Heaven's Door (12 page)

*

Mags and Cheryl were enjoying a Full Scottish Breakfast. They had occupied the bar until the early hours, along with John Bramham and Simon, and a group of eight Munro-baggers, seven of whom were male. They were on their way to South Ballachulish from where they planned on tackling the two separate 1,000-metre peaks of Scorr Dhumuill and Scorr Dhearg the following day.

The girls chatted about what had been an exceptionally pleasant evening, during which they were subjected to a barrage of comments, which became more personal and flattering as the evening unfolded. Only Simon, along with Rachel, the eighth member of the climbing contingent, failed to whole-heartedly enter into the high spirits, both annoyed and dismayed at their respective competition. However, they had later made amends for this initial disappointment in Rachel's room, where they shared first their grievances and then the king-size bed.

The climbing party, minus Rachel, were occupying a table for breakfast at the end of the dining room farthest away from Mags and Cheryl. They were being typically hung-over-noisy and were clearly discussing their previous evening's company. Their conversation was frequently punctuated by bawdy laughter, followed immediately by all seven turning towards them and waving cheekily.

“God,” said Cheryl, “I don't know about ‘if looks could kill'. If looks could
strip
, we'd both be sitting here in just our trainers.”

Mags laughed.

“Yes,” she said. “Not sure about those two Munros. If you asked them right now which twin peaks they'd prefer, I reckon it would be mine or yours.”

Cheryl almost choked on the piece of toast she was eating.

“Mrs Tomlinson-Brown!” she scolded, laughing through a fit of coughing. “Are you allowed to say things like that?”

“Only when they're true.”

They both laughed again, and looked across at the party, who returned their attention with a collective expression of puzzlement, clearly wondering why the joke was suddenly on them.

From where she was sitting, Mags saw Simon and Rachel appear and stop briefly just outside the entrance to the dining room. They exchanged a brief kiss, which quickly developed into a more passionate embrace. Then another brief kiss and Rachel entered the room to raucous cheers and applause from her companions.

“Overslept,” she announced, her head bowed in a failed attempt to hide the deep blush on her cheeks.

Attention was deflected from her as Simon entered a few moments later, looking suitably flustered and apologetic. He looked around the room searching for Mags and Cheryl. He blushed as well, the colouration looking completely out of place on the rugged features above his muscular frame.

He walked across to the girls' table.

“Morning, ladies. Sorry I'm …”

“No apology required, Simon,” said Mags. “Did you sleep well?” Her eyes were wide and innocent. Cheryl failed to turn her snigger into a sneeze.

“Not bad,” he said, smiling in surrender. “Bed was a bit lumpy.”

The girls laughed and Mags waved him to sit down as the climbing party rose to take their leave with loud goodbyes. Rachel smiled across at Simon and blew him a kiss, to his heightened embarrassment.

“She's a nice girl,” said Mags. “Will you see her again?”

“Probably not,” he replied. “But I hope so.”

“We didn't score, by the way,” said Mags.

“I'm glad to hear it,” he said, with an air of officialdom. “That's why I'm here; to make sure that sort of thing doesn't happen.”

They all laughed.

Mags turned to catch the waiter's attention. He was over by the window clearing plates from the table of an elderly man who was reading the morning paper. Her eyes were drawn immediately to the two-inch-high headlines on the front page.

*

“I'd like to go out to Alpha this afternoon.”

They turned in their seats to face him, laptops were closed and mobiles put away. There was a shuffling, an exchange of anxious glances and a few brave headshakes, but no-one spoke.

“Is there a problem?” asked Tom.

“To what end?” asked Gordon. “What could that possibly achieve?”

“No ‘end', Gordon. Just because I
want
to,” returned Tom. “Look, I put that bloody great thing out there, and I put those people on it. And I am here at Lochshore, an hour away from it. I would just like to be in a position – given those circumstances – to provide the prime minister with a first hand report. I think he'd expect that, don't you? And he's entitled to expect it.”

Gordon shook his head.

