For the planting squad, attendance at the firebreak had merely been the third round of a firefight. It was evening when they returned to the hall, pulling off layers of clothing and dumping these in untidy heaps on the floor beside mattresses and sleeping bags. Become increasingly certain that the battle against fire was nearing its end, a mood of relief birthed attempts at humour.
“Bless me, father, for I have thinned,” Blue’s eyes raised piously to the ceiling as he divested himself of two layers of underclothing, two shirts and a turtleneck sweater. All along the hall, beside their bedding, squad members were shedding garments.
“You want to shave and thin some more,” Ruairidh suggested, loosening his boots. Blue’s jowls, before shielded from direct sunlight by a beard, were pale and exposed. From white skin short hairs bristled, ash tipped. A tanned forehead contrasted strangely with the pallor below.
Everyone had lost weight. The physically imposing Alex was four kilos lighter and thickset Guy ceased to challenge gravity by a similar amount. Weight loss was evident in all, since all had shed weight proportionately. They were fit but haggard, Ruairidh observed.
Excepting Iain, gone home to his family, they sat on benches and slatted chairs around a foldaway table freed from a storeroom. This arrangement formed a wide living-dining space towards the rear of the hall. Heaps of clothing reeked of wood smoke. This smell pervaded the entire area and overwhelmed a tart stink of sweat. An uninhibited closeness in the group gave the impression of a posed tableau. There was a sense of connecting energy invisibly guiding all movement.
“Here’s a note from Mackinnon to be careful, with a copy of the Daily News,” Ruairidh raised his voice, lifting aloft a copy of the newspaper. “We are arsonists according to them. One of us started the fire, they say. Bloody rags write whatever they like. Whenever an attempt is made to curb them, quality papers howl ‘freedom of the Press’, and defend the rags. Very principled. Nothing to do with the same baron owning both.”
“That was the boy writer,” Guy’s teeth gleamed. “After what happened at the farm, he goes and writes that.”
“And it makes us responsible. These bastards are forever spouting about their freedom to write. They slant news with opinion. They are lining us up for blame, make no mistake,” Ruairidh threw the newspaper down on the collapsible table.
Guy stirred to anger. “Twelve volunteers come here to help us. They die in a fire and the Daily News makes us out to be fire raisers. What is that reporter trying to do?”
“This is headline scrounging, pure and simple,” Blue said, “not a shred of evidence behind it. It’s one day sensationalism. A week from now nobody will remember ever reading it.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Ruairidh shook his head. “This is just a beginning. Strategy has already been decided, and we are being targeted.”
“My turn for the first shower, I think,” Silas interjected hoarsely, clearing his throat as he spoke.
“Nice try, Silas,” Blue said, “but it’s mine,” and he went to his mattress and picked up a towel.
“But we are finished with the fire, surely,“ Noel said. “The professional firefighting team is coming, I heard Mackinnon say.” He picked up the Daily News, glanced at the front page, then dropped it back on the table.
“Already here,” Guy shrugged. “They were wandering about the Argyll earlier this afternoon, looking tough, I heard. Can’t say I’m sorry to lose my fireman tag.”
They perched on uncomfortable chairs and the Daily News lay bleakly. Alex rose, picked up the newspaper, and returned to his seat. He began reading and pages rustled. For a time no-one spoke.
“I never thought I’d experience what the last few days brought,” George said finally. “Noel, you were army, in Afghanistan for Christ’s sake, what do you think?”
“Afghanistan was something else. I was just a platoon commander there, trying to learn soldiering from my sergeant. Now I’m a squaddie. Believe me it’s better. ”
“You miss it?” Ruairidh asked. “I mean, if you went straight to the army from school…”
“It’s true that I wanted to make a career of the Army. But again, being an establishment lackey,” a grin aimed at Alex, “ I have regrets, but I don’t really miss the army. Not any more.”
“I would have loved the Navy,” Roland had decided to be arch.
“Bonjour matelot,” George said, “long time rolling with the swells?”
“Don’t be naughty,” Roland chided and George pulled up his shirt.
“Oh stop it,” Roland said, “I’m spoken for.”
“What a disappointment,” George looked at him with an attempt at wist. “I’ve got a bit of a burn bothering me, it’s a bloody nuisance. I’m going to see if Doctor Wilson can put something on it.” He gingerly tapped at his neck. “Shirt collar rubs against it.”
“Come on, I’ll take you on the bike, it’s parked at the side of the hall.” Silas pushed himself to his feet.
Alex lowered the newspaper and folded it, but did not speak.
