do more
damage to their truck than it will to them.'

He sparked up his lighter and handed Liz and Alison a
bottle each, before picking up one for himself. 'When he's
in range, aim for the windscreen.'

But at that point the truck began moving, turning around
to face away from the building as the first of the footsoldiers
drew near to the entrance. It reversed towards the hotel,
then a length of heavy chain was tossed out of the back
doors.


349


Below, four of the men picked up two of the corpses that
were lying on the concourse, holding them with an arm and
a leg apiece. They then peeled away to either side, gathering
speed as they headed for the windows flanking the entrance.
So much for the horror sapping their resolve.

Sir Lachlan held his lighter to the rag on his bottle, which
depressingly failed to burst into flame. He tried it on Liz's,
to the same effect.

The two pairs of corpse-bearers reached the front walls
and swung their burdens against the glass. The panes shattered,
but the mattresses held. They wouldn't for long
though, and when they fell, the intruders falling with them
would be those already dead. The first live ones through
would be upright and ready, not sprawling and vulnerable
as Vale had envisaged. Thank you, Baxter, you duplicitous
piece of shit.

Sir Lachlan knelt down and held his lighter over the two
rows of bottles, trying each for a second or so. None of them
would light.

The alcohol's not volatile enough,' he cursed. Alison
remembered Ger heating those measures a few hours ago,
and recalled her dad's attempts every Christmas to ignite a
pouring of brandy over the plum duff, draining half the
lighter before the briefest flicker of blue flame appeared and
died again. It only ever caught once the heat from the dessert
had warmed the booze. Sitting at the open windows, this
stuff wasn't even at room temperature.

The ramming party picked up their burdens again.

'Oh, just fucking chuck them,' Liz shouted, and hurled
her bottle down at the nearer pair. It missed one of their
heads by a few inches and smashed on the monobloc. Alison
threw hers too, her greater accuracy foiled by the warning
of the first salvo. Her target dodged clear, though at the cost
of dropping his hold of the corpse. She turned to pick up a
second missile, and was handed one almost absently by Sir


350


Lachlan, who had stopped systematically trying the bottles
and was instead checking the labels. He stood up again
when he found what he was after: a 25-year-old special
edition Speyside with a 47 per cent abv. He turned it briefly
upside down to allow more spirit to soak the rag, then held
the lighter to it. A blue flame licked around the neck of the
bottle.

'Right. Slainte, you bastards/ he shouted, hurling it from
the central window towards the open rear doors of the truck.
It impacted on the tailgate, but not before its journey through
the night sky had quickly extinguished its flame.

Beneath them, two more of the footsoldiers, one of them
dragging the chain, had disappeared under the protection
of the stone canopy, while the ramming parties checked
above for incoming and prepared for relaunch.


The sound of breaking glass could be heard even through
the fire-door, accompanied by raised and anxious voices.
Vale's call had alerted them that the assault was finally under
way, though it was an eerie half-minute or so after that
before Emily heard the crashes that confirmed they were
under attack. There was no sound from beneath them in the
stairwell, so Rory was eyeing the door anxiously, having
wondered aloud whether they would be better deployed
elsewhere.

'They know we've got barricades here. Even mob-handed,
it would be tough to launch an attack coming up these stairs.
They've had plenty of time for a rethink.'

Emily looked at the kitchen knife she'd been given to
replace the one lodged in Baxter's shoulder. It was half the
size, a fraction of the weight, good only for stabbing if you
were up close. If they did attack up these stairs, Rory might
as well be on his own.

Then they heard another crash, this time much closer, and
a buzzing sound like a small motorbike.


351


'That's a fucking chainsaw/ Rory announced, opening the
door and heading into the corridor to investigate. 'Not
exactly medieval.'

'It doesn't need to be medieval, just messy/ Emily
remarked, following him out.

Once they were through the door, the buzzing became
louder, joined suddenly by a repeated banging. Both sounds
came from the side of the corridor to the front of the house.

The fourth of the arrhythmic bangs saw the blade of an
axe jut an inch through the dining-room door behind which
Grieg's incomplete remains had been locked. At the same
time, the buzzing changed its pitch, slower and deeper as
the chainsaw bit into the wood of the door to the adjacent
drawing room. Another crash then sounded from the opposite
side of the corridor, this time behind the door to the
kitchen. They were trying to open up as many routes inside
as they could, spreading the defences wide and thin.

'We need support down here,' Rory shouted. 'Now!'

The axe blade was withdrawn, then reappeared, coming
through further, close to the handle and the lock. A
hammering began from inside the kitchen, rapid and
insistent.

'I said we need support here,' Rory shouted again. He
looked to Emily. 'Get help. And if you can't get help, at least
get clear.'

The chainsaw blade emerged through the drawing room's
heavy oak. Across the corridor, the hammering from the
kitchen repeated its indignant tattoo.


'I said we need support here.'

Alison heard Rory's second call for help, little as she was
in any position to respond. The first had been drowned out
by the revving of the truck's engine as it prepared to pull
away, both ends of the chain now connected to a tow bar on
its tailgate. As she'd watched them rig it up she'd been


352


wondering what they might attach the chain to on the outside
of the storm doors, optimistically picturing it yanking the
brass handles free but leaving the doors locked in place.
However, the two men who'd walked under the canopy
emerged either side of it almost immediately, each trailing
one end of the chain. It was only as the vehicle moved
forward and took the strain that the scheme became apparent,
each side of the triangle too obtuse for the base to be against
the door. They had looped it around the columns and were
planning to bring the whole canopy down. After that they
could use the truck itself as a battering ram.

She had a glance back downstairs and saw Vale take off
in response to Rory's call. He grabbed a canister from her
kitchen collection as he did so, ignoring the weapon she'd
worked so hard on loading. He'd been very serious when
he said he couldn't afford to use it too soon, though surely
too soon was better than too late, and too late wasn't looking
very far off.

'A couple of hits and then they'll know how to protect
themselves, you understand?'

She did, and it didn't boost her morale any that it made
them sound like the bloody Borg: you only got a few shots
before they adapted their defences to neutralise your ray
gun.

The two manual ramming parties were persisting with
their efforts, hampered by the bottles and cutlery that were
raining down upon them. The group on Alison's side had
at one point attempted to use their corpse as a shelter as
well as a ram, holding him above their heads as they
approached, but it had not proven conducive to getting
much power behind the launch.

Liz had scored a direct hit with a litre of vodka, the sight
of it in her hand giving Alison a taunting glimpse of happier
times. She thought wryly how Liz wasn't the first person to
get a result with a bottle of Stolichnaya.


353


The bottle had smashed into the side of the man's head
as he moved to dodge another one fired by Sir Lachlan. He
collapsed to the floor, causing his partner to drop their
corpse before other comrades moved in to assist. The slug
in command did a bit more pointing and shouting, then
another figure emerged from the rear of the truck and knelt
down to one side of it.

Alison stepped back from the window to grab a fistful of
wooden-handled steak-knives. As she did, she heard Liz
yelp and saw her recoil from her position, clutching a hand
to her shoulder. When she lifted her fingers, she revealed a
tight cluster of coloured fibres around a small patch of blood.
Sir Lachlan turned around to see what had happened, then
winced himself, reaching a hand around to his back. His
fingers stretched in vain towards an identical cluster
between his shoulderblades. He looked at Liz's injury with
a pained expression that was more to do with what he saw
than what he felt.