“We'd need to get clearance …”

“You've got it!” snapped Tom. “From the Home Secretary.”

“Home Secretary, with respect, you're not the one …” Eleanor picked up the head-shaking habit.

“If you really want to show respect,” interrupted Tom, his voice now threateningly calm, “you'll pick that up,” he nodded to the phone in the centre of the table, “and instruct someone to start getting a helicopter ready.” He looked at his watch. “We take off in one hour.”

He stood in preparation to leave the room; the others rose quickly to their feet.

“Donny,” he turned to the senior policeman. “I'd like you to come with me. Oh, and incidentally,” he looked at the faces around the table, “
I
can fly a helicopter; so if it just so happens that there aren't any pilots available … that won't be a problem!”

He turned and left the room, heading back to his office. This time Matty, who had been sitting quietly in the room with James away from the meeting table, followed him out.

“Are you okay, Home Secretary? Can I get you a coffee – or something stronger, perhaps?”

Tom relaxed a little and smiled at him.

“I'm not ready to drown my sorrows yet, Matty, especially if I've got to drive that bloody chopper.”

Matty frowned.

“Yes, I see what you …”

“It was a joke, Matty. You don't really think they'd let me loose with one of those, do you?”

Tom looked at the dejected expression on his young colleague's face.

“I guess I was a bit rough on them in there,” he said. “Do you think? No-one here's done anything wrong – it may turn out that no-one anywhere's at fault. Just an accident of timing or something.” He paused. “I will have that coffee, please. Get yourself one as well and bring them both in here. Thanks, Matty.”

The young man left the room looking a bit brighter. Gordon had been waiting outside the door and entered as Matty left.

“Leaving in fifty minutes,” he said, stiffly, and turned to leave.

“Thanks, Gordon,” said Tom. “Look, I'm sorry this hasn't worked out, but cut me a bit of slack today, will you? I'm just feeling a little bit like a victim at the moment. And when you get the opportunity, will you tell that smug bitch to wipe the smirk off her face, or I might end two really promising careers – hers and mine – by doing it for her.”

Gordon chuckled.

“Okay to both those requests,” he said. “Incidentally, we're all coming for the ride, except James and your guy – Matty, is it? Not enough room for them. Is that alright?”

“Fine. Make sure Eleanor gets the seat nearest the door in case there's an emergency and we have to jettison something quickly.”

Gordon chuckled again.

“Will do. Oh, and bad news, I'm afraid. We've got a pilot; so you'll have to sit in the back with the rest of us.”

*

Mags made an excuse and left quickly to pick up a copy of the paper from the reception desk, then shortly afterwards made her way back to the dining room. John Bramham, Cheryl and Simon were waiting for her. John was wearing a sea captain's cap; the other two were smiling.

“Your transport awaits, ma'am,” said John. “Just a brief walk. Please follow me.”

Mags, who was expecting a ride into Oban, looked enquiringly at Cheryl, who tilted her head to one side and opened her eyes wide in a ‘wait-and-see' expression. They followed John, single-file, down a narrow path from the hotel to a sheltered anchorage and a gleaming cabin cruiser. The
Wave Nymph
was a luxurious sixty-footer, fitted out with every conceivable gadget and appliance, and featuring a heated observation deck with leather seats and a fully stocked cocktail cabinet.

“Best I could do,” said John. “Off-season and all that.”

“Brilliant!” said Mags.

*

The EC135 lifted off from the Lochshore helipad at 11.30 am and headed north-west towards the Sound of Mull. The pilot and his seven passengers filled the police helicopter to capacity and Tom could not help contrasting this with yesterday's luxurious accommodation in the Bell 430. On the other hand, he thought, it seemed appropriate to experience some discomfort to accompany the trepidation they all felt at the prospect of what awaited them at their destination.

As they cleared the island of Kerrera and headed across the Firth of Lorne, Tom, on the right hand side of the aircraft, looked across at Eriska and wondered what Mags was doing and – much more importantly – how she was feeling right now. He noticed a cabin cruiser making its way round the southern tip of Lismore, heading towards Mull. A small charter, he guessed, taking a group of early tourists for a quiet day's trip. How he wished he was down there with them.

