2084 The End of Days (13 page)

“Get oot o’ here ye bloody wee scamp!”

Ewan took great pleasure at shouting back as he free-wheeled back down the hill.

“I’m going to work there one day!”

The security guards just laughed at him as he cycled off each time with a flea in his ear. The second important event in that same last year of primary school for Ewan was that his teacher Mrs Hunter had selected two boys and two girls in the class to sit the entrance exam for the prestigious Glasgow High School. Ewan was one of the boys. Ewan’s mother Jessie was against this because her
‘baby’
would be away in Glasgow during the school year. John-Archie argued Ewan’s case.

“For goodness sake, woman, it’s not as if the boy is going to outer space! He’s only going to Glasgow and it is only 45 minutes away on the new helijet service from the Machair. I’ve spoken with Margaret and she and Jim have agreed Ewan can have their spare room. They’re practically round the corner from the school where they are in Anderston. And anyway the boy hasn’t even passed the exam so who knows whether he’ll get in or not?”

After buckets of tears from Jessie and pleading from Ewan she relented and Ewan sat the exam in late March. Jessie had an unmarried cousin Bella McAffer who was also very maternalistic and sympathetic to the cause. Bella comforted Jessie with optimistic thoughts of failure.

“We’ll let Ewan sit the exam then. We could be lucky Jessie and he’ll not be getting in to the Glasgow High School.”

Although the competition for places at Glasgow High was fierce Ewan passed with flying colours, as did shrewd Mrs Hunter’s other three applicants from Port Ellen Primary. The results had come through with only two weeks to go until the summer holidays and Mrs Hunter asked the two boys and two girls to stand up at their desks in class.

“Peter McEachern, Ewan Sinclair, Elizabeth MacFie and Mhairi Gillespie have all been accepted for places at the Glasgow High School. It is a great honour for Port Ellen Primary to have had all four sit the exam and all four pass with such distinction. I would like to say to all four of you – children, I am proud of your wonderful achievement. Class please show your appreciation?”

Ewan’s chest swelled to bursting as the whole class burst into a raucous round of applause and cheering. A week before First Year was to begin Ewan had settled into his sister Margaret and husband Jim’s spacious apartment in the large Edwardian-façade terrace on the corner of Cleveland Street and Kent Road in the Anderston district of Glasgow. It faced the magnificent Victorian edifice, the Mitchell Library, which Ewan would spend many hours of study and research in. Margaret was the oldest of the four Sinclair children and she was 13 years older than Ewan. She and Jim did not have any children and it did not look like they would ever have any. Jim was one of the growing ranks of infertile males spreading around the globe like a virus with no finite causation as yet identified. That week before school started was like a holiday in the big city for the wee Islay boy. Margaret and Jim took him to Pollok Estate and the Burrell Collection, Kelvingrove Art Gallery, the Riverside Transport Museum on the north side of the River Clyde and Ewan’s favourite. It was the Glasgow Science Centre on the opposite side of the river from the Transport Museum. Anything to do with space in that museum and Margaret would end up having to drag Ewan onwards. The impressive blond-sandstone Glasgow High School was situated on the other side of the bridge which crossed over the M8 motorway, on Elmbank Street in the Blythswood district. Rev John-Archie and Jessie had come to stay in Glasgow and to support Ewan through his first week at the High School. Although Margaret’s flat was big she only had the one spare room, which Ewan was using and his parents booked into the nearby Glasgow Hilton to make a holiday of it. On the Monday morning John-Archie and Jessie came over to Margaret’s for breakfast and to see their
‘big boy’
get into his smart new dark blue uniform with the High School crest emblazoned proudly on the jacket pocket. After breakfast and tearful hugs from his father and sister, Ewan walked the short distance from Cleveland Street to Elmbank Street with his mother Jessie beside him. They walked quietly and watched the rush-hour traffic go by. The electri-cars, trucks and taxis clogging up the M8 trying to get into the city and also above them the build-up of air-car traffic in the lower air lanes and helijets in the upper lanes. As they turned off Bath Street into Elmbank Street they could see the hordes of parents and children streaming into the school gates. Jessie put her arm around Ewan’s shoulder and reassured him.