Tranquilliser darts/ he said.

When she heard this, Liz made an abortive attempt at
removing hers, her face immediately contorting with pain
when she pulled on it. She took a couple of deep breaths,
steeling herself for another go, but before she could do so,
her legs buckled beneath her and she slumped to the floor.

Ger, who had been waiting on the grand staircase with
the remainder of his own personal knife set, came bounding
up to the gallery, ordering Kathy to follow.

'We've got to get them out the way,' Ger said, as Sir
Lachlan wavered and put a hand out to Alison.

'Where?' Kathy asked.

'Other side of the gallery, for now.'

Alison could hear the engine whine and the tyres spin on
the monobloc as the truck strained against the stone
columns. She and Kathy held Liz upright between them, her
arms across their shoulders, and began dragging her along


354


one side of the gallery. Across the drop, Ger was propping
up Sir Lachlan, as though helping a staggering drunk, but
ended up hauling him, arms under oxters, as the older man's
legs gave out. All the while, the securing bedsheets and
curtains strained and tore as the mattresses were driven
against them, now unhindered by aerial bombardment. Toby waited before the windows, his machines primed to deliver
a desperate single shot each.

She'd experienced terror, shock, anger, loss, fear and
dread, but this was the first time she really, really felt like
crying. What her mind wouldn't allow her to feel - over
Charlotte's death, over the horrors she'd endured tonight,
over the people she'd never say goodbye to, the things she'd
never do, all that life she'd never get to live - was threatening
to swamp her now, like the hordes outside were about
to swamp the building.

She glanced at Ger, but he was bent over Sir Lachlan, who
appeared to be straining to say something, valiantly fighting
the inevitable onset of unconsciousness. Like all the others
tonight, it was just one more battle in vain.


355


Good Time for a Bad Attitude


Tuck's sake, let me in, it's Jack/ called a voice from behind	IK

the kitchen door as Emily rushed past. She almost crashed	flj

into Vale at the dog-leg in the corridor, both of them running	Jg

flat-out in opposite directions.

They're coming in, they've got--' she said breathlessly.

'I can see what they've got/ he replied, though she
couldn't imagine how he'd be in much of a position to do
anything about it, carrying as he was only a small blue
cylinder. Perhaps it was bampot repellent.

She turned around again as he hurried past. Rory was
standing between the two doors under attack, the one being
chewed up by the chainsaw predictably closer to being
breached. He held the rapier in both hands, pointing it
upwards at forty-five degrees, his knees slightly bent in a
defensive stance.

'Will somebody open this fucking door/ Parlabane's voice
repeated.

'Be right with you, old chap/ Vale called. 'A bit tied up
at the mo'.'

The chainsaw's pitch rose drastically as one more thrust
broke through the edge of a panel on the drawing-room
door. The buzzing, spluttering implement was then drawn
inside and used, side-on, as a battering ram to smash the
panel out completely. Rory made to step forward in defence,
but Vale signalled him to hold his position. Vale moved to
within a foot of the doorframe's near edge, his left hand
flicking a lighter into flame with a snap of his fingers. A
blackened face appeared in the gap, grinning and wild-eyed.


356


'Heeeeeere's Johnny/ the intruder shouted through the
hole. The fucking macho prick was loving it.

Vale stepped in front of the door and blasted a spray of
what Emily now recognised as oven-cleaner through the
lighter's flickering tongue, sending a volley of instant
napalm crackling into the chainsaw-bearer's face. It was
accompanied by a hideous scream and the sound of a thump
as his tool hit the floor and cut out, both of his hands pressingly
required to hold his burning head.

It was bampot repellent.

'Johnny, meet Mr Muscle,' Vale muttered, before giving
the door a surprisingly powerful kick. Already damaged, it
flew open first time, the lock-housing clattering to the
polished wood. The intruder was thrashing around on the
floor, screaming to the point of rupturing his vocal chords.
It was a sight and a sound Emily knew she'd be haunted
by if she made it through this thing, but as he was part of
the reason that was in doubt, she wasn't in the mood to
shed any tears just then. Vale lifted the chainsaw and offered
it to Rory. He accepted it with a narrow-eyed grin just as
the axe delivered its telling blow on the dining-room door.
It swung inwards, revealing another face-blackened
assassin, six five if he was an inch, the long-shafted axe
gripped in two huge and determined hands.

Rory pressed the button and the chainsaw screamed back
into motion.

'My chopper's bigger than yours,' he told the axe-man,
who concurred by turning around and getting off his mark.

'Yeah, you better fucking run,' Rory shouted after him.
Tell them all to fucking run.'

The hammering resumed on the kitchen door.

'Any danger you could pleeease let me out of here/
Parlabane called.

'I think Alison's got the keys/ Emily told them.

'Stand back, mate/ Rory warned, before plunging the


357


chainsaw into the doorframe around the lock. There was a	i,

horrible grinding of metal as the chainsaw's teeth bumped
against the housing, the only sound so far to rival the	111

screams of the oven-cleaner victim in the blood-curdling	In

stakes.	"-1

'Sorry/ Rory remarked, like it was a faux pas that needed
any kind of apology. He was about to resume his cutting,	-->;

but Vale opined that it was enough, and another powerful

kick proved him right.	m

Parlabane was crouching on the floor, removing petrol	jm

cans, a machete and a pair of heavy-duty gardening gloves
from a black canvas bag. Fragments of broken glass glinted
on the tiles, testifying to his route back into the house. There
was a yellow object beside him, trailing tubes and an electrical
flex alongside a metal lance with a black plastic
muzzle. It looked to Emily like something for spraying
weedkiller or insecticide, though she couldn't imagine how
such a thing would require electricity any more than she
could imagine what Parlabane planned to do with it.

'Thank fuck,' he said, standing up and moving towards
the open door.

'Watch out for the--' Vale warned, too late, as Parlabane
walked into a length of piano wire stretched across the
frame. It bit into his neck then sprang loose, one end whipping
free from where it had been less than efficiently secured.

'Who the fuck put that there?' he demanded, putting a
hand to his throat. The wire had broken the skin, but it could
- indeed should - have been a lot worse.

'Actually, don't answer that/ Parlabane went on. 'I think
I know. Because if it had been done properly, I'd be hosing
the walls right now. Where's Baxter?'

'He's gone off to play with his real friends/ Vale told him.
'How did you find out?'

'Campbell gave me the heads-up, so to speak. Poor
bastard didn't have a very proactive evening.'


358


'Ah.'

'So what else did I miss?'

'Oh, quite a fair few revelations. In terrorum veritas. I'll fill
you in, but the condensed version is that I'm afraid, despite
what you said last night, this time it is all down to a bunch
of homicidal right-wing nutters out to kill all the lefties and
silence the dissidents.'

'In a retro-Eighties stylee,' Emily added.

'And people say nostalgia's not what it used to be. So
why didn't you let me out sooner?'