*

Looking up from the cruiser, one of the passengers was wondering if the police helicopter had anything to do with the ‘HORROR ON ALPHA' described on the front page of the
Daily Record
. She watched it recede from view ahead of them along the Sound.

“Craignure ahoy!” someone shouted, pointing ahead to port. “Change here for Torosay Castle!”

“The distance from Lochshore to Alpha is one hundred and seventy miles,” the pilot announced as the EC135 headed out across The Minch. “Our optimum cruising speed is one-fifty-five but with this wind speed and direction, we'll be averaging no more than about one-thirty. Total estimated journey time eighty minutes; our ETA, then, about sixty from now.”

As they reached the open sea and gradually left behind the islands of Coll and Rum to their left and right, respectively, the conversation flagged and the group became silent for a long time. At their cruising altitude of 6,000 feet, Tom estimated that their horizon was over 150 miles away, but the visibility was such that they could only see for a few miles.

The flight was relatively smooth, but as Tom looked around at his travelling companions, he couldn't help wondering about the wisdom of such a senior group all travelling together in these circumstances, straight out over the Atlantic. There would be quite a flurry of bi-elections if this went down.

“There she is.” Gordon broke the silence and the others leaned forward in their seats to peer ahead. But he was pointing over to the right at the far western outpost of the British Isles. He turned to Tom.

“Just how did you manage to persuade the National Trust of Scotland to let you use that? I would have thought they'd be dead against it.”

“Well, we weren't initially planning an off-shore hotel,” said Tom. “In fact, we were looking at putting the Exiles on Hirta. That really
was
a non-starter – double status World Heritage Site and all that. But the MOD already has it on a long-term lease for the missile tracking. That's been discontinued now, of course, and there was talk of removing the military altogether. So it sort of suited the Trust our using it as a base for supplies and services. It means a presence all year on the islands, utilities provided and maintained free of charge;
and
all the power they need – again free – from the wind farm. Most of the new storage is underground, anyway, so the only blot on the landscape is the same blot, the existing MOD buildings.”

“So, everybody wins?” said Allan.

“Not everybody,” Eleanor was pointing ahead.

“There she is,” said the pilot, swinging the helicopter to the right and then left so that all the passengers could have the first sight of their destination still twenty or so miles away. “Hotel St Kilda!”

The spectacle drew gasps from all on board, and a quiet but distinct whimper from Eleanor. Tom felt his stomach churning.

“Officially called ‘Life Exile Detention Centre Alpha',” the pilot went on, like a tour guide. “Referred to in writing as LEDCA, and verbally simply as Platform Alpha.”

Tom remembered how the national dailies had had a field day, each coming up with their own name for it. Paradise City, Sea View Guest House, the Lost World of Atlantic, Fort Deverall, House of the Setting Sun and others, before they had collectively adopted it as Hotel St Kilda.

“I still can't believe how you managed to pull it off,” said Allan. “I mean, how you managed to get the platform without any money to buy it with.”

Tom smiled as he thought back to his trip to Düsseldorf with Grace and Reggie Greyburn, the Shadow Chancellor at the time; their meeting with the board members of Pet Euroleum, majority owners of the platform, and the incredible deal they had pulled off, exploiting the desperation of the multinational to offload their assets during the oil shortage crisis. And what a leap of faith it had been for both parties; for the oil company, anxious enough to do business with an Opposition Party months away from an election, although long odds-on favourites to win it; and for the Party itself, committing the new government – albeit
their
government – to enormous expenditure within days of their gaining office.