“I’m awful proud of you son. Remember to always push yourself to achieve your goals. If you work hard then you can play hard.”

“Okay, mum - thanks.”

The first week went past in a blur of timetables, new teachers, new friends and the new concept to Ewan of moving from one subject to another. By the end of the week when his parents were due to return home to Lagavulin, Ewan was absolutely exhausted at school. His parents were driving back in John-Archie’s new Honda Xe electri-car and then catching the huge CalMac catamaran super-ferry which skimmed between the pier at Kennacraig on West Loch Tarbert and Port Ellen Ferry Terminal on Islay. It departed Kennacraig at 7pm, the last crossing on the Friday night during the summer timetable and they were ready to leave from Margaret’s more or less as soon as Ewan came home. Ewan came into the flat at 4.25pm and saw his parents standing beside their packed bags and saying their last goodbyes to Margaret. Jessie turned round to look at her drained and emotionally charged son biting his lip and she tried to remain upbeat.

“Here’s my big boy. Well, how was your first week at the big school?”

Ewan just grabbed his mother’s waist and clung onto her sobbing his heart out. He was not actually quite sure what was making him cry so dejectedly, because the High School was everything that he had hoped it would be. Jessie asked him optimistically if he would rather go back to Bowmore Academy instead. However, Ewan was insistent.

“No, I love my school. I don’t know why I’m crying.”

After that first emotional week Ewan settled right in to the High School routine and he excelled in all his subjects and especially Physics, Mathematics and Computer Science. In his third year Ewan chose to be streamed into the science subjects and it was in his new Maths and Computing classes that he met Gary Mackintosh and they became firm friends, although they were two completely different personalities. Although Ewan did not know it at the time Jill Geeson was in the year below him at Glasgow High, although she chose to be streamed in English Lit subjects rather than science. It was a few years later after they had all graduated that Gary introduced Ewan to Jill at a party. They had become lovers for just short of a year when Jill up and took the job at the London Times. Ewan was more heartbroken at losing Jill than he would admit, even to Gary. After the High School Ewan became the first Sinclair to get a place at Oxford University reading in physics, applied mathematics and cosmic sciences. In his third year at Oxford he required to take a placement and, of course, Ewan chose to work at the Royal Observatory on the Mull of Oa back at home on Islay. By that time his parents had sold the larger farmstead at Surnaig and moved to the small house at Dunyveg on the other side of the sea lochan at Lagavulin. Ewan preferred to be in his own place so he rented a flat on Frederick Crescent near the pier at Port Ellen. During the week he worked and researched up at the observatory and at the weekends he took a job with CalMac on the super-ferries which ran between Port Ellen and Kennacraig and also between Port Ellen – Port Askaig and up north to Oban. Although his parents were still part funding him they joked that the ferry job helped ‘keep him afloat’. Up on the Oa Ewan became an expert on the huge CORSAIR telescope and the astrophysicists who worked there were enormously impressed at his deft handling of the huge reflector. Ewan graduated with a First in Astrophysics from Oxford and again his parents were enormously proud of him.

“And now we’ll sing the Benediction…“

The sound of an off-key note on the organ startled Ewan back to the present in the Round Church. John-Archie nudged him to stand and sing as the minister and the two elders on duty walked up the aisle to the front door, which looked down the hill to the old Bowmore distillery buildings and the cold grey February waters of dark Lochindaal.

“Praise God from whom all blessings flow, Praise him all creatures here below, Praise him above ye Heavenly host, Praise Father, Son and Holy Ghost.”

