Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

She walked briskly away, and a hand was given him. He stepped down off the quay and on to the decking, which was where it all began, he supposed, the real stuff. It would have been reassuring to have had a Walther PPK in his belt and against his hip, but he had declined the offer, and ropes were loosed from the quay and an engine throbbed beneath him.

“We’ll see you, man.”

“That’ll be good, and I’ll see you guys – I hope.”

He hitched his bag on his shoulder and walked away from the fishing boat and down the quayside. He saw Fee ahead of him and she scratched behind her ear and then kicked at a pebble, and was gazing at the skyline, and showed little interest… Might have convinced a rookie that she cared nothing about whether he was on time, or late, or whether he was washed out with sea sickness and about to jack it in, chuck the mission over the side of the quay where the weed floated. She’d care… Gaz supposed there should have been a customs officer or an immigration functionary standing with her and waiting to check his documentation. There was not, nor any sign of one hurrying to intercept him: that would have been her responsibility. Would not have lasted half an hour on Knacker’s payroll if she could not deflect such interest. She greeted him.

“A decent ride?”

“Decent enough.”

“Anything left in your guts?”

“Guts are fine.”

“Rather you…”

This was Kirkenes. The guys had told him it was a fishing port, with a booming marine repair yard, and a small dry-dock. The guys had also said that the town was dull, like ‘one horse and one street’, and had been rebuilt after the war, had been flattened by Russian aircraft during the German occupation, then the Germans had been pushed out and they’d bombed the place even flatter to make it uncomfortable for the Russian invaders. He had been told this in low, considered voices as they had swung into the fiord leading to the town and its harbour. They had been dour men at the start all weighing and judging him. Was he worth the effort? Worth the risk of going to a penal colony for twenty years? Did he have that sort of value? It was a grey, oppressive morning, the sort of day that indicated summer had given Kirkenes a miss… The guys must have been happy to have him as a passenger, and with a return booking because that was what had been called out to him as he had walked towards Fee. Good guys, using basic transport. Little luxury in the common sleeping area below deck. They’d seen him off with a noncommittal slap on the shoulders and a brief hug before he’d climbed up a couple of steps and then stretched out for the quayside. But they expected to see him, which gave comfort – and a back-stop was agreed.

He walked beside Fee, matched her long stride. If he’d have allowed it, she would have carried his bag.

It had been explained to Gaz: why four Norwegian fishermen would hazard their freedom, involve themselves in UK black operations. It had been explained as the trawler had ploughed on in what they called a ‘moderate swell’. One of the younger guys had done it as if nothing he said was remarkable. “About the second world war. Everything is the second world war. Finished seventy-five years ago but nothing is changed and the allegiances still rule. Old loyalties and old loves, and old gratitudes count now as they did then. The time of our grandfathers. Everywhere you go in your life today you can look over your shoulder and see the results of that conflict. There was the Shetland Bus. You would not know of it. Small trawlers sailed to and from Norway and berthed in the Shetland Isles and they brought back from German occupation the refugees and the agents who were considered important to the resistance, and returned there in desperate winter seas, with the same agents, this time with weapons and explosives. Only went in winter because of the darkness and when the seas were worst and when the Germans could not fly and did not have patrol craft out… All of us had grandfathers who sailed on the Bus route. The message came and of course we would answer. Can you understand that? Now, you as an island people are in decline. We have an abundance of oil and gas and can build a superior infrastructure and have as generous a welfare programme as there is in the whole of Europe. But neither situation allows us to ignore a call for help. It is unwritten, forged in iron, and still lives. But we look at you, assess you, because it is a big thing that is asked of us. At the end we will tell you whether the old friendship has a greater pull on our loyalties than common sense… What is asked of us is not easy and the penalties for failure are big. You know that, of course you do. The same as for you.”

One speech and no theatrical gestures of friendship, and no emotion shown, and Gaz had believed each word he was told and had imagined small boats, inshore trawlers, buffeted by winds and tumbling through the white caps, and had felt stronger, a little.

He had realised he was being examined all the time he was on board and supposed he had passed some test – as he had done nine years before when he had pitched up at Stirling Lines, home of the cream of the Special Forces, and had been thrown into the rigours of training required by the instructors of the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. Had been told the majority of the intake would fail, and might have been the youngest to reach those heights in the selection process. There had been a girl there. A sergeant’s daughter. Good enough looking, seeing him as a catch, but no special commitment returned by him. More important was the passing of the brutal tests inflicted on them. Each week seeing more of them carrying a bag to the minibus and taken to Hereford rail station, returned to unit, failed. Not Gaz… Did well enough in Close Quarters Battle Training and high marks in Close Target Reconnaissance and better than useful in Unarmed Combat Skills, and passing out. Off to Londonderry for the first operational posting and familiarising himself with working the housing estates where hatred for military was ingrained. Where, if trapped, he might shoot his way out and might not, in which case he would end up a bloodied corpse. Had rather enjoyed it, had handled the pressure and had been praised in the laconic shorthand the unit used. Had done time in the Province, had gone back to the camp in the west of England, close to the Welsh border, to find the sergeant had moved on but his daughter had stayed, seemed to expect him to move in with her. She was Debbie. Had done it, moved to her one-bed place. Shouldn’t have, but had… all the boys shagged available girls. Part of the way they all lived. Nice girl… and what had happened was not her fault, was his. He had gone to Syria. Not like the Creggan and the Bogside in Londonderry, but big boys’ games.

The boat crew had made the one speech, none of it repeated, and mostly he had huddled below deck and tossed with the bunk’s motion and only been out on deck at dusk going into evening and had seen one whale and two pods of dolphins and once they had been buzzed by an eagle that had come low over them, hoping for fish carcases to be thrown its way. What irked him most was that bits of the plan they were putting in place had already been decided before they had his arm-twisted agreement to be a part of it. Could he have refused? Not worth even scratching it over in his mind.

She led him to a car, where a driver waited for them. She opened the back door for Gaz. The driver didn’t speak. Gaz thought he was treated like he had the plague, was dangerous to know. The light rain had flecked his hair and dampened his anorak. He slung his bag ahead of him and climbed in. He reckoned he was being given all the attention due a ‘fatted calf’, pampered, cosseted and good for a week-long feast. Would he be remembered the day after the table had been cleared and the guests had burped and farted and staggered off home? Not likely to be. They drove away from the quay and towards a sprawl of buildings. Saw his target and the wire-fine line on his face that had seeped blood, could see him clearly.