Heaven's Door (13 page)

Tom remained silent.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “And you're right; that was a great speech.”

Andrew snorted a laugh.

“So get yourself off to wherever you've planned to take Maggie – or where she's planned to take you, if what Jenny tells me is correct. You can sort out the communication cock-up when you get back. In the meantime, we take this seamlessly in our stride. The least fuss the better. And we will
not
be releasing to the press that you went out sightseeing in the Atlantic. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“I just wish you hadn't, Tom.”

*

“Just to let you know,” Andrew said when he was put through to voicemail, “I've just talked to Brown. He's pretty mad about being circumvented in the communication, but it seems it was a good decision. God knows what he would have made of it. He talks about what's happened as if it's a major disaster, like it's a real shame these guys have to suffer at all. I don't know whether this is Maggie's influence or what. But he needs watching, closely. Whether we like it or not, for the time being anyway, he can still swing public opinion as easy as rocking a cradle. If he says the wrong thing we could have another bloody Dunkirk out there.”

*

“Sorry about that,” Tom said, joining the group in the meeting room. The table had been cleared of laptops and papers to accommodate a cold banquet plus bottles of wine and jugs of fruit juice and iced water.

“Wow, that looks good.”

Matty and James were already circulating with coffee and tea. Matty raised his pot, catching Tom's eye.

“Thanks, Matty.”

Tom looked towards Gordon.

“Should we review the agenda – again,” he said, “to make sure we get through everything? Am I right in assuming we are all okay until tomorrow lunchtime? If not, then I'm the one who's twisted the schedule out of shape, so if anyone was planning to leave this evening, or earlier tomorrow, then please don't change your plans.”

“I think we're all here for the duration,” Gordon replied, looking round and acknowledging the nods from the group. “Do we need to discus this morning before we move on? I think we've all been very moved by what we've seen, and if anyone wants to comment on it, then it's probably better now so it's not preying on their mind as we cover the rest of the agenda.”

He made a point of not looking directly at Eleanor, but it was she who spoke anyway.

“Not from my point of view,” she said, “if I was the one you had in mind, Gordon. As you all know, I have been an opponent of the NJR all along, but it is here and working and, as Tom said, it is what the majority of people want. I think we need to move on – not just with the agenda, but with the understanding that Alpha is a bad place and it's that by design. Every day on the platform will be absolute hell for those on it. We just have to get our minds round that. ‘Horror on Alpha', as the
Daily Record
put it this morning, is not news, it's just fact.”

*

“Look,” Mags said, “before you say anything, I've heard about the deaths. I am sorry about what has happened, but the subject is not for discussion as far as I'm concerned. We can talk about it next week if you want to, but I'd rather just leave it. This is the new reality, and if you and I are going to move forward, we have to accept what we can't change.”

Tom was silent for a moment.

“It's a good job you're not here right now,” he said. “I just might squeeze you to death.”

“You could try, big boy, but I'm no push-over, you know.”

“So what sort of a day did …”

“Absolutely brilliant! And guess where I've been.”

“Oban, I expect …”

“No, not Oban; guess again.”

“Mull?”

“Oh, you're not supposed to guess
right
!” said Mags. “Okay, then, but where on Mull, do you think?”

“I'm not saying in case I guess right again.”

“Well, back to the cottage where I stayed thirty-five years ago. There, what do you think of that?”

“Gardener's Cottage?” said Tom. “Wow, I bet that was great.”

“And we went there on a
train
! I can't wait to tell you all about it – in real time, probably.”

“Well, you'll
have
to wait, I'm afraid, my darling. I've got less than twenty minutes to shower and change for dinner. But I really do want to hear about it.”

“Okay, until tomorrow then. I've had a fantastic time, Tom-Tom. I feel really guilty, actually. I bet your day's been absolute … shite.”

“Succinctly put, and one hundred percent accurate. But that's for another world. For the next few days it's just you, me and the sheepskin. And I promise you can then tell me absolutely
everything
about today – including what Cheryl was wearing,” he added.

“Just watch it, you,” said Mags.

They both laughed.

“Love you,” said Tom.

“Love you, too.”

*

The Alpha incident was not mentioned again. The atmosphere at dinner was relaxed and enjoyable; all business put to one side.

“That was absolutely excellent, Gordon,” said Tom, as they finished the meal.