Chapter 9

Earthdate: 17:55 Sunday February 9, 2081 GMT

S
he looked at the small packet lying on the breakfast bar like it was some sort of deadly toxic chemical, totally untouchable. Jill had tossed it on there just over an hour ago when she had come back to her flat and now she could not bring herself to pick it up again. She had slept in bed until about 1 o’clock on the Sunday afternoon. She then dragged herself into the kitchen still feeling groggy and nauseous. Jill told herself that she had knocked her body clock’s biorhythms out of synch lately and last night’s reporting in Windsor had made things worse. She would go to the local Boots the Chemist in Richmond and ask them for something to help. She was also ravenous, after having eaten only the McDonalds Happy Meal and the chocolate fudge cake yesterday, and so she made herself a huge toasted BLT with three slices of brown bread. She wolfed it all down with two large mugs of Nescafe instant and exclaimed aloud to herself.

“God - ah needed that. Ah was starving!”

Jill went on to her laptop and connected to the Times on Sunday website. Her article was right there in bold Technicolor emblazoned on the Bloid home page alongside dramatic photographs of the tragedy at Windsor. She noted with satisfaction that Buckley had even used two of the dozen or so photos that she had emailed to him. Jill read her piece with satisfaction and particularly reviewed it to see what Bill Buckley might have changed in her original transcript.

“Buckin’ never made a change at all!”

Jill read Buckley’s editorial and she had to hand it to her experienced boss, it was sharp and incisive as per usual. She hoped one day in time she would be in the boss’s shoes and she could write as effortlessly as William J Buckley. Her thoughts went back to last night’s awful and historic tragedy and she turned from the impersonal professional journalist’s article that she had written, to the personal and emotional feelings that now welled up inside her. She had not known Prince Edward well. She had been introduced briefly to him at the same Windsor garden party that she had taken Khan to, the one where she had also met Queen Elizabeth and Prince David. Having shaken the hand of someone who had just last night been blown to Kingdom Come sent a creeping shiver up her spine. Again she had not known Aisha al-Gazari too well either, but they had spoken for a few fleeting moments at the garden party. They talked press speak together and exchanged business cards. Once a few months later Aisha had phoned Jill at the Times with a question but Jill could only refer Aisha on to the Times’ Royal Correspondent for an answer. There had been unsubstantiated rumours in press circles that Edward, the world’s most eligible bachelor, and Aisha, the gorgeous dark smouldering daughter of a minor Saudi Royal, were lovers, but that had certainly been well suppressed within British press circles. No doubt, Jill thought, it will be alleged on the home pages of Das Bild, Paris Match and Le Monde within the next day or two as they try to maintain the momentum of the tragic story. She switched on the BBC to catch up with the latest news and a sickly feeling arose in her stomach making her chide herself.

“For goodness sake. Ah thought you were havin’ the day off and here you are still working!”

It was now a quarter past one and the BBC anchorman looked grim.

“In breaking news on last night’s tragedy at Windsor we are going straight to the Metropolitan Police HQ where Superintendent, sorry, Chief Superintendent Mike Hollingsworth is about to give a statement to the waiting world media –“

The programme immediately switched over to the Met Office headquarters and Hollingsworth looked even grimmer than the anchorman as he stood in front of an array of microphones. He waited momentarily as dozens of press photographers flashed again and again to get their press pictures and then he spoke slowly and deliberately. Jill sat glued to the box.

“As I intimated at Windsor last night at the scene of the most indescribable horror, I am now in a position to release a further statement on the ongoing and as yet incomplete investigation into the tragedy –“

Hollingsworth took a deep inhalation and steadied himself. The world was waiting with bated breath and this was
his
fifteen minutes of fame.

“Our initial investigations have led us to determine that the crash of the Royal air-limousine outside Windsor Castle last evening, which has resulted in the deaths of six persons, including His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales, was as the result of a remotely-triggered explosive device…”

Jill gaped at the TV. Hollingsworth was interrupted by an audible gasp from the media surrounding him and the flashing cameras went ballistic. Journalists started screaming out questions and they had to be quietened by the Met’s Press Officer sitting beside Hollingsworth.

“Quiet! Quiet please! Chief Superintendent Hollingsworth will not be taking any questions at this time. Please allow him to finish his statement –“

The hubbub slowly settled and Hollingsworth continued.