'Why didn't you tell us it was you?' Emily replied. 'You
were just hammering the door. It could have been one of
them.'

'This is why/ he said, taking something from his pocket.
He held it up in the palm of his hand, ostensibly for the
attention of Vale.

'Compact receiver and short-range sub-vocal mic,' Vale
identified. 'Damn it, I'm slipping. I didn't spot one on our
endurance runner.'

'You wouldn't. Sits pretty snug just inside the ear. I had
to take it out before I could shout, so that they don't find
out we're listening in. I started off just hammering the door
because I made the crazy assumption you might suss it was
me, seeing as the bad guys' attempts to gain entry so far
haven't included knocking. Hey, maybe that's where they've
been going wrong.'

'I can see why people end up trying to kill you,' Emily
told him.

They're not going that wrong, Jack,' Vale warned. 'We
won't be able to hold out much longer at the front. And
with Baxter knowing about our generator plans, I fear you
made a wasted trip. We'll need to fall back for a last stand.
Baxter knows about that too, but it's still our best hope.'

'Fall back where?'

'Underground chambers. Sir Lachlan said they go well


359


beyond the foundations. Lots of doors to get through. If we
keep retreating as each one falls, they'd have to take it room
by room.'

'And Baxter knows about this?'

'I'm afraid so.'

'Good.'

'Good? How?'

'Tell you in a sec. We just need a bit more time.'

A scream echoed from the central hall: Kathy's. 'They're
almost through/ she shouted.

'Sounds like we're fresh out/ Rory said.

'Not so. Luckily, these days it comes in handy-sized tins.'

Parlabane handed Vale a heavy-looking can of petrol and
picked up the yellow object, in closer proximity to which
Emily could now read the words: HoseTek 440 Pressure
Washer.

'My trip wasnae wasted, believe me.'


Kathy gave a scream, prompting Alison to turn around and
face the front again. They had lain Liz down on her side
after her eyes had closed, in order to protect her airway.
Kathy had instructed Ger to do the same for Sir Lachlan,
whose blood loss had caused him to succumb a few seconds
earlier.

Alison looked over the balustrade in time to see the
mattress on the left tear free of its crude rigging and topple
forward, a decapitated body slumping down on top. Its
counterpart billowed with the impact of another blow,
ripping enough of the sheeting to suggest one more attack
would finish it. Ger sprinted past her to the half-landing
where he'd left his knives, while Toby took position behind
his left-hand catapult.

The erstwhile human battering ram was dragged outside
by the feet to clear the way in. There was a moment of incongruous
stillness as the huge windowframe stood breached


360


but empty, the sound of an angry engine and whining tyres
that bit louder now that the mattress was gone. Then one
of the ramming party, having retrieved his swords, climbed
into the towering aperture and bent to help up his
companion.

Toby pulled a restraining wire on one of the modified
resistance machines, causing all of its suspended weights to
drop from the highest point in its frame. These in turn
rapidly pulled upon an already taut cable, and drove a
sharpened broomhandle at speed along a channel formed
between two chairlegs lashed to the machine's upward
angled bench. The sharpened tip snagged on something less
than halfway along, causing the broomhandle to flip
approximately one hundred and sixty degrees without the
business end leaving the bench.

'Bugger.'

He leapt across to the other machine and began re-angling
it to face the same window as the second intruder got to his
feet on the table beneath. This time the broomhandle flew
fast and true, hurtling through the narrowest of gaps
between both men and disappearing out into the night.

'This kind of shit never happened to Hannibal Smith,'
Toby remarked, looking around for support as the
swordsmen jumped simultaneously from the table.

Ger picked his spot and launched a knife from the half
landing. It missed the head of the intruder on the right by
millimetres, but it was enough to buy Toby a second to turn
and run for the stairs. He spun and tripped on the bottom
step, in panic Alison thought, until she saw the cluster of
fibres jutting from his shoulder.

'GER!' she shouted, as he prepared to launch another
knife. Alison pointed to the window, where the sniper was
opening the breech of his gun, readying another dart. Both
swordsmen began to charge, giving Ger three targets for one
blade as the sniper lined him up as his next shot. He sent


361


the knife over both advancing heads towards the window,
causing the sniper to duck out of sight as the blade whistled
through the gap. The resulting stray dart lodged itself
in the balustrade less than a foot from where Alison stood,
helplessly watching the situation unfold.

She heard the approach of hurried footsteps and looked
to her right to see Parlabane and Vale crouch over something in the mouth of the corridor. Emily knelt behind them
next to the wall, yanking a standard lamp's plug from its
socket.

Toby tried to regain his footing, but tripped dizzily as the
intruders drew near, one raising his claymore above his head,
the other fixing his gaze on Ger. Behind him, two further
assailants climbed on to the sill, carrying machetes. The other
mattress had ceased billowing a few seconds before, which
meant there'd soon be two more behind this pair.

Just then, Alison heard a thunderous bellow accompanied
by a furious buzzing, and watched Rory charge from the
corridor, thrusting a chainsaw before him. The first two
intruders stopped almost mid-pace, trading an after-youClaude
look before stepping back to put space between
themselves and this new opponent. Their reinforcements
stepped down from the table and the four spread out,
adopting cautious defensive stances as Rory tried to ward
them away from the still scrambling Toby.

The sniper reappeared at the breached window, chambering
another dart. Beside him, the next two intruders
climbed through on to the table, bearing more steel. Ger
stood, rooted on the half-landing, his last means of defence gripped tightly in one hand. At the window, the sniper was
this time lining up Rory in his sights.

Then there came a clear shout from below.

'Rory, hit the deck.'

Rory obliged as all enemy heads turned to see where the
cry had come from.


362


Vale stood in the archway, holding the lance from Sir
Lachlan's pressure-washer in both hands, the feed-hose
dunked into a twelve-litre can of petrol. Parlabane knelt to
one side of him, a blue lighter-flame flickering above his
glove-protected fingers.

'This game of soldiers is over/ Vale said grimly. He
twitched the trigger and sent a searing plume of flame
strafing across the frozen quartet.


'My God/ Emily said, her voice an awestruck, horrified
whisper. The four intruders flailed and scrambled, crashing
into the weight machines and each other as they fled
screaming; clothes, hair and skin engulfed by fire. Behind
them, the two on the table dived back outside as Vale swept
the scorching jet towards the window. The burning men
attempted the same means of exit. Two of them made it,
though their fates would be no different to the two who
didn't: the pair of them collapsing short of the table,
breathing flame instead of oxygen.

Even yards back, Parlabane could feel the intense heat as
well as hear their strangled cries and smell the burning flesh.
He looked at his friend gripping the lance, his face filled not
with hate or anger, but calm, solemn concentration. Now he
really knew why they called him Death's Dark Vale.

I've done things I wish I hadn't had to; wished it had been
someone else doing them; wished they hadn't been necessary.

Amen.

'Who the hell is this guy?' Emily asked him.

'We could tell you, but we'd have to kill you/ he said
with a wink. 'Come on. We've got work to do.'

Vale torched the big reception desk blocking the front
door, then the tables and mattresses either side. Behind in
the corridor, Rory and Emily busied themselves by dragging
several armchairs from the drawing room and piled
them up to block the passage. Once they were clear, Vale


363


set those ablaze too. Nobody would be coming through that
way for a while either.