“Thank you, although I feel I must apologise for the repeat of the starter and dessert …”

“Not at all, that was the highlight – the two highlights – for me. Take this down, Matty – ‘the Home Secretary respectfully requests that a year's supply of haggis and clooty dumpling be sent to his house with immediate effect'. That should do it.”

Gordon laughed. “Well, I hope you'll also approve of some more local produce I have lined up.” He went across to the long sideboard at the end of the room and took out a bottle each of Oban and Tobermory single malts.

The evening ended with an impromptu sing-a-long of traditional Scottish songs. Tom's participation was somewhat limited, but he observed with amusement as the others became involved with each new song in a sort of ‘sing-off'. They all started loudly with the better-known part and then one by one dropped by the wayside as the song progressed into greater obscurity, until just a single voice remained to deliver the final verse or verses.

Although no-one was officially scoring, Tom reckoned it was a two-way tie between Donny and Calum for first place. There was applause all round as he announced the result and presented each with their medal – one of the pewter coasters which resided in a stack on the same sideboard.

The drinks, singing, applause and general laughter reflected the overall good mood of the gathering – albeit assisted by the flow of malt whisky – but left each one feeling slightly guilty in the early hours when they turned in to bed, and more than slightly fragile the following morning when they turned up for the final session.

Week 2; Thursday, 2 April…

“Thank you, Calum. Excellent tour,” said Tom, shaking the Chief Prison Officer's hand before they all went back to the meeting room. “The whole place does you a lot of credit. When do you think you'll get PTV1 back in service?”

“Shouldn't be too long. Seven to ten days, they tell me. Well in time for the next group in six weeks time. Although we'll be reviewing the design of the rails before then to avoid the same thing happening again. And the toilet facilities as well,” he added. “I assume you heard about our dirty protest.”

Tom nodded. “I'm sure you'll get it right. Very impressive.”

“Thank you, Home Secretary.”

*

The meeting concluded on time at noon. After handshakes all round, and a polite kiss from Tom on Eleanor's cheek, James again loaded his charges into the Range Rover, including Chuck – who no-one had seen since they arrived nearly two days ago – and set off for North Connel.

Already approaching the helipad from the opposite direction, Mags and Cheryl were gushing all over John Bramham as he drove them to their rendezvous.

“It's been absolutely amazing, John,” said Mags. “We really can't thank you enough. The tour of the Castle and the cottage … well, it was just … brilliant. Although I guess it meant more to me than Cheryl and Simon …?”

“Not at all,” said Cheryl. “It was all superb. If this is work I'm going to get as much overtime as I can,” she added.

They all laughed and Simon nodded his agreement.

Tom kissed Mags as they all met at the helipad. He gave Cheryl a gentle peck on the cheek, and shook hands with John and Simon.

“My wife's had far too good a time,” he said, solemnly, to John. “You'll be hearing from me.”

“I hope so,” John replied. “You said something about definitely staying here yourself next time.”

“And I meant it,” said Tom. “As soon as we can.”

They said their goodbyes; Mags and Cheryl each gave John a hug and Simon, in an uncharacteristic show of humour, pretended he was about to do the same. John stepped back in mock horror and the two men exchanged a smiling handshake. They climbed into the Bell 430 again, taking the same seats they had occupied two days ago, and lifted off for their flight to the remotest part of the British mainland.

*

“Firstly, let me thank Alan – I can call him that now, along with lots of other names I've only been able to use behind his back …”

The huge frame of David Gerrard dominated the familiar room, with its collection of work stations and its floor to ceiling white panels along the length of one wall. At a fraction under six-and-a-half feet and with a muscular frame to match, he stood half a head taller and seemed to be about a foot wider than anyone else present. He paused for the laughter to subside, as Chief Superintendent Alan Pickford wagged an admonishing finger at him.

“Let me thank him,” he continued, “for waiting until I retired before banishing this young lady to another destination. As you know, she was one of only two officers nominated by Heather Rayburn, our Chief Constable, as a candidate for the new Flexible Response Teams.

“Quite honestly, I don't think I could have faced the prospect of losing her as a colleague – and my best friend – whilst I was still working here. I am, of course, delighted that she now has the chance to enhance her career with this prestigious move to Guildford, but I'll always remember her as the Marlburgh lass here at Parkside who brightened my days in the final few years of my career. And I'll never forget the contribution she made to my own modest success during that time.

