Strontian Community Hall had acquired a homely, haphazard, appearance that welcomed the squad trudging in from their day’s work. The grouping of benches and hard chairs around a foldaway table was no longer a focal point of the hall become hostel. These uncompromising pieces had given way to a pair of sofas with four armchairs covered in an egregious floral print that howled nineteen fifty eight. A sturdy wooden table was placed behind this arrangement with eight straightbacked chairs. Army cot beds, with either a cabinet or a wardrobe beside each, sat at intervals along one wall.
The effect was not unpleasing. Although outdated, the upholstery gave an atmosphere of faded splendour that dignified the outcasts from Polloch.
“Christ Almighty,” George stood amazed at the doorway, “come and see this. Mackinnon’s robbed a first class carriage of its furnishings.”
“Are these supposed to be blue camellias?” Roland bounded towards two similar suites to inspect their well worn fabric. He prodded the cushioned seating. “I’ll have my usual martini, darling,” he said languorously to the uninhabited sofa opposite.
Soon after their return from work, they had showered, changed, and were sprawled on the new armchairs and sofas. From the outset each one took care not to become too familiar with any particular resting place, mindful of petty tensions invading their new space.
“Put the caviar and quails eggs next each other, dear heart,” Roland said, speaking from a depth of armchair to the relief barman delivering dinner from the Argyll. “Make certain the Chablis is properly chilled.”
“There’s your soup,” the young man unceremoniously set a cheap tureen on the table. “I’ll bring the stew and potatoes in a minute.”
Silas smiled happily, more than ever a part of them. A sense of belonging warmed him. Casual labouring along the firebreak was undemanding and parole from the fire. Genteel mid-twentieth century patterns transformed the hall into a haven in which he was at home, indivisible from the others in the secret they shared. Relaxed in homely surroundings, he felt himself part of a brotherhood.
Late on Wednesday evening, with the fire predicted to reach the firebreak mid morning of the next day, Silas sought to further unburden. There was no surprise among the lounging men when he laid down a paperback and suddenly spoke. The book made a little tent on the floor.
“After tomorrow, things will get back to where they were before the fire started. You know, I still can’t say ‘the fire that I started’. It’s as though I had nothing to do with it, that the forest fire was an act of God, or better still a force majeure. I know that I’m responsible for striking a match but the rest…”
The squad gathered around Silas who sitting with head bowed on one of the sofas. “You fought the fire with us,” Ruairidh said. “Leave it at that.”
Silas looked up gratefully. “It has meant a lot to me, really, the way you have supported me, not dobbed me in.” He lowered his head once more. “I would have given myself up to Mackinnon, but it’s not only me, it’s people who sent me who would suffer. It would be a publicity disaster. Environmental movements would be crucified. Commercial influences would make certain of that; depict us as dangerous eccentrics, the usual tactic. Their grip on the media is very strong. Institutional investors are so heavily invested in the corporate media, that they now are each other. The Commission, for one, would love to see us trashed.”
“I’m sure we all have a pretty good idea where the media would take it,” Blue said. “You would be lucky to escape a lynching.”
“Did you know that the first of the Kingussie funerals is tomorrow,” Noel said sombrely. “Heard it mentioned earlier. Rattray will no doubt drive up to Badenoch. But listen to me, you are not responsible for what happened at the farm,” a pulse began to throb at his forehead, “that was a camera in the sky. The bastard came too close.” His neck jerked involuntarily to the side. Alex took a short step towards him, then met Noel’s eye and halted. Sweat broke out on Noel’s forehead. Alex turned away.
Silas bent forward on the sofa, his fingers twisting in regret and despair. He seemed close to weeping.
“Come on, Noel’s right,” Alex said firmly. “You tried to draw attention to an environmental issue, nothing more than that. Have any of your people been in touch with you?”
“No-one,” Silas shook his head, “but that was the plan. No contact.”
“And if you get caught you are on your own,” Blue added. “Christ, you must have had faith.”
For a time there was silence, broken by Ruairidh. “Look, let’s leave it,” he pushed himself up from an armchair. “We’re in the fire tomorrow.” He clapped a hand on Silas’ shoulder as he headed towards his cot to pick up a towel. The others began to stir in chairs and sofas.
George yawned, leaning back in an armchair. “Time to turn in,” he said.
It was just then that Baby-face pushed open the Hall door and stepped inside, the photographer following him. They approached the grouped men with assertive strides. Alex looked in surprise at his wristwatch. It was late, nearing eleven o’clock.