“As I said a minute ago, and I will reiterate, the crash was as a result of an explosive device and in consequence, I have stepped up the investigation to that of a deliberate and callous act of serious criminal terrorism, which has resulted in the assassination and cold calculated murder of the following persons. I am now in a position to formally name all six. They are His Royal Highness, Edward, Prince of Wales, Royal Protection Officer Ernest Victor Clark, 41, of Crawley, Surrey, Royal Chauffeur Harold Cresswell Poll, 47, of Reading, Berkshire, Royal Press Aide-de-camp Aisha al-Gazari, 26, a Saudi national of West Kensington, London, Maud Beatrice Hepplestone, 73, of Windsor, Berkshire and Jonathan Vernon Meechan, 16, a pupil at Eton School and of Salisbury in Wiltshire. Our condolences and sympathies are extended to the Royal Family and to all the families and friends of all six victims who were so cruelly murdered last night.”

Hollingsworth paused for dramatic effect before continuing.

“As you will all be fully aware it is almost fifty years since a terrorist atrocity, certainly of this magnitude, has taken place on mainland Britain. I can assure you that the British Police and the National Security Services have not been complacent over that extended period of peace on these shores and that we have remained vigilant at all times. However, at present, although we have had no information on the radar screen, so to speak, we now have to assume that a terrorist or terrorist cell is operating in this country at present. Our current assumption is that this dastardly crime is too complex to have been carried out by one individual working alone and therefore, we believe that we are currently hunting for an extremely adept and cunning group of terrorists. It is our aim to bring these desperate and cowardly criminals to justice and we will leave no stone unturned to meet that aim. At this time I do not intend to make any further comment except to say that it is still hoped that Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elizabeth will address the nation from Buckingham Palace at 3 o’clock. That is all, thank you!”

Hollingsworth marched off camera to a roar of unanswered questions and flashing cameras. Jill had sat in front of her 3DTV completely mesmerised and she wondered who was covering it for the Times on Sunday. Probably the Royal Correspondent or the Senior Crime Reporter, but the way she was feeling herself at that moment she was glad they had not phoned her to ‘get her arse’ down to the Met Office. Then Jill thought, a terrorist assassination in Britain after 50 years! Who? Why? She felt like picking up the phone and asking Khan if he had seen the news. Had he seen that the poor girl Aisha they had met at Windsor was dead too? But the way she was feeling at that very moment she resisted calling him. Jill was feeling so fragile that she felt that she would break down emotionally on the phone and she did not want to show Khan any weakness. By the time Queen Elizabeth came on TV to make her address to the nation, Jill was feeling so groggy and poorly she was finding it difficult to listen and take it all in. Jill was still able to marvel at how stoic and stiff upper lipped these Royals managed to project themselves, even in their worst tragedies. It was like they were born to act out life in a Shakespearian Tragedy. Jill groaned at the TV.

“Christ sake, Lizzie, break down, girl - you’ve just lost your oldest son!”

Jill could not take any more. She had to go down to Boots and get something or she would not be fit for work on Monday. She slipped on her winter jacket, grabbed the keys and left Queen Elizabeth speaking to her empty studio flat. Jill zipped down on Khan’s air-bike and headed for Richmond High Street. In the air above Kew on the bike Jill suddenly had a brainstorm! Surely not, she questioned herself. In the empty Boots shop, the women behind the pharmacy counter were glued to the Queen’s address and one of them was sobbing pitifully in a Cockney accent to her colleagues.

“I’d just die if I had lost me o-oldest son. Can’t think how Her M-Majesty can put hersel’ up there like that – bloomin’ marvellous!?”

Jill knew that the women would be annoyed at being interrupted so she quickly asked for the packet and zipped back to Kew. And now here she was at quarter past six looking at the blue and white printed packet and asking of herself, will she, won’t she? Thirty minutes later she stared numbly down at the white plastic strip with the cheap USB cable plugged into her laptop. She then dared herself to look at the monitor. She looked up and gasped in
shock as she read the bold type.

“CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE POSITIVE!”

