Starburst (37 page)

O
n the Thursday, two days before the last acts of the Festival Fringe were to be staged and nine days before the final curtain was brought down on the International Festival, four white trucks, each emblazoned with the Exploding Sky Company logo, drove slowly across the castle esplanade through a chevron of tourists. They lined up, one behind the other, waiting while the first truck was guided through the low tunnel leading into the inner sanctum of Edinburgh Castle, its roof having barely six inches’ clearance at either side of the ancient stone archway. Once it was parked in the inner courtyard, drawn up in front of the portcullis gate, Roger Dent jumped down from the cab and stretched his arms above his head, ridding himself of the stiffness in his body after the ten-hour drive. He walked over to the battlements and looked out across the all-too-familiar view of the New Town while the other trucks came through the tunnel and drew in close to his own. As the drivers disembarked, Roger pushed himself up onto the wall and sat watching as they made their way over to him.

Every one of his crew had at least two years’ experience of doing this particular job with him, each choosing to spend his two-week summer holiday helping him to put the show together. They were really a crazy bunch of misfits—Dave Panton, a weapons expert for the Ministry of Defence; Graham Slattery, a computer programmer with IBM; and Annie Beardsley, an air traffic controller at Gatwick Airport—but they seemed to gel as a team with both humour and ease, their work of setting up the display a far cry from the stress and worries of their everyday employment.

And it was just as well he had an experienced team with him this year. The programme he and Phil Kenyon had eventually devised for the climax of the Edinburgh Festival was to be the most complex and work-intensive display his company had ever dared to stage, the intricately timed detonation of over five tonnes of fireworks in thirty minutes. It was to be his swansong, his final flourish, but yet, even now, the thought of the logistics involved was enough to make his stomach knot tight in trepidation.

“Right, before we adjourn to the pub,” Roger began, a remark that received an immediate cry of approval from his attentive audience, “I’m afraid there’s a good bit of work to be done. We’ll start by unloading all the workshop equipment and get it set up under the stairs in the master gunner’s office. There’s no need to change a plan that works, so lay it out exactly as we’ve done in previous years—all electrical gear at the far end of the store, radios near the sockets for recharging, and the firing plan and safety regs on the wall above the table. If we get all that done this afternoon, we’ll start loading the small-calibre shells first thing tomorrow morning.” He pushed himself off the wall. “Okay, make a move.”

As the crew headed back to their respective vans, Phil Kenyon appeared from a small doorway at one end of the narrow terrace and made his way across to Roger.

“All looks good,” the stocky little Australian remarked, handing Roger a clipboard with pad attached. “No new safety measures, so we can just go ahead as planned.”

“When are the riggers due to arrive?”

“First thing Saturday morning. I reckon the briefing will take most of the day, so we won’t start getting the multicore cabling laid out until Sunday morning.”

“And when are you due to meet up with the score reader?”

Phil shot him a wink. “The beautiful Helen, d’ya mean?”

Roger narrowed his eyes at his colleague. “Just watch it, Phil, don’t cause a fallout, this of all years.”

“No worries, mate, I’ll keep it under wraps. She’s coming across from Glasgow tomorrow afternoon, so we’ll make a start then on the timing plan.”

“It could take quite a while. A lot of those new cues will be completely alien to her.”

“We’ll make it, as long as we don’t have too many unscheduled interruptions.”

As Phil said this, a young woman dressed in a dark business suit came through the castle tunnel and strutted meaningfully towards them, a gash of a smile on her lipsticked mouth.

“Oh-oh, I spoke too soon,” Phil said, turning his back on the woman. “You deal with her and I’ll go help the others.”

As Phil headed off to the vans, Roger crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, watching as Pauline McCann, the PR coordinator for the Scottish Bank, the main sponsor of the Fireworks Display, approached him. “Hi, there, Pauline, how’re things with you?” He gave her a welcoming peck on the cheek.

“Working away, Roger,” the woman replied jovially. “No rest for the wicked, and all that.”

“I’m surprised to see you. I thought you were planning on leaving the SB to set up your own agency.”

