Ian Slater - World in Flames

With the ferry almost at the dock and the yellow Honda rolling slowly up behind theirs, Rosemary looked about anxiously for Robert. She saw him walk out from the bracken behind the Prices, coming up to them on the driver’s side, rapping on the window. Rosemary saw Price start, winding down the window, looking flustered.

“Going to Mallaig?” Robert asked Price, his tone convivial.

“Ah, yes—” Price turned to his wife. “Joan said we’d probably meet up with you.”

“Small world,” said Robert, still smiling. “Rosemary’ll be glad to see you.” He indicated the ferry at the dock. “Better be getting back to the car. See you on board.”

“Ah, yes.”

By the time Robert reached the car, the ferry attendant was waiting for him to drive on down the ramp. There obviously wasn’t any hurry about it — not until the Christmas rush in a few days time would the lonely road see a line of cars and trucks backed impatiently waiting to cross the loch.

“Well?” asked Rosemary. “What did they say?”

“Not much,” answered Robert. “Seemed surprised.” He pulled his seat belt strap across, looking at Rosemary. “Better buckle up. More accidents happen leaving port.”

“Except we’re not on your submarine,” she replied affably, “and we’re not leaving port exactly.”

“Buckle up. Accidents happen when you least expect them.”

As they approached the ferry and he was watching the Prices in the rearview, Rosemary saw that on the other side of the loch, mist had crept right down to the bank, and she pointed out patches of old snow discolored by pink algae visible among the heather. In a few more seconds the mist was replaced by heavy fog, tongues of it tumbling like dry ice over the embankment, spreading quickly, turning what had been the cobalt blue of the loch into a monotonous gray sheet. “I don’t fancy being ahead of them in that,” she said, indicating the fog on the far side of the loch.

“Neither do I.”

“How can we avoid it?” said Rosemary, almost as if she were asking him to turn back, her suspicion of the Prices now complete. “Not like the big ferry, is it? I mean, we’ll be first on and first off.” They went over the bump of the ramp, the metal drop plate reverberating under them, followed by a quieter sound as the tires “burred” on the grooved steel decking.

“It’ll be all right,” Robert told her.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“What did she say — Mrs. Price?”

“Nothing. All smiles. Didn’t seem surprised at all. Very cool.”

“Perhaps she doesn’t know?”

Robert looked across at Rosemary. It was the kind of glance she used to give a student when he didn’t know what came after Hamlet’s “To be or…”

“All right then,” she conceded. “So she would have to know — if she’s with him all the time. I mean if she is his wife? Was she wearing a ring?”

“What — oh, I don’t know. Never noticed.”

“Men never do.”

“Ring wouldn’t prove anything. Not these days-” He saw the hood of the Prices’ Honda dip toward the deck as it pulled up behind them. “Keep the doors locked,” he told Rosemary. “I won’t be—”

“Stay here? Locked in?” she said, adopting a cockney accent to convey the apprehension an upper-middle-class upbringing wanted to subdue. “Not ruddy likely. I’m coming with you.” As Robert walked around to the left side of the car and opened her door, the wind buffeting his tweed jacket, he felt the bulk of the gun against his chest. If there was any comfort in it, it was also a reminder that he hadn’t practiced with the service-issued sidearm for at least three years — at Norfolk, Virginia, when he’d first taken command of Roosevelt. Opening her door, he gave her his hand and flashed a honeymoon smile. “Get Mrs. Price — if that’s who she is— off to one side. Get her talking. I want to jaw with her old man.”

“Yes,” Rosemary said hesitantly. “All right. You know—”

“He was very defensive about not having joined up. When old McRae, remember, challenged him about being a lecturer at LSE.”

“Hello!” Mrs. Price called out jovially. “A bit nippy, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Rosemary. “Still, expect it won’t do us any harm.”

“Do us the world of good, I should think,” said Mrs. Price. “Fresh air. James smokes a pipe.”

They were drawing level with a yellow school bus from some girls’ school, a few giggling as Robert walked by, one of them calling out, “I say there, tall, dark, and—” There was more laughing.

Robert nodded at Mrs. Price, but kept walking toward her husband at the stern, addressing him with a questioning air. “I’ve never seen snow like that before. Have you?”

“Oh—” said Price, looking up, “the pink stuff? Yes — it’s quite common up here.” Both men were close to the rail, spray catching their face, Robert, despite his preoccupation about the Prices, automatically wondering what the fresh-to-salt-water ratio was in the loch. For a sub diving, it would be critical information, altering the density and therefore the sub’s buoyancy. If you didn’t react fast enough to a sudden change, you’d be dead.

“You’re familiar with these parts then?” he said to Price while leaning eagerly into the wind against the rail without looking at Price but remembering that at the bed-and-breakfast place, Price had said it was his first trip to Scotland.

“Ah — yes,” Price conceded, adding hastily, “well, you know — I’ve read a lot about Scotland. Before I came.”

Robert said nothing for a second or two, his gaze fixed on the fog cascading down the bank they had just left, encircling them. “I heard an interesting story the other day.”

“Oh — yes?” said Price politely.

Brentwood was still watching the shore. “Yeah. It was about this guy — kept following a sergeant and his wife. They were taking a trip through the Sierras — back in California. Wherever they went, he went. Well, after a couple of days, this sergeant pulled the guy over and told him that if he didn’t bug off, he’d get his head blown off.”

There was a long silence, and all Brentwood could hear was the ferry’s wake boiling furiously into the calm loch.

“Rather silly of the sergeant,” said Price. “I mean, to threaten people like that. I would have thought all he needed to do was call up the local constabulary. You know, the police. Register a complaint.”

Robert turned to look at Price, noticing the man’s hairline was receding — something he hadn’t been aware of at the McRaes’. There Price had looked well groomed, hair combed down over the front in a stylishly casual forelock. He wondered how much else he hadn’t noticed about Price.

“Funny you mentioned that,” said Brentwood, “about calling the police. The sergeant did look for a phone. It was high in the mountains, you see. Not many people around. When he did find one, it had been trashed. Line cut.”

Price shook his head, tut-tutting. “Vandals everywhere.”

The change in Price’s tone from his off-balance surprise in the car to his present air of confidence told Brentwood his bluff wasn’t working. He should have asked the Englishman point-blank. Instead he’d given the man time to think, regain his balance.

“Anyway,” continued Price, “what do you think the police could have done — to help the sergeant? The sergeant could have been delusional.”

“I don’t think he was,” said Brentwood, his eyes fixing Price.

“Look, old chap,” said Price. “You’re making me a bit nervous with that bulge in your jacket. I’ve made a bit of a cock-up with all this, but — well, I suppose this won’t assuage you very much, but I’m not who you think I am. Nor is Joan.”