Parlabane unplugged the pressure-washer and pocketed
the lighter while Vale grabbed the other petrol can. Ger stuck
his knife through a belt-loop and helped Emily carry Toby
up to the gallery. From outside, the sound of a straining
engine still carried above that of the crackling flames.

'They'll be back/ Parlabane warned, climbing the stairs
to where Alison and Kathy stood over the unconscious Liz
and Sir Lachlan. They've no choice. We need to get our
wounded holed up somewhere secure. Now, who knows
where to find the entrance to the underground chambers?'

'Sir Lachlan/ Alison said glumly.

'Shit.'

'It's awright/ Ger informed them. 'He told me before he
passed out. It's in the laundry, door in the basement. Under
one of the machines.'

'Perfect. Okay, Emily, go and warn Max and Joanna we're
coming through. Alison, you've got the keys, right?'

'Yeah, but not to the--'

'You lead everybody to the tower and lock yourselves in.'

'The tower? But I thought you said we were going to the
underground chambers?'

'No, that's just where they'll think we're going.'


Vale gave Parlabane the edited highlights as they and Ger
made their way to the basement, the chef dragging two
bedsheets behind him, one corner of each tied together. The
campaign medals were pinned along the length of the
knotted linen at irregular intervals, so that on the wireframe
model it would appear that the group were making their
way to the laundry, single-file and plausibly spaced.

They hadn't had time to stop and press Max and Joanna
for where they reckoned they fitted into Shiach and Baxter's
plans, but Parlabane was more curious about what had


364


merited his own inclusion on the truly 'ultimate' guestlist.

'I'm also pretty hazy on where the hell they've been for
the past decade or so. Unless it's like all those semiretired
rockers who hit a certain age and decide it's now or never
to re-form the band for one last crack at glory.'

'Don't ask me/ Vale said. 'I'm clearly too old and rusty
to offer any worthwhile insight. I used to be able to spot a Spock at a thousand yards. Baxter was right under my nose
the whole time and I never sniffed him out.'

'You didn't look too rusty upstairs, trust me. Besides,
Baxter was good, I'll give him that. Sold us a pretty neat
dummy with Campbell. He held his end up well enough.
Seems like this Shiach nutter was the rusty one.'

'Let's not close the book on how rusty he is just yet, eh?'
Vale warned.

'Good shout. Let's just check they're buying this.'

Parlabane put the receiver to his ear, Vale likewise with
the device he'd removed from one of the flame-grilled fallen.
He heard nothing for a few seconds, then Baxter's voice cut
across the airwaves.

'Oi! Where the fuck do you think you're going? Get back
here.'

'Bollocks to this/ replied a Cockney accent. 'I'm out of
here. You told us it would be a picnic, not a fucking
barbecue.'

'You can't escape this. Remember: once it starts, it has to
be finished.'

That's your problem, mate. It's your face they've seen,
not mine.'

'I'm warning you, after we've finished with them, we'll
be coming for you.'

'Then I guess it says it all that I fancy my chances more
against you than against them. See ya.'

'Leave him/ said another voice, older, gruffer, East Coast:
Shiach. 'We can handle this better without spineless scum.


365


They're pulling back, like you said. Bruce, get out of the
truck. I'll take over. They've abandoned their barricades.
Grab some darts and send everybody who's left in through
the billiard room.'

Vale smiled. They were standing just outside the games
room door. He and Parlabane pocketed their receivers again,
knowing they had to be used sparingly. A few words,
perhaps uttered in the heat of the moment, and their advantage
would be lost.

Parlabane told Ger to keep going while he knelt down
and plugged in their improvised flame-thrower at a socket
in the corridor. Vale grabbed books and board games from
the shelves and cabinets lining the walls, tossing some on
to the snooker table around the body of the Incredible Self
Decapitating Man, others on to the tennis table beneath the
unbroken skylight. Together they shifted the sideboard until
it blocked the route to the door, then they stood behind it
and waited.

They heard heavy footfalls crunch on the gravel above,
drawing near. Still they waited. They wanted these bastards
to see them.

'Right,' said a voice above. 'You go first. No, leave the
fucking sword. I'll drop it to you once you're down. You'll see why in a second.'

A pair of legs dangled into the empty skylight, cautiously
dreeping down backwards. Parlabane lit the pilot and Vale
let rip. The flame burst engulfed the protruding limbs and
the man crashed down on to the snooker table, on to which
Vale poured still more fire. He then ignited the tennis table
and finally the sideboard, before they withdrew and closed
the door.

'How many left, do you reckon?' Parlabane asked.

'Five, maybe six. Still enough anyway, while they're the
ones holding dart guns. Plus we're almost out of petrol.
Come on.'


366


Ger was waiting for them in the laundry.

'Baxter's fucked the generator, by the way/ he said. 'I
checked it while you guys were busy. Cables are aw ripped oof

'Shit/ said Parlabane. "That confirms they've got night
vision then.'

'Yes, but they're not going to opt for seeing in the dark
with their goggles while they still think they can see through
walls with their laptop. Let's get on with it.'

It took the three of them to move the enormous twin
cylinder tumble-dryer.

'I thought the lyre of Orpheus opened the door to the
underworld/ Vale muttered, panting. 'Not bloody Electrolux.'

The warped wooden trapdoor revealed beneath was a
couple of feet square, hinged in two places on the left-hand
side. The handle had been removed in order that the dryer
would have a level base, so Ger had to wedge it open with
his knife. He reached down inside a foot or so and flicked
a switch, a dim light glowing below in response.

'I don't know how far the electrics go/ he said. 'But I'm
sure I read that Stormcrow did some vocal takes down in
Willcraft's excavations. Stupit bastards thought it was
haunted.'

From somewhere above, they heard a dull thud and felt
a shudder of impact. The pillars had fallen, bringing down
the stone canopy and leaving the front doors exposed for
the truck to ram them.

'It's about to be/ said Vale.

'I feel like the pied piper/ Ger muttered, climbing down
the steps out of sight.

'Well, you've sure got the troosers for it.'


367


Spectators of Suicide


Perhaps it was just an effect of the torchlight, but Rory reckoned
Max looked sicker at the mention of the word 'Shiach'
than he had when he discovered what he'd eaten for dinner.
Max was sitting next to Joanna on the halfway landing, his
legs resting a couple of stairs down, swords lying either side.
There was a small window in the wall beside him, still open
from Parlabane's earlier sortie to the roof. It would offer one
last chance if the door was breached or the fire spread.

The tower accommodated a broad staircase leading up to
a split-level honeymoon/VIP suite. It didn't offer a lot of
floorspace, but was presumably intended to make up for it
in privacy and the views afforded in daylight from windows
looking out on four sides. There was a bathroom and living
area on the lower level, bedroom with four-poster on the
upper, from where a trapdoor and a pull-down ladder
accessed the turret. All the movable furniture bar the oversize
bed (but including the mattress) was piled in front of
the door. Rory stood in front of the jumble holding his
chainsaw, Emily sitting close by at the foot of the stairs.
Kathy and Alison kept watch over the unconscious trio
above.