“You’re right, it was a thought,” she said, digging a hand into her large shoulder bag and extracting a moleskin notebook, “but then the company made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” She flicked off the elastic band and opened the book. “Right, let’s get down to business. First off, I have a few messages for you. Jeff Banyon wants to meet with you at the Scottish Chamber Orchestra office tomorrow evening, so he asked if you’d give him a call. And Sir Raymond Garston, the conductor, will be here on Tuesday morning and would like to meet up around lunchtime at the Balmoral Hotel.” She flicked over a page. “Now, the International office has scheduled the press call this year for Monday morning at ten o’clock. I know this is a bit earlier than usual, but the weather forecast for Tuesday and Wednesday is a bit iffy, so I thought it would be a safer bet for the photo opportunity. Does that sound all right for you?”

Roger shrugged. “As long as you keep it as brief as possible.”

Pauline smiled at him. “I’ll do my best.” She closed the notebook and put it back in her bag. “Now, I’ll need to send out a blanket e-mail to all the papers, so is there anything you can tell me about what you’ve got planned for this year?”

Roger let out a quiet laugh. “It’s going to be the largest and the most complicated display I’ve ever staged.”

“Really? That’s quite a statement.”

“I’m throwing every bit of caution to the wind this year.”

“Any reason for that?”

Roger nodded slowly. “It’s to be my last show.”

“What?”
Pauline exclaimed, her eyes wide in disbelief. “But you can’t…you’ve been doing it for…”

“This is the twenty-fifth year,” Roger offered.

“So…does this mean it’s the last year the Exploding Sky Company will be doing the Fireworks Display?”

“I hope not. Phil Kenyon is taking on the business, so I suppose it’ll be up to him and the Scottish Bank as the sponsors. In fact, you’d be doing me a favour in letting them know before the story hits the press.”

“You don’t mind me using it as a hook, then?”

“Not at all. You can entitle it ‘Going out with a bang!’”

Pauline laughed. “That’s not such a bad idea, actually. Maybe you should think about starting a second career as a journalist.”

Roger rubbed a hand against his beard. “Listen, by the time this show is over, I reckon the only establishment that will invite me into its folds is a secure lunatic asylum.” And he turned with a wave and headed off towards the vans to help the crew, eager to finish off the day’s work as quickly as possible so he could get to the pub for the first of many pints of beer that evening.

About the same time as the clientele of the Queen’s Head in Grassmarket was swelled by the ranks of the Exploding Sky Company, a mud-spattered, long-wheel-based Land Rover was pulling up outside the flat in London Street. Killing the engine, Rory Stratton clambered out and walked around to open up the back door. Jamie was already waiting there on the pavement with Angélique, ready to pull out the luggage.

“Thanks for the lift, Dad,” Jamie said, hoisting the straps of the two bags onto his shoulder and taking the violin case in his hand. “Do you want to come up for a drink?”

Rory shook his head. “No, I’ll head home. I half promised your mother to take her out for a meal in the village pub this evening.”

“You should do that. It’ll give her a break. I don’t think she realized she was going to have to put up with us for a whole week.”

Rory put a hand on his son’s shoulder. “It was a great time. We both loved it.” He walked over to Angélique and gave her a kiss on either cheek. “And what a bonus meeting you, my beautiful French girl. See and keep in touch with Jamie’s old fogies now, won’t you?”

“Of course I will,” Angélique replied, reaching up and putting her arms around Rory’s neck and giving him a long hug. “Thank you so much for having me to stay, Rory. It has been the most wonderful time.” She pushed herself away from him. “I will send you some more CDs that I think you will like. Maybe you can play them along with the Rolling Stones?”

Rory smiled. “I’ll make a point of it.” He turned back to Jamie. “I hope you don’t have any more problems with…you know who,” he said quietly.

“I doubt it very much. Harry Wills was outside the flat for three days. Never saw a thing.”

“Good.” Rory put his arms around his son’s shoulders and gave him a squeeze. “Look after yourself, boy, and keep in touch.”

“Will do, Dad, and thanks again for everything.”

They waited on the doorstep until the Land Rover had pulled away from the kerb before Jamie put the key in the door and they both entered into the building.