“It's a privilege to be asked to be the one to say, on behalf of everybody here, au revoir and good luck to you, and to present these gifts from all your friends. It's been a pleasure to know and work with you, Joannita Cottrell, and if you don't keep in touch, I'll report you missing to the police – and how embarrassing would
that
be?”

Jo rushed, tearfully, into his arms and they hugged for a long time. She was just above average height, with the natural curls and colouration of someone of mixed Caribbean and White British ancestry, and a pretty, friendly face, currently streaked with mascara. Detective Sergeant Omar Shakhir eventually tapped David on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, mate, there's a queue here, you know.”

Jo turned and embraced Omar, and the queue duly moved forward, each with the same genuine expressions of affection.

“And now,” said David to the room in general, “I suggest we all adjourn to the Wagon and Horses, and provide Alan with the platform to demonstrate the limitless spending power of a Chief Superintendent.”

Laughter and the wagging finger again.

*

“How did you find this place, Maggie?” asked Cheryl as the Bell approached.

The FarCuillin Lodge on Knoydart was arguably the most isolated dwelling in the UK. Situated on the western slopes of Glen Guseran, it would normally be reached via a barely-passable trail off the narrow single-track road from Inverie, the only village on the peninsula, which was the normal stepping-off point for visitors to this remote area, and could only be accessed by boat – usually from Mallaig. The other means of reaching the region was by a sixteen mile walk through and over some very challenging terrain. That's if you didn't have the use of a helicopter, and didn't know the owner of the lodge itself.

“Well, I didn't actually find it, as such,” said Mags. “I just knew it was here. It belongs to Sir Iain Ballard-McGregor. He was a close friend of my father when they were at Oxford together. Sir Iain went on to be big in the Arts and my dad in international property development, but they've remained life-long friends.”

“But why would he want a place this far out?”

“Well I think he just loves Scotland, and the wilder the better.”

“And it doesn't come any wilder than this,” added Tom. “And that's official – you can check the guidebooks.”

The Bell dropped slowly down towards the helipad, a hundred yards from the Lodge. The landing place itself had been chiselled out of the rock to create a horizontal area in the side of the Glen. The overall effect was of a natural looking, if unusual, small plateau in otherwise uneven terrain. The rugged beauty of the surroundings remained uncompromised. All seven people alighted from the aircraft, and the pilot quickly unloaded Tom and Mags's holdalls and cases. After saying their goodbyes, the rest of the party boarded the Bell again, which lifted off to take them to Inverie.

‘Lodge' had seemed a rather grand title for what appeared to them at first sight to be an exact replica of an old traditional single storey croft, sporting a thatched roof and small slits of windows. It looked, from a distance, as if it had been there for hundreds of years. It was only close up that the illusion became evident. Although it resembled a typical croft in shape, it was a very much larger, two storey building. Perched on the glen side, and seen from a distance, as it usually was, with no common objects close by to measure its proportions against, there was no reason to assume it was anything other than what it was designed to look like.

The upper floor of the Lodge comprised a gallery at the back and each side of the property with bedrooms and bathrooms off it, leaving the ground floor completely open plan with a kitchen-dining area at one end and an enormous fireplace at the other, in front of which were three leather sofas in a u-formation and a large sheepskin rug. They looked appreciatively at this last item, and then at each other, with smiles as wide as the limits of their faces would allow.

“Right, let's do a recce,” said Mags. “I want to see what the view's like across to Skye.” They changed into their walking gear and boots before climbing the rocks behind the Lodge and picking out the jagged teeth of the Cuillin Ridge which had inspired its name from the Scottish folk song,
The Tangle o' the Isles
.

“Beautiful they may be,” Mags said, “but the far Cuillin isn't pulling me away right now. This is exactly where I want to be.”

They scrambled back down again. Tom fired up the oil-fuelled generator and the radiators which served the gallery area soon heated the upstairs. Mags lit the fire and stoked it up for a long burn from the pile of logs stacked at the edge of the hearth. Together they cooked themselves a simple meal, accompanied by a bottle of Australian Chardonnay and followed by a Talisker or two. After making love, with almost desperate passion, on Mags's sheepskin rug, they lay peacefully in front of the roaring fire. They were both naked except for Tom's boxer shorts and Mags's small pair of briefs.

Tom had been quiet for a long time.