Rory was giving his fellow guards a breakdown of what
they'd missed, but it was clear Max could fill in a lot of the
blanks himself once that single name had been uttered.

'You were in the TA, weren't you?' Rory put to him pointedly,
to let him know he'd filled in a few on Max's behalf.

Max nodded reluctantly. He didn't look in much of a
mood to talk.


368


'Secrets are a luxury we can't afford tonight, Max/ he
urged. 'Just give me the bullet points.'

'Okay/ he said, as though coaching himself. 'Okay. I was
in the TA. Met Shiach, got talking. You know how he worked
it.'

'Only too well.'

Max sighed, pausing again.

'I drove a car, that's all. I only drove a car. He didn't tell
me anything else, for my own protection. Just said I had to
drive this car somewhere, and that would be enough to start
with, to prove my commitment. I had to wear gloves so I
left no prints, so I knew it was something dodgy, but there
was no getaway, no hit, I just drove this bloody car to where
he told me. It was at night, to ensure no-one saw me getting
out and into that old white Beetle of his for him to drive
me back home. After that, I never saw him again. Never. It
was like he disappeared.'

'Where did you leave the car?' Rory asked, a horrible
feeling taking hold of his insides. He didn't already know
the precise location, but he could have provided a shortlist.

'A carpark next to the Severn Bridge.'

'Oh, Christ/ said Joanna, sounding like Rory felt. The
Severn was on his shortlist.

'What?' Max asked.

'It's a suicide spot, Max/ Rory told him. 'People jump off
it, and the tides often take their bodies out to sea, so they're
never found. I'm sure the car owner's never was, but not
because he went off the bridge.'
Rory looked expectantly at Joanna, whose eyes were brimming
with tears. 'You know who it was?' he asked.

'Nigel Franklin/ she said, the name causing her to break
into sobs. She rested her head on Max's shoulder for a few
moments and gradually composed herself, sniffing more
tears away before she spoke again. 'He was a lawyer, in
Liverpool. That's as much as I knew anyway, until after his


369



death. His obituary said he was involved quite high up in
CND, links to Militant too.'

'How did you know him?'

'I slept with him.' She swallowed back another sob. 'I
mean I
was paid to sleep with him.'

Joanna shook her head and sniffed away more tears.

'It's all right/ said Max.

'It's not fucking all right/ she retorted, her voice distorted
by her crying. 'I was a student. I was skint. I didn't have a
rich mummy and daddy to finance my studies.' She eyed
Rory accusingly, which he took on the chin. 'I turned a few
tricks. I was very different then: slim, trendy, more outgoing.
A friend got me into it. No street-corner stuff, strictly through
contacts. I told myself it was easy money, the end would
justify the means, all the usual lies. I wanted out of it as
soon as I was in, but once you get used to having a few bob,
it's hard to let that go, especially when you've got some
regulars.'

'Franklin was a regular?'

'No. One of my regulars introduced me to a guy who said
he had a business proposition. I had to seduce Franklin,
basically, and make him think he had pulled me. He said
he was a friend, that it was a favour to give the guy a boost
because he was going through a sticky patch in his marriage.
Wife was a bitch, making him feel worthless. I'm not sure
I bought the story, but it was a lot of money to me, so I went
along with it and didn't ask questions.

'Franklin's car was found at the Severn Bridge a couple
of weeks later. It was reported that he was thought to have
committed suicide because he was being blackmailed over
an affair. There were photos sent to his office a few days
before, of us going into the hotel where we'd had our one
night stand. They'd blanked my face, apparently, so I couldn't
be traced. Mind you, that was the least of my worries. I was
feeling near-suicidal, to have played a part in something that


370

I
led a man to kill himself. Eventually though, despite my
capacity for guilt and paranoia, I had to accept that nobody
was going to come looking for me. I got on with my life, but
I can't say my self-esteem ever fully recovered. My self-image
certainly never did. And now that I know he didn't kill
himself over me, I can't say it makes me feel any better.'

'Yeah, well, you think you feel bad?' Rory said to her.
That plan was my fucking idea. It was one of the ones I
dreamed up. I ended up killing somebody after all.'

'Come off it, Rory/ Emily appealed. 'You designed the
gun, but you didn't pull the trigger.'

'Yeah, but if nobody designed guns, nobody would get shot.'


Parlabane, Vale and Ger listened as the raiding party
checked every basement room except the blazing one for
the hallowed portal they sought, then watched from behind
two strategically placed laundry hoppers as the raiders
finally made their entrance. The three of them were peeping
unseen between gaps in towering piles of fluffy white
towels, but Parlabane felt they could have been sitting on
the bloody hoppers whistling a tune and still not have been
noticed, their visitors intent to the verge of hypnotised by
their point of focus now that they'd found it. They
approached the trapdoor cautiously, one of them kneeling
and wedging it slightly with the tip of a machete while
another trained his dart gun on the spot. The door was
hauled open on a silent finger-count of three, then a second
gunman led the way down, slowly and quietly.

Parlabane listened in with his receiver.

'Nothing so far/ he heard one of them croak.

They're well inside,' informed Baxter's voice. Twenty
yards, maybe. The wireframe's got no schematic for down
there. Take your time, play it steady. They aren't going
anywhere.'


371


Parlabane looked to Vale, who gave a holding signal.

'Vinnie, bring the axe/ said a whisper. Parlabane removed
his receiver because he feared he couldn't suppress a giggle.
This was partly due to nerves but mainly due to the fact
that these eejits were about to chop down a door that Ger
didn't even have the keys to lock.

On the sound of the first axe blow, Vale gave the nod and
the three of them ran from behind the hoppers on light feet.
Ger closed the trapdoor with the utmost gentility, then they
put their collective strength into sliding the huge tumble
dryer back against the wall. The dryer in place, they then
slid two enormous, concrete-ballasted washing machines
tight up against it, making sure no amount of combined
effort from below could even rock the thing. Muted banging
ensued a few seconds later, suspicions raised by the grinding
of metal their efforts had raised. It was entertainingly futile.
Parlabane was kind of disappointed nobody shouted: 'Let
me out.'

The counted four,' he said. 'Baxter's still out there. Did you
figure any of them for Shiach?'

'Shiach's a wee bald dumpy guy,' Ger said. 'At least, that's
who was giving orders out front, and he never went down
the hole.'

Tuck.'

If there'd been one left, it was as good as over, as it would
take at least two to shift the machines and free the others.
Two kept the game alive, especially two with dart guns.

'Let's see what they're saying/ said Vale, putting a hand
to his ear and a finger to his mouth.

'--dio silence from you fucking idiots/ was what they
were saying, or Shiach was anyway. 'We need peace to
think.'

'Shit, that's . . .' said Baxter before tailing off, at which it
became apparent that it wasn't only the eejits down the trapdoor
who'd ceased transmission.


372


The silence lasted a frustratingly long time, easily a
minute. Not exactly a marathon endurance, but it felt that
way when there were three men standing wordless in a basement,
waiting for some kind of clue as to their next move.

