James Long - Sixth Column

‘You’re a hard man to help, Mr Kay.’

Johnny was in the back, between two large, silent men. The older man with the stubble hair and the deep voice had moved across to the front passenger seat and was leaning back, head turned, to talk to him.

‘Helping seems a funny definition of what you’ve done so far.’

‘You must have the wrong idea about us.’

‘I’ve got a bent Cessna stuck on top of a ship that says your motives weren’t strictly charitable.’

‘You think that was us? Let me tell you ’bout that, seeing as I know the real story. Man called Clapham, Andy Clapham, bought some trick oil-industry containers from a guy named Tracey, down Portsmouth way last week. They call Tracey the Magazine Man.’

The man’s voice was calm, almost amused. Johnny was impressed despite himself. ‘And?’

‘My guess is they put those containers in your tanks, full of water. You want proof then tell your CAA to look for traces of PIB dissolved in the fuel. PIB is Polyisobutylene. Dissolves slowly in petrol. That’s what the containers are made from.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

‘I’ve been back-tracking,’ said the man coolly, ‘I like to know what goes on.’

‘Are you telling me you didn’t do it?’

‘You want to know who paid the bill for that gear?’

‘Who?’

‘Man called Sibley. Ivor Sibley. I guess you know him.’

They were bumping up a track on to open moorland and suddenly Johnny didn’t like that one bit. This was the way he’d been taught to do it. Keep the subject co-operative, docile – until you’re ready for the crunch.

‘How could that be?’

‘You don’t know who your enemies are, do you, Johnny boy?’

The Shogun stopped. The man switched on the interior light. He was gaunt, with leathery-looking skin.

‘Lend me your ears,’ he said, and he pushed a cassette into the tape player.

Voices. Two voices trying to talk at once, then a woman’s dominant voice cutting through.

‘I don’t want bloody excuses. You screwed the whole thing up and that’s the end of it.’

‘He was incredibly lucky. If that ship hadn’t been there, they wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

‘You’re out of a job. I’m going to ring Calstock. I told you exactly what I wanted. Do you think it’s been an easy decision for me? Do you? I told you I wanted a clean end to them, Michael and… and his son. That’s the only thing you had to do.’

His mother. His mother and Ivor Sibley. No doubt at all. He couldn’t find any words to say.

The man looked almost sympathetic. It was impossible not to believe it. He remembered the look on his stepfather’s face at the inquiry. That explains everything, he thought, even Maggie.

‘You’re not telling me this out of the kindness of your heart,’ he said in a voice that came through an aching throat.

‘You’re quick. I’m not.’

‘What then?’

‘I got something you need and you got something I need. That could add up to a handy situation for both of us.’

‘What have I got?’ he asked, although he thought he knew the answer.

‘Let me tell you first what I’ve got, Johnny. I’ve got the means to spring your girl friend out of court tomorrow, to get her off scot-free.’

‘You can get them to drop the charges?’

‘I can do it.’

Johnny’s heart lifted. ‘And the price?’

The man’s growl dropped even lower. ‘Your eternal soul.’ He laughed. ‘No. Not that, just a little piece of paper.’

‘What piece?’

‘A piece that belongs to us. A piece you guys lifted. Kinda nice of me, don’t you think? I mean I could be getting warrants and I’m offering you trades.’

‘The details of the link to the BT tower.’

‘What link?’ The man laughed. ‘Pure fantasy, Johnny.’

‘BTRS. It said BTRS. British Telecom Raven Stones.’

‘No. By-pass Trunking for Routine Servicing, that’s what it means.’

‘Come on. We flew over your digger on the moor.’

Mackeson’s laugh sounded genuine. ‘Anyone digging a hole on the moor, that’s their business. Nothing down any hole out there belongs to us, that I can promise.’

‘We’ve had an expert look at that plan. We know what it means.’

‘Bullshit. Maybe an engineer was doodling, you know, day-dreaming. We don’t have links like that. The piece of paper’s liable to be misunderstood, I guess. That’s why we want it back.’

‘It’s not mine to give.’

‘It’s not yours to keep.’ The voice had a very harsh edge when the man wanted it to. ‘You take the trade, your girlfriend walks. You say no, there’s a dozen of the MOD’s finest pinning you against a wall with a search warrant soon as you walk back in the house. You telling me it’s not somewhere in your old man’s house? Maybe in that desk of his? And all for a fantasy.’

‘Some fantasy,’ Johnny said. ‘If it’s a fantasy, how did you get that tape? How did you know where I was just now?’

‘Hell, Johnny, don’t be neolithic,’ said the man lightly. ‘Get your mind off buried cables and wire-taps. We got technology you would not believe.’

‘How can I trust you?’

‘Beauty of it is, you don’t have to. I’ll trust you. Bring it with you tomorrow. When she walks, you hand it over. OK? Only condition is, we never met. Ever.’

Johnny thought about it for a long time. He thought of his own bruising failure to arrange the deliverance he had prayed for. He knew Heather would not approve but he also knew it was the only thing in his power to do, and in the end he could see no other way. He nodded shortly. The man next to him seemed to ease down to a lower state of watchfulness and Johnny never knew how much worse it would have got if he’d chosen to shake his head instead.

‘Spoken with the full-hearted eloquent grace of a gentleman, young Johnny.’ The man turned to the driver. ‘Home, James.’

They drove back in silence, Johnny going over and over it in his mind, but every time he tried to think about the deal, his mother’s voice seemed to get in the way. ‘ I wanted a clean end to them …’

The first thing he knew of the attack was when the Shogun’s brakes came on hard as they turned into the end of his father’s drive. A big vehicle had pulled across their bows. The doors were torn open, the two men in the front and the men either side of Johnny were yanked out into the dark. Johnny heard thuds, gasps. He sat there by himself in the dark not knowing which way to move.

Sibley? The final act? Propelled by that thought, he squirmed between the front seats, got in behind the steering wheel, started up and reached out to pull the door closed. A hand grabbed his arm from outside and he wrenched it away then Heather’s voice shouted. ‘Stop, Johnny. It’s us. It’s OK.’

He let out pent-up breath, ‘For God’s sake,’ he said, ‘what’s happening?’

‘It’s OK now,’ she repeated. ‘We’ve got them.’

He saw in the headlights four bodies lying on the ground with people kneeling on them. Boys in overalls, some with shaven heads, some with earrings. He got down and Heather rushed to him, hugged him.

‘What did they do to you?’ she said. ‘We couldn’t find you so we came back here.’

‘No, you’ve got it wrong,’ he replied faintly. ‘They’re trying to help.’

‘But aren’t these people NSA?’

‘Yes. Look, really, let them up.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘The plane, Heather. It wasn’t them. It was my bloody mother and Ivor Sibley’s lot. I’ve heard a tape of my mother discussing it. There’s no doubt, I promise.’