“We’re quite a mix,” Ruairidh said, watching the two men leave together. “Eclectic wouldn’t you say, Noel? You, an officer and gentleman, ex The Royal Military College, Sandhurst. I was a journalist, a wordsmith rather than a swordsmith, devoted to my profession. George and the hairy Blue, are disillusioned management with a mildly artistic view of things. Alex, you were an accountant, and a bit of an athlete, I understand. How about you, Roland, and you, Guy?”
“Hotel management,” Roland said. “Loved it, but the wilderness called.”
“I was doing a post grad in political economy,” Guy said. “Professional LSE bookworm I was.”
“I wonder what Silas did?” Ruairidh reflected. “A despatch rider, maybe? Trappist in rehab? Every planter has a past. Only the fellers of trees have a future.”
“Silas is a book without pages,” Blue said, having re-appeared clad only in a bath towel, worn as a longyi. Wet footprints tracked across the floor. “A second thought; there must be a few sheets between the covers, even if they are blank. I wonder what brought him here.”
And to them this was apposite, for Silas had never given any hint of his background. No-one had yet witnessed a breach in the diffident reserve he displayed to all comers. A hardback with plain dust jacket, the book entitled ‘Silas’ was a slim volume. “Do you remember when he arrived?” Blue was rubbing his head with the towel.
“Silas arrived shortly after you did, Noel, and you Alex. I remember Guy and me trying to welcome the man. Asked him what part of London – he’s from London, Home Counties at least. He just smiled and went jaunting off on his motorbike. Rather put us off, Guy, remember?” Roland paused. “You know, I saw that Daily News character trying to interview Silas. He ended by putting his notebook in his pocket without writing a thing…and I’m next for the shower.”
“Mackinnon wants us to be careful,” Blue remarked, as Roland hastened away, “although in Silas’ case he needn’t worry. The man is incapable of releasing information about anything.”
“That child journo from the Daily News is a hungry one,” Ruairidh said, “the type that never lets truth get in the way of a good story. You’ve seen what stuff he’s peddling – calling one of us an arsonist – the skinny young shit. His editor is the infamous Nic, a gruesome minotaur who knows the media labyrinth too well. That’s why he’s got a seen-it-done-it old cynic to babysit Clark Kent.”
Alex looked up from the newspaper. “By old cynic you mean the Press photographer?” He tossed the Daily News back on the table.
“That photographer is an old hand, likely pulled out of some news team. Red snappers are a well travelled lot, going deep and dirty. Skins always look grainy with dust from collapsed buildings and sand from the Sahara. This one has grit under his fingernails, that’s for sure.”
Conversation halted as the Argyll’s handyman entered with their evening meal delivery. He dropped the abandoned Daily News on a vacant bench then unfolded and spread a chequered tablecloth over the table. He lifted foil wrapped packages from a holdall, and placed them on the cloth. “Be careful opening these. Some of them are bowls of soup. Minestrone.”
“Always my favourite,” Guy said, making no move to rise from his chair. “I won’t spill a drop.” The handyman looked uncertainly around him and felt in the holdall to assure himself it was empty. “I only meant…”
“He’s a bit grumpy right now,” Ruairidh gestured towards Guy, “but he means well. Thanks for bringing the meal.” Guy said, “I always get this way when I’m hungry. Don’t take me too seriously.”
Silas and George returned, a taped edge of white dressing visible under the latter’s shirt collar. “Christ, this place reeks of smoke,” George said.
“Doc Wilson fixed you up, I see,” Noel observed as Roland joined them fresh from the shower, towel slung over his shoulder.
“Feels much better,” George rotated his chin.
“We were talking about you two,” Roland said as they walked up to the seats clustered around the flimsy table, “especially you, Silas. You must remember saving me from being tarred at Polloch? When you save a life you belong to the person you saved, that is the law in aboriginal societies such as ours. So do spill. Expose yourself to Roland – I don’t mean in any gross physical way – whom you saved from becoming a liquorice stick.”
“Come on Silas,” Blue said, “I was management material, as was George here. That is nearly as grim as Alex, once an accountant, now a man with a heart. Come on, Silas, give…”
Smiling eyes turned to Silas who stood quite still. He faced the seated men and his thin cheeks flushed.
“I am a campaigner for true bio-diversity,” he said clearly. “An activist, if you prefer it.” Astonished eyes followed him as he took a seat at the table and began to peel foil from a dish. “I’m an activist,” he repeated.
“A what?” Blue asked in surprise.
“Jesus Christ, Silas,” Ruairidh interrupted. “Are you trying to tell us that you started the fire?”
Silas stopped unwrapping the oxidised silver foil and gazed beyond them at the rectangle of failing daylight beyond the hall door.
With a tendency towards disbelief the others rose and took their places at table. Chair legs scratched wooden flooring as they unwrapped the bowls and trenchers that contained the evening meal. Silas silently ladled broth into a soup plate and dipped his spoon.