'Okay, fuck it/ Baxter resumed. 'It's clean-up time. I'm
going to the substation to cut the electricity. A couple of the
bastards will be guarding that trapdoor, and the rest must
be holed up in the tower: that was their other fallback. You
grab your night-sights and head for the basement.'

Parlabane and Vale removed their earpieces again. A
certain look from Vale meant he didn't need to verify what
each had drawn from the information.

'We know what we have to do,' Parlabane said.

'Indeed.'

'What?' Ger asked.

They told him.

'Sounds pretty risky/ he opined. 'But I cannae suggest an
alternative.'

'And time is of the essence/ Vale reminded.

'I need a blade/ said Parlabane.

Vale reached behind the hoppers for the rapier he'd
received when Rory traded up. Vale's own weapon of choice
jutted from his hip pocket.

'Just because they haven't used real guns yet doesn't mean
they don't have them, Jack/ he warned. 'And they're definitely
down to last resorts.'

'So are we - it's a chance we have to take. I think we
should trust each other's proven abilities.'

'I know mine, what are yours?'

'Winding people up until they want to kill me.'

'These people already want to kill you.'

Then I'm off to a flier/


'It's not shifting. Whatever's up there weighs a fucking ton.
It was a trap, it was a fucking trap.'


373



'I've found something. Shit. It's the medals. They're all
pinned to a sheet.'

'This place is creepy as hell. It's like fucking catacombs
or something.'

'Bollocks, one of the bulbs just went.'

'Boss, you need to get us out of here.'

'And I
need radio silence from you fucking idiots/ Shiach
hissed. 'We need peace to think.'

'Shit, that's . . .' Fotheringham put a finger to his lips. He
removed the receiver from his ear and gestured to Shiach
to do the same.

'They're listening/ Fotheringham said quietly, clutching
the device inside a balled fist.

'You sure?'

'Definitely. They found out about the medals and they
must have picked up at least one of these things too.'

'And you weren't aware of this?'

'It must have been after I left.'

'After you ran,' Shiach reminded him. 'You didn't bag any
of them and you couldn't warn us that they'd tumbled our
transmitters. Remind me again what the hell you were doing
in there?'

'What I do best: gather intelligence, listen to people talk.
You know that, so don't give me any of your shit. I needed
to discover how much they really knew, in case there were
any further loose ends we'd overlooked.'
'We haven't tied up these ones yet.'

'Well, it's not my fault you brought in a bunch of fucking
no-hopers. I held up my end.'

Shiach bit back a retort: squabbling was the last thing they
needed.

'Okay, enough. Let's stay focused, analyse the situation.
If they're not in the underground chambers, where are they?'

'The tower. That was the other fallback mentioned. Not
easy to get into, certainly not with just two of us, but for


374

I
the time being we can consider the ones up there as out of
the equation; some of them are unconscious already. But
there must be others on the loose who laid the trap.'

'They'll be guarding it too, to stop us releasing our men.
That settles it, then. We hit the basement, take them out,
regroup our numbers and then take the tower. We'd better
grab spare dart guns to save reloading. It could get hectic
down there.'

Fotheringham shook his head.

'I'm not walking into a dead end to face down some
bastard with a flame-thrower. Who knows what other traps
they've set.'

'Well, if that's where they are, what they hell else are we
supposed to do?'

'Let's bring the mountain to Mohammed/ he said,
popping the sub-vocal back into his ear. 'Okay, fuck it/ he
resumed loudly. 'It's clean-up time . . .'


375



1

Learning How to Smile


Poor Rory. He looked crumpled and almost tearful, like the
bad guys could come in right then and he'd just offer himself
before their blades because he had it coming to him.

They were alone again, Max having taken Joanna upstairs
for a drink of water and some much-needed hankies. Emily
looked at the pile of furniture blocking the door: the others
would have sufficient notice to get back down here if the
enemy arrived outside, and there was definitely no need for
Rory to be standing to attention. She beckoned him to come
and sit next to her on the stairs.

'It was just a horrible idea, Rory. Who hasn't dreamed up
some wicked scheme in their time? In fact, I'm sure you've
had even more horrible ideas, like altering the shape of an
actress's tits to flog personal loans.'

He smiled a little. She thought for a second he was going
to laugh, but it would have been asking too much.

'I should be devising ads for famine-relief campaigns,' he
said. 'That's what I'm going to do if I get out of here.'

If you're making desperate promises like that, maybe it's
Liz you should be talking to. She'd be in a position to see
you kept them.'

'I'm not saying it out of contrition. I'm saying it because
I'm a better man for the job than the charities have been
using so far. Never mind TV spots and posters that appeal
to bleeding hearts - they'd be coughing up anyway. It's the
minted selfish bastards you want to be milking, and I know
how they think. I devised one once, still got the storyboard
in a drawer somewhere. Handsome black guy in a business


376

suit, briefcase in one hand, his little son holding the other.
Their clothes disappear layer by layer as the background
changes from outside a semi in the burbs to a mudhut, until
they're both standing there in loincloths, swollen bellies,
bare feet and the briefcase has been replaced by an empty,
cracked bowl. Tagline: Famine is killing your neighbour.
Why won't you help?'

'Hmm. I think if you reverse the sequence you could
probably sell it to the government for their next antiracism
initiative.'

'I wouldn't be looking to sell it. It's about time I gave
something back. I've only ever taken responsibility when
it actually served my interests. Can you believe that I
remained sober on Christmas Eve from the age of twenty
one to thirty-four?'

'And what's irresponsible about sobriety?'

'Depends why you're sober. It was a Christmas tradition
among some friends and myself. Started when I got my first
Porsche, a twenty-first present from mater and pater. We
would meet up at four in the morning at a carpark next to
the Kelburn roundabout, just outside Port Glasgow,
everyone sporting their best wheels and fake plates. Have
you ever noticed how little traffic there is on Christmas Day?'

'Practically deserted.'

'Believe me, the most you've seen during the day is rush
hour compared to four a.m., and where there is no traffic,
there are no cops. The pubs and clubs have all emptied, the
night buses have finished, the streets are dead.'

'I see where this is going.'

'Abington Services is where it's going, where the M74
meets the A702. That was the finish line because from there
we could head back up through Biggar and on to Fair Edina.
We'd race along the M8 through the city, then down the
M73 and M74, or A74 as it was when we started. You've
never known a rush like it, between the speed, the


377



overtaking what few other cars were around and the
lingering fear of flashing blue lights. You drove as fast as
you dared, given the aforementioned considerations.
Risking the lives of innocent fellow drivers, you may note,
wasn't one of them.'

Emily looked at Rory's self-flagellatory expression. She
knew she was supposed to be appalled, that Rory needed
her chastising disapproval for purposes of confession.
Instead she found herself wishing she was on a deserted
M8 before dawn, pedal to the metal over the Kingston
Bridge, past the Mitchell Library and down beneath
Charing Cross.

'I jacked it in because Reflected Gleam won a Scottish Executive
account for devising an anti-speeding campaign. I
knew
that if I got caught - and to be honest, those roads were getting
less quiet every year - it would be a major disaster. The
campaign would be tarnished, Reflected Gleam would be
tarnished and HMG would make damn sure nobody they
had any influence on hired us again. I only gave up my festive
thrill-ride because it threatened my meal-ticket.'