“What if we just gave everything up and moved here permanently?” he said. “I don't mean
right
here, to this place, but somewhere way out. We could keep the apartment in SW1, and even something smaller near Etherington Place. We could concentrate on developing the business, but at arm's length. Perhaps Jack would be interested …”

Mags placed her hand gently on his lips to slow him down.

“Hey, whoa there,” she said, with a chuckle. “That's a wonderful idea, darling, really it is, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. I would just
love
to do that, but we can't abandon Katey and Jack right now.”

“Well we wouldn't be
abandoning
them, as such. Anyway, I don't want to think about the reality; I just want to enjoy the dream.”

“But I suppose it doesn't
have
to be a dream,” said Mags, pushing herself up on one elbow. “We could do it; we really could. That's if you
really
want it, and you're not just living this moment. Why couldn't we? I mean we could live here half the time, during the summer – or perhaps the winter when there are no midges – and …”

This time it was Tom's restraining hand.

“Hey, whoa there.”

Mags pretended to bite his fingers.

“Spoil sport,” she said.

“No I'm not,” he replied. “Let's agree right now that we
will
do it! We'll do it in … five years' time. Katey will be through Uni, and independent. Jack will be okay. Look, it's a plan. We don't have to think any more about it right now. But let's agree we'll do it – and
mean
it!”

They lay together in silence with their separate thoughts on the adventure until Tom drifted off to sleep. Some time later Mags nudged him.

“Hey, Rip Van Winkle! Where's your stamina?”

She got slowly to her feet and pulled him to his.

“Come on, Tom-Tom, best get to bed. Got to bag a Munro tomorrow.”

“We are not going anywhere
near
Ladhar Bheinn,” he said. “It's too far away, too difficult and I don't want you getting over-tired for the serious stuff later. Anyway, from what Cheryl tells me, you've already bagged a few Munro-baggers.”

“That girl cannot be trusted with a secret. I'm going to pick up guys on my own next time.”

“Which will sort of put her at a loose end, I guess,” said Tom, studying his fingernails.

“Not on your life, mate!” said Mags, dragging him towards the staircase. “Time for one more?”

Tom swept her up in his arms and crouched down in front of the fire, rolling her back onto the rug.

“Right, you've asked for this!” he said.

“Help, help, get off me, you beast,” she whispered.

*

Week 2; Friday, 3 April…

Tom knew he had to get them down. In spite of what had been said about the new normality of the situation, he had put them there and he needed to act. Not only that, but the previous night, as he and Mags had drifted off to sleep, the nagging apprehension about Katey and Jack's party had returned. The unsettling thoughts about his children were, in his tired mind, somehow inextricably linked with the Exiles trapped on the wire,

Even so, it was good to be going into action again. He glanced down with affection at his uniform with its random four-colour design. DPM – Disruptive Pattern Material – the camouflage worn by just about every land-based or land-bound member of the UK and Commonwealth Armed Forces. He reached up to feel the lovat-green beret and traced his finger around the cap-badge with its upward-pointing sword insignia of the Special Boat Service. Whatever the seriousness of this mission, his spirits were lifted by a feeling of being back where he belonged.

The men wearing the same battledress waiting for him near the rumbling Super Lynx helicopter were all familiar to him; the group he would have chosen for every mission given the chance to make his own selection. They all had nicknames, of course; it was almost unthinkable that someone should be known by their given name
.
In fact, the use of nicknames was actively encouraged. It helped preserve the anonymity of personnel in the Special Forces, whose real names were never officially released into the public domain.

“Hey, Blisters! How's the feet?” shouted Tom, embracing the smiling, stocky soldier who almost crushed him with his powerful arms. Anthony ‘Blisters' McNaughton, at the end of the most brutal day, with bits of him held in place by straps and bandages, would only ever complain about the soles of his feet and how they could never provide him with boots which properly fitted him.

A shadow engulfed both men as the massive figure of Idobu Bondi, a native-born Nigerian, loomed over them. He slapped Tom on the back, almost knocking him down, his face shining with pleasure.

“Chalky!” said Tom. “Christ, are you still growing?”

The big man stepped forward and hugged him. Someone had once pointed out that every unit had to have a ‘Chalky', and as there was no-one in theirs called White, Idobu would have to do. Chalky eventually released him and Tom, gasping for breath looked wide-eyed at the next man stepping forward to greet him.