“For Christ’s sake, Silas,” Ruairidh urged, “what the hell do you mean that you’re an activist? Did you start this fire, or not?”
They stared at Silas, until now perceived as an anodyne rather than a man motivated by principle; certainly never considered capable of any act that would create widespread destruction.
Silas gazed at the red checked tablecloth in front of him. A tear emerged from the corner of one eye, slid slowly over his cheekbone and ran down his face. He raised a hand and rubbed at his chin. Incredulous, the others stared at him.
“I started the fire early Sunday morning,” Silas said, putting his spoon carefully at the side of his plate, “near the road beside Loch Sheil.” He broke down. His shoulders angled upwards and his head sank, features hidden between both hands.
For a time no-one moved. Little sobbing sounds became less frequent and finally ceased. Silas took his hands from his face then rubbed wet cheeks. His eyes raised redly and encountered George sitting opposite. With a shuffling movement of the chair, his shoulders levelled and his chin lifted. He stared across at George.
“I’m really sorry, George,” he said, as though the matter was entirely of a personal nature between them, “I’m just so sorry. We’ve been really good mates, working together. I didn’t intend that anyone should get hurt, only to teach the Commission a lesson. They are destroying our environment. God, I never realised the terrible irony of that until now.”
Silas continued to speak uninterrupted. Plates sat untouched. Men gazed over the chequered tablecloth at the workmate whom they had taken for granted as a colourless companion, quietly grateful for their acceptance of him, who was addressing George as though no-one else was present. His tone had hushed, become confiding. His eyes were fixed on George. He spoke thoughtfully, keeping it measured, accurate, convincing. It was necessary to be convincing, it seemed.
“It began in London, really, with nice women having to pee on the street because the Met had kettled us. They were laughing around their shields, Spartans toying with helots. We were protesting against the Government, disguised as the Commission, purchasing enormous areas of our country, and covering it in foreign trees just to make paper, just to make the most wasteful product in all history; wrapping paper, packaging. We had silly placards. We had thought these were clever. Trenchant was a description that we liked. We were peaceful, law abiding, trying to remedy a wrong. A perceived wrong, that is.”
They stared at him. Cutlery either lay untouched or was held motionless in hand. Silas went on as though he and George were alone. The others sat with expressionless faces, some turned towards the speaker, some to their untouched dinner plate.
“Nothing was being reported. Government must have the Press barons in their pocket, unless it is the other way round. We were treated with utter contempt and our message, our well meant message, scorned. Land that is in public ownership? What a distortion. The Establishment have total control and the public is marginalised. The People have lost their voice. And what will happen after the Sitka is harvested and the land covered with ugly stumps? What will happen then?”
Silas shook his head. He ran a finger down one cheek and leaned slightly towards George. There was a heightening of tension. Silas’ tone was low, confidential.
“They arrested me, roughed me up as if I was a dangerous criminal. They threw me in the back of a van with a dozen others. My face was bleeding. My nose was broken. Later they charged me with riotous assembly. “You resisted arrest,” they said. A lawyer advised me to plead guilty to avoid a prison sentence and I did. My employer was told and I knew they would soon get rid of me. I was angry, really angry. So I travelled north. I went to meetings. I began to meet people who were concerned and committed to doing something. We had tried the discussion route, we tried peaceful protest and were fobbed off, laughed at, treated as cranks. It was far too easy for them. I came here, to Lochaber, typical of those parts where the Commission ownership is huge. You’ll be our secret weapon, my people said, our mole in their hole. It was our little joke.
I came to learn at first hand and gather evidence. I travelled around on my bike observing. Evidence backed up by hands-on experience, that’s what I came for. Just that and the collection of data. We needed to know how the Commission worked. Our only intention was to learn more.
Then someone got carried away and I was persuaded to start a fire, to burn trees before they became paper. It made sense at the time. Shake these smug bastards, show them that they were vulnerable after all. I would make an unforgettable contribution, my people said. I liked the idea. I would be their man of action, and only a few would know.
I’m out on a limb now. We had protocols, or tradecraft, in the language I was encouraged to use. This was to protect others if someone slipped up and was questioned,” Silas looked down at his soup bowl, his eyes moist and spilling over. He wiped his cheek, this time with the back of a hand. “There will be an investigation. I should never have let myself be talked into starting a fire…” Silas swallowed and he shook his head and looked to George for reassurance that everyone would understand.
“Are you going to the police?” he asked, acknowledging the seven silent men whose eyes were fixed upon him. “Will you go to Euan Mackinnon? Tell what I’ve done?” There was no reply. George looked downward and lifted his soup spoon. The others followed suit. The squad ate together in a silence that no-one wanted to break.