Three weeks had passed since Daily News published the unabridged text of the incident at Lashkar Gah, but only after it had been agreed accurate and complete by every man in the planting squad, excepting young Iain; this at Ruairidh’s insistence.

As echoes of Lashkar Gah faded under the noise of outraged morality at the scale of deception and updated civilian death and disfigurement tolls of drone attacks, a succession of freelance journalists took a short-lived interest in them and were rebuffed.

When it became apparent that there were no residual tales to be milked from Commission men, the media footlights had switched off. The hall continued to be used, but pressure was growing to rehouse the planting squad elsewhere and allow the Centre to resume service as a venue for whist drives and ceilidh dances. Health and Safety had joined with the regional housing authority to support Strontian’s residents and push for action. A meeting was scheduled and one morning, Mackinnon briefed his gangers and chargehands on the position Head Office would adopt.

On that morning, Robbie was late in arriving at the Community Centre to pick the squad up. It had gone eight o’clock and they dawdled beside the entrance. The day was oppressive with low cloud and impatient boredom had seized the group.

“I am going back to journalism, God help me,” Ruairidh said suddenly, “Getting Noel’s story out brought it all back. I want it again. Then there is Silas, the accidental killer. I can maybe do something to help the poor bastard. The hell with it. Lochaber no more. I’m going back to the world of ticking boxes. Alex has already been gone for weeks. Blue, how about you? Are you staying through the summer?”

“I’m going to ask for the saw course in Torlundy,” Blue said, scratching at his beard. “Mackinnon will authorise it. I’ll stay on, but I’ll be in the wood. No more planting.”

“How about you, George?” Ruairidh persisted. “The season is over, near as dammit. You going to hang on?”

“I think it’s time to go,” George grunted.

“Your job interviews will be interesting,” Blue predicted. “Your previous position was with the Commission, I see. What was the management role you performed, going forward?…My role was in the tree planting section where I was given a canvas bag, industrial gloves and a spade…Pregnant pause…Well, that does open the kimono. Peels back the onion, one might say. We should be able to give you a binary answer before the end of this week.” Blue drew a finger across his throat and gargled.

“Rubbish,” George said. “Management everywhere will welcome me as someone who thinks out of the envelope, who can use a short runway…”

“Stop it you two,” Ruairidh was not to be diverted. “You’re sure you want to stay on?” he addressed Blue, “I thought the three of us might leave together.”

“I want to try my hand at felling,” Blue said. “I’m not keen to go back to the rat race. I’ve had enough of cloud computing and idiots running their silly ideas up a flagpole.”

“Up to you,” Ruairidh said, “it’s over for George and me.” He turned to Roland and Guy who had overheard the exchange but not spoken. “For both of you, maybe, not for me. I came for the long haul,” Roland said, his tone relaxed.

Guy clapped Roland’s shoulder, “and fire can fuse people together.”

“It did that for all of us,” Ruairidh said shortly, “but my Commission time is up.”

“And here’s Robbie,” George deliberately broke in as a landrover came into view, young Iain in the front passenger seat beside the burly ganger.

Robbie took the squad on a long drive to Borrowdale, an exposed plateau at the western end of the Ardnamurchan Peninsula. It had been decided to engage the men at a fresh location. Following Silas’ arrest the squad had become withdrawn, ready to defend the Lashkar Gah narrative against all comers, it seemed. On the perimeter of kameradschaft, Iain was simply a gauche laddie amongst the men.

Robbie led them to a low whaleback that gave a prospect of bleak heath and assigned their areas. A spade lightly gripped and balanced over one shoulder, each trudged in ragged file. The ganger watched them diminish in size then returned to his vehicle. He climbed heavily into the driving seat, pulled a large scale local map from the door pocket and slipped his spectacles out of their case.

The Borrowdale moor was dreary and exposed. It fitted their mood. A plough had turned over the heather years before and from a distance the landscape resembled unrolled lengths of umber corduroy. They plodded over drab dreels and dispersed to one or other of the red marker flags that hung listlessly but were easily seen in colourless days such as this.

Together, Guy and Roland reached a small trench filled with bundles of 20cm long Sitka. They each picked out two bundles, sliced through the string binding with their spade, and dropped the bunch of plants into a canvas planting bag slung over one shoulder. They pulled on industrial gloves and began to plant, settling at once into the rhythmic process of pausing every two strides, spades occasionally clinking against stone.

The diamondback snake, half asleep in the sheltered dreel, was taken by surprise. Roland heard the surprised oath and then an outraged shout as Guy drove an edge of his spade into the recoiling adder. He ran up, saw the writhing viper and watched its contortions weaken, then cease.

The other members of the squad were approaching, George and Blue at a run. They gathered and hunkered down among the furrows, staring at the dead serpent. A buzzard appeared and floated high overhead.

“Christ, it can’t have seen the dead adder already, can it?” Guy asked the question while squinting upwards, and for a time nothing more was said. The buzzard circled slowly above. A three foot length of snake lay like a discarded bicycle tyre, its sheath of colour dulling in death. The squad leaned on their spades. “It’s done now,” Roland said, then, sensing remorse in his partner. “Guy, it’s a viper.”

Guy muttered, “I feel bad about reacting that way. I lashed out with the spade. I’ve always had a fear of snakes.”

There was movement in the group. “Most people would have reacted in the same way,” Roland said. Two buzzards were now wheeling. Wings outstretched, both great birds drifted below heavy cloud cover. George leaned forward, bending to examine the serpent. “I’ve never been afraid of snakes, or repelled by them, if that makes more sense.”

Iain stood, unsure whether he was intruding somehow. He considered returning to the section allotted to him and continue planting. With no-one paying any attention, he compromised by moving a short distance away and kneeling invisibly. He remained unnoticed, although within earshot, and stared at the large birds overhead. There had always been loneliness in working with these city men.

“My fear,” Guy said, “started with a fairy tale. A gothic story about the snake that married a king’s daughter.”

“Jesus,” Blue remarked, “that’s got imagery.”

“Fables are powerful,” Ruairidh said.

The group of men stood for a time next a dead adder, fascinated by the raptors circling new carrion. A puff of cooler air flowed over the moor, flicking at loose sleeves and ruffling hair. “I’d better put in a few more bundles,” George said. He began to move away and the others stirred. They dispersed in silence, stepping across furrows that cut long lines across a tilled moor.

Iain stood upright, then walked towards the dead viper. He stretched one leg to prod it with his boot, then recoiled. The snake had been killed, but the idea of the snake was still alive.