Tom thought also about his relationship with Grace at the time of the meeting. How secretly excited they had both been at the prospect of the brief time away together; and how Reggie had decided to turn in early the night before the meeting leaving him and Grace together in the bar with time to themselves and anything possible. In the end nothing much had happened; some ‘accidental' brushing together of legs under the table accompanied by exaggerated apologies and mischievous laughter; Tom escorting Grace to her room at some time after 1.00 am; Grace opening her door with the cardkey and turning to face him; their standing toe-to-toe, with the open doorway behind her, both wondering what to do next, like school kids on a first date. Why hadn't he just pushed her into her room and done what they had both wanted? Instead he had placed his hands on her shoulders and reached forward as if to kiss her on the cheek, stopping a few inches from her face. Grace had turned her head slightly so their lips had met. No more than a brushing together, minimal contact, but by far the most significant moment in their relationship up to that point.

“Did you get much sleep?” Tom remembered asking the next morning.

“No,” was the reply, with obvious regret, “but more than I actually wanted.”

With the EC135 approaching directly towards the platform, it was difficult for the passengers to see it clearly – except by straining to look through the cockpit – until the pilot lost height and circled a hundred feet or so above it.

At that altitude, they were closer to the two lifeless figures on the security fence than were the people on the recreation deck below. As the chopper approached, a dozen or so sea birds that had been perched on the bodies or close to them on the wire rose and then flew down towards the waves, circling around the platform as if waiting for their chance to return. But even with the harrowing human drama to digest, the initial impact of the situation was dominated by the gigantic size of the platform and its absolute isolation. The fickle weather conditions had drawn a curtain over St Kilda again, and it was possible to believe that this was the only thing that existed on the planet.

The lines of razor wire, twenty-five in all, ran in parallel lengths round the full circumference of the superstructure, attached to vertical metal posts at six-foot intervals, creating an impassable fence thirty feet high.

The two lifeless forms were in identical positions, each with one arm and one leg stretched out ahead of the other, snared immovably as they attempted to climb either to safety or freedom. It was as if they had been crawling, single file along the ground, then frozen and turned vertically upwards through ninety degrees. The head of the leading figure hung forward, chin on chest, while the other's had fallen back and slightly to one side and was facing the sky.

As the Eurocopter drew closer still, the work of the sea birds could be clearly seen; eye sockets devoid of their contents and flesh plucked and hanging from faces and limbs.

“Can we go now?” asked Eleanor, her voice trembling. “What are we doing here anyway?”

“Yes,” said Gordon, “let's head back.”

“How can we get them down?” asked Tom.

“Our problem,” Calum replied, with absolute authority, “but rest assured, we'll keep you informed.”

No one spoke as the helicopter climbed away from the platform for the return.

Calum broke the silence. “Once the weather settles down a bit more – could be a few days yet – we'll get someone onto the fence from a chopper. We'll attach a line to each body in turn and cut the wire around them. Then we'll lift them off. Needs to be pretty still to do that though. Don't want to be sending someone else the next day to cut the winch man free.”

“And the fence itself. Can we fix that?” asked Gordon.

“First things first. The fence can wait.”

*

Matty was seated at the desk, a half empty polystyrene cup of coffee in one hand and his phone in the other. His laptop was open in front of him. Tom thought his relaxed manner and impeccable appearance seemed at odds with the drama going on around him. He got to his feet quickly as Tom entered.

“Hi, Matty,” said Tom, waving him to be seated again. “Finish your call, but I need to make a couple myself from here pretty urgently.”

“Yes, of course,” said Matty, sitting back down. “Speak later,” he said in to the phone, ending the call and getting to his feet again immediately. He almost ran to the door.

“Can I get you something to drink, sir?” he said, turning back as he opened it.

“No, I'm fine. Can you get in touch with James, though, and both stand by. We should be resuming the meeting very shortly.”

“Okay, right away.”

He closed the door behind him.

Tom picked up the receiver and entered a number.

“Hi, Shirley. Is it possible to speak to the PM right away?”

“He's in a meeting at the moment.”

“That's not what I asked, was it?” he said.

“No, sorry, Home Secretary. What I mean is, do you want me to interrupt him, or can it wait?”

“Right now would be really good.”

“Just a moment, please.”

Thirty seconds of silence.