Emily couldn't help but smile. He looked like a wee boy
owning up to his mammy, expecting punishment but
honest enough to take his licks. She wanted to give him a
hug. Actually, she wanted to give him a bit more, but didn't
imagine she was exactly Rory Glen's fantasy, even if she
had caught him ogling her tits. She was a woman who
hosted parties and made sure everybody else was lightening
up, while she was endlessly worrying. Worrying
about the guests, worrying about the party, whether it was
having the impact the client wished; worrying about the
worthiness of the client's enterprise (and her own) in the
grand scheme; and of course worrying that she's making
a living hosting soirees in restaurants while in Africa
etcetera etcetera etcetera.

'Rory, here's a promise you can make to me if we get out


378

I
of here. Give something back, absolutely. Just make sure you
don't give it all. I could do with somebody to show me how
to have a good time/

'You don't call this a good time?'


379


L_


1


The Trap


Parlabane's eyes began to sting as he approached the end of
the corridor. The smoke wasn't exactly billowing, yet, but
there was still more hanging in the air than he'd seen since
fags were banned from tabloid newsdesks. He pulled his shirt
tails from his trousers and ripped away a length of material,
holding it over his nose and mouth before venturing into the
reception hall. The barricades and corpses were still blazing
and the fire was threatening to spread. He looked at the
balustrades and the wood panelling lining the walls on three
sides around him. The highest flames were waving a couple
of feet below the underside of the gallery at the front. It would
be touch and go whether they climbed high enough before
consuming the materials that were sustaining them, but if the
gallery did catch fire, the whole place would go up.

There was a narrow path through the flames where the
truck had smashed its way in. The big reception desk had
been driven to one side and now formed a blazing avenue
pointing to the exit. Fragments of wood still clung to a sole
iron hinge, mangled and dangling where the front doors
had hung. Beyond them, the storm doors had been thrust
asunder, deadbolts and locks ripped from the wood to force
them apart. He could see the front of the truck out on the
concourse next to three bodies: two blackened, one headless.
Headlights smashed in and bumper crumpled, it looked
like a beaten-up face, but its expression said, 'You should
see the other guy.'

Across in the far corridor, the armchairs burned with a
laziness that was a credit to their kitemarks. Their adver


380


tised flame-retardant properties were presumably not
supposed to withstand that kind of test, but it did look like
it was mainly the petrol that was burning. He'd still have
to get past them though: walking straight out the front door
would be making himself kind of obvious, even if, according
to Ger, the substation lay in that direction.

Narrowing his eyes and taking a deep breath through the
shirt material, he ran to where the reception desk had originally
stood and grabbed the fire extinguisher strapped to
the wall. Fortunately, it was a proper, full-on foam number
and not one of those glorified soda-streams. It extinguished
the armchairs with a few sustained blasts, though they were
still far too hot to touch, so moving them out of the way
was not an option. He lobbed the rapier over them first,
then drew a few steps back before taking a running dive
over the top.

From there he made it outside to the rear through the
kitchen, then ran flat-out towards the end of the building,
retracing his earlier route at a lower altitude and a far greater
velocity. He skidded slightly on some matter, the nature of
which he was glad to have no time to contemplate, before
regaining his balance and treading more lightly over the last
few yards. Upon reaching the corner, he knelt down and
waited, tight to the cold stone, peering around to look
towards the front concourse and the single-track road
leading away from it. Again, the direct route was void; he'd
have to take the path less travelled by.

There was a clicking sound in his earpiece, the only interruption
to a sustained radio silence. He had a look across
at the position of the truck, calculating the angles by which
it might provide cover. There weren't many, but enough to
dictate his route.

Another breath, then he ran from the corner on to the
concourse, keeping his body as low to the ground as carrying
the sword allowed.


381


SJr£--l


'That's far enough/ said Baxter's voice, this time audible
in both ears.

Parlabane pulled up, stumbling, then slowly turned
around. Baxter stepped out from against the wall, pointing
a dart gun with his left hand. His right arm was clutched
to his side, bloodstains soaking through a bandage around
his shoulder. The bad guys had brought a first-aid kit. And
there was him thinking they'd been complacent.

A second figure emerged from the rear of the truck: squat
and balding as Ger described. What was it with short-arses
and rampaging militaristic ambition? He also carried a dart
gun, though Parlabane noted neither had night-vision
goggles. Bollocks. He and Vale had given them too much
credit. Cutting the power had never been the plan; Baxter
had merely trashed the generator to keep them believing
it was.

'Is this it?' Parlabane asked Baxter. 'The Minister of
Vigilance who's gaunny save Blighty from her enemies? This
wee fanny?'

'Says the man with two guns pointed at him,' observed
Shiach. 'Perhaps you should think before you sound off.'

'Perhaps you should engage the grey matter yourself.
Have you considered how boring the conversations are
gaunny be once you've killed everybody who disagrees with
you?'

'We don't have to justify ourselves to you, Mr Parlabane,'
Shiach replied. 'That's always been your type's tactic. Get
the authorities to justify every slightest action they take in
defending this country, while our foes are running rampage
in our midst.'

'Ach, your maw's got baws and your da loves it. Save it
for the judge, baldy.'

Told you he was a charmer/ Baxter remarked.

'It's okay, David. Insults are all he has left, and he knows
it.' Shiach smiled, cruel and smug. 'There's two ways this


382


can end, Mr Parlabane. And in both of them, you die.'

Parlabane reluctantly swallowed back a retort to this quite
unsurpassed display of cheesy machismo, and eyed Baxter
instead.

'Do I get to know why I made the list, or should I take
it as a general compliment to my investigative journalism?'

'Oh, you get to know/ Baxter replied, enjoying the
moment. 'Your reputation was part of it, yes. The police
have to follow rational and logical lines of inquiry, but a
paranoid prick like you with the bit between his teeth . . .
This would have been victuals and drink. You made quite
a nuisance of yourself the last time somebody left a pile of
bodies in a Scottish country-house hotel, didn't you? And
that's what I want you to know, before Mr Shiach here takes
your head: my old acquaintance George Knight says hello
. . . and goodbye.'

'You knew Knight?'

'A kindred spirit, you could say. We still correspond. He
warned you he would have you killed one day, didn't he,
and I believe you gave him the impression you were just
too clever for that to happen. But if you were that clever,
you'd have remembered your own trick from the game on
Friday.' He pointed to his ear. 'No use eavesdropping if the
other side know you're listening in.'

True,' Parlabane conceded. 'But do you remember how
the game ended?'

'Same as this one. With you getting shot just when you
think--'

The realisation hit him a fraction of a second before Vale's
volley, Baxter's eyes suddenly widening all the better to let
in more liquidised chilli. Shiach was hit by a second round
from the paintgun less than a heartbeat later. Parlabane
dropped to the deck to avoid any desperate, blindly aimed
darts, but the pair of them had discarded their guns, each
staggering and screaming as he clutched his hands - or one


383


hand, in the injured Baxter's case - to his acid-burning	f

eyeballs.	f

Vale and Ger came sprinting from their positions on the	*

opposite side of the concourse, from where Vale had notified	1

Parlabane of his readiness with a pre-agreed signal: a single
click of the tongue relayed by the sub-vocal. Yes, no use eavesdropping
if the other side know you're listening, but neither
is it wise to try selling your opponents a dummy if they know you know. A minute of total radio silence, not so much as a
'What do we do now?', then straight out with all the details
of your next plan? Come on.