*

The Group sat crowded together in Room 101 on the first floor of the Ardvasar Hotel on Skye, the room that Dick Threlfall had moved Hassan Ben Ali into from the cramped damp single room downstairs. As Mahmoud had planned, they had earlier spent the snow-filled day in the hotel lounge keeping Threlfall and the Slovakian barman Oliç as involved with them as much as they possibly could. The Group spent the alibi money like it was going out of fashion and Threlfall would never forget such unbounded generosity. Maybe business was picking up after all, Threlfall thought. The Mohammad brothers sat on the end of the lumpy creaky old double bed, Hassan and Mahmoud each sat in small uncomfortable wooden chairs and Khan, who looked pensive and slightly detached from the others, sat perched like a hawk on the narrow wooden window sill. He could not see it behind him, but the snow, which had fallen all day on Skye was still falling lazily and heavily. Mahmoud reached into a white carrier bag and pulled out a presentation box containing a bottle of 16 year-old Talisker malt whisky and held it high above his head like some great victorious trophy being held aloft in triumph.

“Allahu akbar!”

Mahmoud gave the cry
‘
Allah is the Greatest
’
but he was careful not to raise his voice too loudly for fear of arousing the suspicions of any unlikely infidel who happened to be in the vicinity of Hassan’s room. Hassan and the Mohammads responded in amusement at having to mute their cheers.

“Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”

Mahmoud noted out of the corner of his eye that Khan had remained sulkily silent as he sat aloof on the window sill, his dark eyes watching through hawkish slits.

“Khan, my brother, tonight we drink a toast to the success of our mission. Our Palestinian brother is now in hiding at a safe house in the north of England. Allah is pleased, our Brothers of Jihad are pleased and I have been told that Brother Suleiman is proud of our great achievement for the cause of Islam and our great God Allah –“

Mahmoud, who had bought the Talisker from Threlfall’s bar at an exorbitant price, started pouring whiskies into five glasses from the bar that he had borrowed from Oliç, making sure that Oliç received a memorable £20 tip for his trouble. Khan, who was obviously uptight, vented his spleen at Mahmoud.

“So, brother, we drink the infidel poison in the name of Allah? You know it is forbidden under Shariah law!”

The youngest member of the group Mossab Mohammad half rose off the bed and tried to calm the rising tension in the heavily claustrophobic room.

“Khan – surely Allah will allow us this one little indiscretion…?”

Khan let out a bitter sardonic laugh which forced Mossab to sit slowly back onto his perch on the bed. Khan spoke with a sharp hiss.

“Yes – Allah will allow us just one little indiscretion. Does Allah forget that we have been involved in the deaths of six human beings, my brother - Mossab!?”

Mahmoud jumped in between Khan and Mossab who were glaring at each other with black bitter hate-filled stares. Mahmoud spoke with assertive pacification.

“Khan! Enough! We are all
mujihadeen –
al-jihad fi sabil Allah!
We celebrate because we have won a great victory last night in the name of our blessed God over the
infidel
scum!”

Mahmoud El Kharroubi, although sounding to the others like a man rising to anger, knew exactly what he was saying. He suspected what was eating at Khan’s black heart and he intended to shake it out of him. Khan rose easily to Mahmoud’s bait. Khan struck back with rising venom in his hissing voice.

“Yes, my brother – Mahmoud. Please can you pour me a Scotch to celebrate striking at the heart of the infidel scum? I would like that. Of course, Aisha was not infidel scum, was she -?”

Mahmoud raised his palms towards his Kuwaiti friend in a placatory motion.

“Khan, my friend, Aisha is now a martyr sitting at the right hand of Allah.”

Khan sprung like a striking hooded cobra from the window sill spitting poisonous venom at El Kharroubi who jerked back his head and shoulders at Khan’s verbal assault.

“AISHA WAS NOT MEANT TO BE IN THE CAR! I’m going to kill that Palestinian bastard -!!”

Hassan intervened with a puzzled look on his face.

“- But, Khan, your white girl? Jill -?”

Khan swivelled his cobra-hooded stare around to Hassan.

“Are you all so naïve? Jill Geeson was a front – a means to an end! I loved my beautiful Aisha and when I get that bastard from Gaza, I’ll…”