No more than twenty seconds after the door had closed behind them, a dishevelled figure hurried across the street and up the steps and pressed his hands against the door, as if willing it to open. Albert Dessuin turned away, rubbing his fingers hard against his throbbing head, and slowly slid his back down the door to sit on the cold stone step, feeling the damp seep through the fabric of his raincoat. He cared little for that, or for the general grubbiness of his appearance, because now, at last, he had found Angélique Pascal.

Five days had passed since he had followed the fat little comedienne back to this address. It had been luck that he had made the decision to wait for her in the bar at the Corinthian, rather than in the theatre, because for some reason she had not performed that night, only turning up long enough to have a word with the blond girl at the box office before she had left again. Five days. How his whole life had changed in that time. At first, he thought the refusal of his credit card at the restaurant in Randolph Place had been a mistake, a mere fault of the electronic banking system, but then when he had tried it in four different automatic machines without success, he knew something was definitely amiss. Returning to his hotel, he had phoned his bank in Paris and was informed that his monthly cheque had not been paid in and would he therefore write a letter immediately, authorizing them to transfer money from his deposit account to cover the weekly standing order made to his mother’s account. Because of the embarrassment and inconvenience this had caused him, anger blinded any consideration of the outcome of the next telephone call and he had instantly rung the lawyers of Madame Lafitte in Clermont Ferrand, demanding to know why his salary had not been paid. Even before he had finished haranguing the female receptionist he was transferred to a Monsieur Chambert, who introduced himself in a quiet but frosty voice as the recently appointed secretary of the trust set up by Madame Lafitte for Angélique Pascal. Albert could do nothing but listen in mute horror as the man recounted to him in a controlled, precise manner every detail of what took place between himself and Angélique on the night of the sixteenth of August in the Sheraton Grand, and, as a result of which, it was considered by the trustees that he, Albert Dessuin, was an entirely unsuitable chaperone for Angélique Pascal and that his contract of employment was to be terminated with immediate effect and that no consideration should be given to financial compensation. At that point, Albert Dessuin could hear the change in the lawyer’s voice as he spat out his closing line with such vehemence and hostility that Albert was left shaking as the receiver buzzed in his ear. “And if you ever chance to go near Mademoiselle Pascal again, I will make sure every police force in the world has knowledge of what you have done and I can guarantee there will be no safe haven for you. Goodbye, Dessuin.”

He had booked himself out of the hotel immediately after the telephone call, realizing that he could no longer continue to afford to stay there and wanting desperately to distance himself from the place. Monsieur Chambert had confirmed to him for the first time that Angélique had been divulging the true facts of what had happened that night, and consequently others would no doubt know about it here in Edinburgh. From that moment on he could sense a thousand pairs of judging eyes upon him, watching his every move with distrust and loathing.

He had eventually ended up staying in a grubby, stale-aired room above a pub in Tollcross. It was being used as a storeroom, but the barman, who had taken pity on the drunk foreigner who sat alone with his suitcase in the corner of the bar, had cleared out the boxes and the empty beer crates and had then gone back to his own flat, returning with blankets and sheets to put on the metal-framed bed with the sagging mattress. There were no washing facilities on the upper floor, so Albert had to make use of the rank-smelling gents’ lavatory downstairs, only being able to do that during the time when the pub alarm was switched off. Consequently, he had spent many a lonely hour in those sordid surroundings, his self-esteem shattered and his mind becoming increasingly embroiled with hatred and revenge, having too much time to think about the hopelessness of his situation and about those whom he knew to be responsible for it all happening.

He put a hand into the folds of his mackintosh and pulled out a half bottle of whisky from the inside pocket. He held it up in front of him, studying the inch of amber liquid still remaining in the bottle. This now was his only true solace, a mind-numbing refuge from all his crazy, distorted thoughts. Unscrewing the cap, he tilted it to his mouth and drained the bottle in two gulps. He placed it on the step beside him, carefully resting the cap upside down on the top, a small token of order in his disordered world. He got to his feet and steadied himself on the cast-iron handrail as he descended the steps. After five days, the waiting was over. He had found Angélique Pascal. A few more hours, even a few more days would make no difference. Eventually he would be able to confront her and ask her why, after all those years he had sacrificed for her, she had chosen to ruin him completely.