James Long - Sixth Column

‘That was lucky.’

‘And how. She wasn’t just a doctor, she was sympathetic too. Rachel told her what she’d seen and she got us both into her car and she went storming off to the main gate. It was bloody incredible, I tell you. She just forced her way in. She told the plod on the gate that there was a medical emergency inside and she forced him to call Chief Inspector Reed, then she told Reed she’d hold him personally responsible unless she was taken to Heather straight away. They wouldn’t let us in, of course.’

‘What did you do?’

‘We stayed in the car, outside the gate, biting our fingernails. About half an hour later an ambulance arrived and she came back out with it. She told us Heather was unconscious still and was going to hospital and we drove along behind it all the way.’

Johnny glanced at Heather. ‘What happened to you?’

‘Concussion. Lacerations to the scalp, bruising.’

His skin crawled in sympathy. ‘From Sergeant Hayter?’

‘That’s right. He threw me against a wall. He’d tried it the time before, in a van, but one of his lads came back. This time there was no one to stop him.’

‘No one saw?’

‘No one except a security camera, which they say, very conveniently, failed to record.’

‘So…’ He paused and watched as a plane took off. ‘Why is this Dr Beevor so important?’

‘Well, half an hour after I got to hospital, Hayter turned up there too, driven by one of the other plods. He had a broken nose and a great gash across his forehead.’

‘He’d had it done on purpose?’

‘He said I hit him with a lump of wood and the only reason I only got injured was because he was trying to defend himself. That’s why I’m charged with grievous bodily harm.’

Jo chipped in. ‘Dr Beevor was the only one who could say it didn’t happen that way because when she was treating Heather outside the bunker, there were a whole lot of modplods there and she heard one of them being called “Hayter”.’

‘And?’

‘And there wasn’t a mark on him. He knew he was in a lot of trouble so he got one of his mates to clobber him. It must have been the only way out he could think of.’

‘You’ve got to have her,’ he said, ‘she’s crucial. Listen, Heather, there might still be time to get to Cherbourg.’

‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘When does the conference end?’

Johnny tried to remember what the hotel had told him. ‘Five o’clock, I think.’

‘That’s four o’clock here then. It’s quarter to three now. We can’t possibly.’

‘She might be staying the night there. She lives somewhere down in the south. It would make sense.’

‘You’re clutching at straws, Johnny. You tried your best. Leave it be.’

‘Look’ – he wanted to punch the steering wheel in his frustration – ‘what’s the alternative? You’ll have no evidence except what you yourself say happened. They’ll find you guilty.’

‘I just have to trust in the jury, Johnny. They’ll have to believe me.’

‘Pigs might fly,’ said Jo from the back seat. ‘Maybe a London jury would, but York? You’ve seen it all before, Heather, love.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Johnny.

‘Let’s just say they manage to select very conservative juries when one of us is up at York,’ said Jo. ‘It’s an amazing coincidence really.’ She laughed darkly. ‘Then the prosecution tells them how Ramsgill is top secret but it’s crucial to the defence of the free world and Heather’s a mad woman who’s totally obsessed by it and that’s that.’

‘I’m going to tell them, Jo,’ said Heather defiantly. ‘I’ll just have to make them listen.’

‘We’ve got to do something,’ said Johnny. ‘There’s so little time. I don’t want you disappearing inside just when I’m starting to get to know you.’

They stared at each other then until Jo broke into their private silence from the back seat. ‘Two points,’ she said. ‘One, I know you’re a red hot pilot, but I’d rather you looked at the road while you’re driving. Two, if my presence is in your way, you can always tie my wheelchair on the roof.’

They all laughed, but for the two in the front it was the laughter of the gallows.

They were in Southampton in under half an hour. They pushed Jo up to the hospital reception desk.

‘I don’t like coming in these places,’ she said, ‘I always feel they’re going to take one look at the chair and stop me leaving again.’

‘We want to see Sir Michael Parry,’ said Johnny to the woman when his turn came, but the look she gave him in reply, filled with a sudden stern blankness sent clutching fingers of dreadful foreboding into his stomach.

‘Please wait there,’ she said, ‘someone will be down.’

‘Is he…? I mean how is he?’ he asked in alarm.

‘Someone will be down,’ said the woman firmly. ‘Please take a seat.’

Two or three minutes passed like two or three hours. They saw a middle-aged man in a suit come out of a lift and then be directed towards them by the woman.

‘You are?’ said the man in a rather peremptory way.

‘I’m Sir Michael’s son, John. These are two of his friends.’

‘Do you have any form of identification, Mr Parry?’

Johnny was reaching for his driving licence when the words sank in.

‘My name’s not actually Parry,’ he said, ‘it’s Kay.’

‘So you’re not his son.’

‘Yes, I am, as a matter of fact. Look, please, how is he?’ He knew he should ask it outright. Has he died? But his mouth seemed to have trouble framing the words.

‘We’ve had some problems with the Press. I’ll have to go and ask him.’

‘Go and ask him? He’s all right, then? He’s awake?’

‘He’s awake. John Kay, you said.’

‘Yes.’

‘Good Lord, weren’t you the pilot?’

Johnny looked round nervously. ‘Yes, but not so loud.’

‘And you’re his son? No one told me that.’ He looked affronted.

‘Does it make a difference?’

‘I act as Press spokesman here, you see.’

‘Well, actually, I’d prefer you to keep that to yourself, please.’

The man made a phone call upstairs and when he put the receiver down the suspicion in his face had disappeared. In no time they were being ushered into a room where Sir Michael lay, strapped up and monitored, still white faced but with his eyes open and able to smile when he saw them come through the door.

They weren’t allowed to stay long, just long enough to exchange experiences and for Johnny to explain the sequence of events when he realized the accident had left some gaps in his father’s memory of the preceding minutes.

‘It really does look like it was sabotage,’ he said, and he explained about the water and the acid.

Sir Michael looked grave but got no chance to reply before the sister came back in to check his temperature and tell them it was time to go.

On Monday morning, well before eleven, they were waiting in the queue at the Department of Trade and Industry in Victoria Street for the Hurst Inquiry. The evening before had been a nightmare. They’d driven from Southampton straight to Johnny’s flat but his hopes that the Press might be losing interest in their story disappeared when he saw the crowd waiting at the entrance. The photographers homed in on Jo and Heather. The wheelchair was clearly a big angle. The pack of them was physically in the way of the door with Webley, on the far side, giving palms-up gestures of helplessness.

‘Hold on!’ Johnny shouted. ‘You’ve got enough pictures, for Heaven’s sake.’ There were shouts of dissent. ‘All right. We’ll pose properly for one, then if you let these two go inside straight afterwards, I’ll answer questions but only if you all agree you’ll go away when I say I’ve had enough, OK?’