“Didn’t hear you knock,” Guy remarked from a chair.
Baby-face halted as he reached the nest of seating. “Apologies,” he said to the uplifted faces staring at him. “I was given access to interview you all, by Rattray and Mackinnon…your boss men.”
“But not by us,” George said laconically, “so why don’t you just fuck off.”
The photographer contemplated the flooring. Ruairidh, who had paused, resumed walking to his cot. Noel remained seated, fair hair darkened by perspiration, his gaze fixed on the two journalists. Silas eyed them both from the sofa, George from his chair. Roland and Guy rose to their feet. Baby-face spoke in a measured tone, his head swivelling to indicate that everyone present was included.
“Look, I’m really sorry to have intruded like this. I was anxious to talk to you about your experiences of the last week. My paper is keen to cover it properly, and so is the Commission. Far too much goes unreported these days. Unless it’s the Chancellor of the Exchequer’s latest brain failure or some freaked-out pop star OD-ing in the bath, events don’t get into print. We have a story here and we want the public to read about it.”
“We do occasionally read the papers,” George said. “In fact we read the colourful crap that you wrote last week. You know, after you spoke with some of us.”
“Wait a bit…” Baby-face pleaded. “Hear me out.”
“What was all that about one of us being an arsonist? ‘Arson Suspected – A Killer Sought’, wasn’t that your big headline after these poor bastards burned to death at the farmhouse?” George persisted.
“Listen to me,” Baby-face begged, “I was there. I heard everything from the survivors. Everything. I had to report it. No choice. It was shocking, what happened.”
“Just a minute,” Ruairidh had overheard and turned from his cot towards both journalists. “You listened to the survivors talking? Then you heard about that low flying helicopter? Where is that copy of the Daily News? You didn’t report the guy filming through the chopper door… Christ, he was one of yours wasn’t he? That chopper was taking photographs for your bloody rag, you bloody bastard…”
Baby-face began to dissemble, but was cut short. Every man of the squad was on his feet, George and Alex snarling, Roland aghast, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth. Guy and Blue cursed aloud. Silas glared at the journalist in rage and disbelief. Ruairidh was repeating, “…your bloody rag…” The hall filled with angry sound.
Noel’s eyes were far away, in smoke and blazing sunshine, staring at two Afghan soldiers dying bloodily torn in the road, seeing the accusing arm rise and point to an unmanned American drone somewhere above whose controller, neatly uniformed in some air-conditioned office, had decided to kill the distasteful aliens on his screen whoever they might be. He left the furious group of men, walked to the cabinet in the corner next his cot and bent to rummage amongst folded clothing there. For several seconds he remained kneeling while he methodically loaded the Browning as his instructor had taught him.
Two years of nightmare controlled him. Death had again come from a sky polluted by sinister machines in remote hands never dirtied by the reality below. These remote controllers were creators of euphemisms like ‘shake and bake’ to divert one from the horrors inflicted by their weaponry. This time it had been a camera in the sky. ‘Safe distance’ was such an enticing concept. But it led to moral detachment, a deep sense of unaccountability. Now, for the first time, Noel was confronted by purveyors of the amoral. He felt serene, fully in control, the soldier once more.
Alex was standing beside an armchair, mouthing furiously at the reporter when Noel walked up, raised the automatic, and fired the classically fatal double tap into Baby-face’s thin breast.
The flat twin reports echoed briefly in the hall. Noel turned towards the stunned photographer, the baby-sitter, and calmly shot him through the head, the crack of the Browning and the thudding of Baby-face’s body against the boarded floor making a uniquely mixed sound.
The photographer jerked back, blood and matter spraying from the rear of his shattered skull, then fell disjointedly, no longer human. Ruairidh remembered the marionette dropped by a puppeteer at a seaside booth.
No-one moved. The bodies began a series of involuntary twitches and broke the silence with intimate little noises. Noel lowered his right arm, the Browning held firmly in hand, and walked outside.
A white Volkswagen sat in moonlight, a key projecting from the driver panel. Noel got in and started the engine. He placed the weapon on the front passenger seat and reached to switch on headlights. Releasing the brake, he drove away from the Community Centre.
Limned in light shining through the open door of the Community Centre, figures watched red tail lights disappear. The peoples’ car turned into the main street then west along the highway which ran beside Loch Sunart.