Parlabane helped Vale wrestle Shiach to the ground, the
Minister of Vigilance thrashing and bucking more in agony
than resistance. Vale grabbed his head and cracked it off the
stone beneath, giving him a merciful unconsciousness the
bastard didn't deserve, then set about the more daunting
task of pulling Ger off of Baxter.

'Come on, you've got more important things to do,' Vale
persuaded him. 'We need to get the others out before the
fire spreads.'

Ger sent in one last kick then stepped back, while Parlabane
patted Shiach down and located what he was after in
a buttoned thigh pocket.

'Got a mobile,' he announced. 'And a signal.'

'Who you gaunny call?' Ger asked.

'Nine nine nine for the deluxe package: fire, police and
ambulance.'

'But how are they gaunny get here if the bridge is door?'

'Who said the bridge was down?'

'Baxter,' Ger replied. 'Ah,' he added, getting it.

'On the strength of what we've seen, do you think these
fucking idiots would know how to handle explosives?'

'What about the bang?'

'That's all it was, I'd bet. A sound effect. Fireworks at
most.'


384


Vale picked up one of the discarded dart guns and
examined it. 'Still loaded/ he observed, walking towards
where Baxter was writhing on the stone.

'Aw, naw, no way/ Ger objected. 'You're no' knockin' him
oot. That cunt doesnae get to miss any of this.'

'We need him restrained while we evacuate the others/
Vale pointed out. 'And we've no rope.'

'Give me two seconds/ Parlabane said. 'I've got just the
thing.'


385



'*

«

I

Later


In the end, they departed the estate much as they had
arrived: driven in a minibus along the meandering track,
through the ancient darkness of the woods and over the
conspicuously unexploded bridge. The experience was not
quite so neatly bracketed once they reached the other side,
partly because their cars had indeed been uniformly sabotaged,
but more pressingly because they were being driven
by the police to a hotel in Auchterbuie. There they would
be allowed some shut-eye and a shower before having a
crack at explaining individually to the polis precisely how
McKinley Hall had come to be ablaze, and why there were
headless and chargrilled corpses lying all about the place.

Not everyone was on board. Toby, Liz and Sir Lachlan
had regained consciousness but left in an ambulance on the
advice of the paramedics, who said they'd need to be kept
under observation, the latter pair also requiring proper treatment
for their wounds. Sir Lachlan went along under
protest, claiming nothing he had sustained overnight would
match the assault he'd be facing when the missus got back.

'I can hear her now,' he lamented. "'I leave you in charge
for two days . . ."'

The fire brigade had been on the scene with impressive
haste, in time to assist with the evacuation of the tower and
well ahead of the first cops. All three emergency services
having been called at the same time, it transpired that the
local firemen had needed the least information or directions
for finding the place.

'We long had this place door for the maist likely insurance


386

fire in the Highland region/ one of them explained to
Parlabane. He almost seemed disappointed that there was a
less mundane cause for the blaze.

The arsehole formerly known as Baxter was bundled
along with the unconscious Shiach into a police-escorted
ambulance. The polis were awaiting armed reinforcements
before they attempted to arrest the subterranean contingent,
and rather unsportingly rebuffed Parlabane's suggestion
that they cut the electricity supply down there in the meantime.

He climbed into the police minibus and joined Vale on
the back row, feeling the cumulative fatigue of the past
twenty-four hours catch up as the seat took his weight. A
black polythene bag was sitting next to Vale's thigh, his hand
resting on it to prevent it slipping as the bus lurched and
bumped.

Nobody spoke as the vehicle left McKinley Hall behind,
the tense and awkward jousting of the journey there seeming
a lot longer than a mere two days ago.

Parlabane asked Vale if he could borrow the mobile he'd
confiscated from Shiach. The final edition would already be
printing by now back in Edinburgh, but they'd surely
consider an old-style, literal Stop Press for a tale like this.
If not, there was still the online version to consider.

'Don't have it, old chap, sorry. Had to hand it over to the
boys in blue.'

'Shit.'

'Never mind, even/body's gone to press,' he consoled,
reading Parlabane's mind as usual. 'It'll still be your exclusive.
And the only one with photos/ he added.

'You got your camera out of there?'

'I took a brief detour before the firemen began dousing
the place, yes/ he said with a smile, patting the poly bag.
His grin said there was more to his detour than a digital
camera, and the bulge in the bag concurred.


387


'What else have you got in there?'

Vale reached into the bag with both hands, twisting something
in his grip.

'Fifty-year-old Springbank/ he said, holding up the bottle.
'He'll be claiming it on the insurance anyway.'

'You're a fly bastard, Tim,' Parlabane told him, before
eagerly accepting a proffered swig.	-

Vale then passed the bottle forward to Max, who initially	1

refused with a disapproving frown, then changed his mind	J

and had a large, warming, medicinal chug. The bottle then	<*

made its way around the seats until reaching Rory last. He
took a hearty mouthful, wiped his lips and stood up.

'So,' he said. 'Same place next October for the reunion
bash?'


388


Later Still


McKinley Hall reopened in the spring of 2003, following
extensive repair and refurbishment work, its new decor
tailored to enhance the Gothic Nightmares and Haunted House theme breaks advertised in its publicity literature, which
now makes shamelessly lurid play of the building's 'cursed'
past. It has been operating close to capacity most weekends
and public holidays since, and has hosted a number of
horror- and supernatural-related conventions. The impetus
for this change in direction came from Sir Lachlan, who
finally concluded that, as Death had settled in the area first
and clearly showed no intention of leaving, he might as well
offer his troublesome neighbour a job and get the bastard
working for him.


Ger stayed on as chef. He now commands a full complement
of staff and exercises absolute authority over supplies,
in particular butcher-meat. He is reputed to be open-minded
and experimental in his cooking and has enthusiastically
improvised a number of recipes around suggestions from
Lady Jane, but is known to have an irrational aversion to
ostrich.


Alison left on her travels after Christmas 2002, having
deferred entry to Strathclyde University. Her last postcard
to Ger was marked 'Cairns'.


The Reflected Gleam Agency's controversial anti-racism TV
spot was launched in May at a reception in Leith, organised


389


by Seventh Chime. Emily and Rory moved in together
shortly afterwards. They both voted Liberal Democrat at the
last election.


The Dawn Yuill nipple-shot turned out to be a fake. It was
her head, but Anne Robinson's body.


390


Extract:


Case number 35812. Statement transcript 04.4.
Recorded 27/10/02, 11:25-14:50 approx, Auchterbuie
Police Station, Interview Room 2. Witness: John Lapsley
Parlabane. Special Branch Detective Superintendent
Andrew Lomax interviewing. Also present: Special
Branch Sergeant Colin Mclntosh, Special Branch Detective
Constable Stewart Rowan.


det. sup. lomax: You used what?