“Can he phone you back on that number in five minutes?”

“No, that's okay. I'll hold until you can put me through,” said Tom.

“Okay, sir. I'll put you on silent hold.”

Tom checked his watch. Andrew's voice ended the silence three minutes and forty seconds later.

“Tom, couldn't this have waited? I'm due at the Palace in less than an hour. I'm just preparing for it.”

“
Not
in a meeting then?”

“No, but Shirley said what I told her to say, so don't get snotty with her. So what's important enough to upstage the reigning monarch of our country?”

“Well, let's see if I can think of something. Oh, I know, what about the deaths on Alpha?”

“What about them? That's old news, isn't it? Unless we've had some more.”

“It's not old news, actually!” Tom erupted. “Not to me, it isn't. I only found out a few hours ago. Two days after it happened!”

“And? What's your point?” Andrew exploded back. “Is that what can't wait? Someone in
your
department fails to let
you
know what's going on, and you have to run to the PM. Thank goodness I've got nothing to do right now. I'll get onto it right away!”

“Right, Andrew,” Tom said, regaining his composure. “Point taken. That is not what I want you to do. It's just that I arrived here this morning to find out that just about everyone in the country knew about this but me. Pretty embarrassing, to say the least. Humiliating, in fact. Just trying to find out what went wrong and I thought I'd start with the guy who knows everything.” It was said with humour, rather than sarcasm.

“Okay, just a minute,” Andrew said. “Shirley, get on to HRH and tell her the meeting's back on again.”

Tom allowed himself a brief chuckle. “It's not good, though, is it? Something like this happening just a few days after …”

“What isn't good?” Andrew interrupted. “The fact that somebody died on Alpha?”

“Yes, but the circumstances … I've just been out there and …”

“You've
what
?!”

“I've been out to Alpha to see the damage. I thought as I was at Lochshore …”

“For Christ's sake, Tom! What do you think you've achieved by doing that? Are you planning to do that
every
time someone dies? If so, you'd better move up there permanently. We're putting eight hundred of the bastards on that platform, and what do you think their average life expectancy's going to be? Two, three years?”

“Jesus,” Tom said. “Do you genuinely think that's all the time they'll have? We've never discussed it in those terms before.”

“Listen, Tom. If they're
lucky
it'll be only two years or so. They're not there to learn a trade or get experience of the great outdoors. So what's the big deal? It was you who used the words – ‘we need to be prepared to sacrifice part of a generation for the long term good'. That was way back at the very conception of the NJR, possibly even before then. And I said it was fantasy, remember? You must have gone over the scenarios when you worked through this thing. We are not all going to fall apart every time someone dies on Alpha. That's what's supposed to happen. We
put
them there to die!”

Tom took a few moments.

“Look, Andrew, I'd better come back tomorrow. Mags will have had a couple of days. She'll understand.”

“Tom, I absolutely
insist
that you don't change your plans. Haven't you heard a word I've been saying? What has happened on Alpha is the norm. The
new
norm, I admit, but the norm all the same. This is what it's going to be like; what we have accepted. Hang on a minute…”

Tom could hear keys clicking on a keyboard. When Andrew spoke again, he was obviously reading from his screen. “‘It is only natural that we should feel sympathy for the ones who have fallen by the wayside' – blah, blah, blah – ‘the country gave this Government a clear mandate twenty-one months ago when it elected us on the promise of reclaiming
all
localities for the benefit of their communities'. Any of this sound familiar? Here's the really good stuff – ‘there would be pain – we made that very clear – in order to achieve this and we would need to be strong when that pain manifested itself in ours and
other people's suffering
. We, this Government, this House and this country, have kept faith with that concept in pursuit of our collective vision of the future. So let there be compassion' – like that, do you? – ‘but no shame; let there be some sorrow, but much rejoicing; let there be awareness of the sacrifice, but no deflection from the goal. And, most of all, let there be no turning back'” Andrew paused, then, “Great speech, don't you think? Can't for the life of me remember who made it.”