Sun Dance (63 page)

“Here's the helper,” his mother spotted Eachan on the road, school bag bouncing on his back as he ran, “there's some hurry on him today.” Red cheeked and panting he flopped onto a coil of hay. This wasn't his normal happy canter home. Adult like in its expression of alarm, his young face looked up to us, tense and serious. I glanced questioningly to Eilidh.

“There's a war started.” The abruptness of his outburst startled us both, not least the effect of the horror in his voice. Blue eyes, deep set like his mothers, overflowed with worry. Eilidh spoke first, “Who was telling you this?” Words poured out, “I heard the teachers talking, they were all speaking, there's been a flash on the T.V., I don't know, they weren't telling us, they just seemed frightened.”

The strained look on his small face carried to me the plight of so many children bewildered by the world of grownups that threatened the shelter of childhood; a world in which for the first time a fear of death came to haunt their growing minds. “Will it come here, Dad?” “Don't worry Eachan,” I spoke with a reassurance which I hoped covered my own dismay, “it's not happening here,” and with forced cheerfulness, “what about giving us a hand? We'll need a help to gather these rakings, it'll be the last stack we'll make this year.” The boy looked relieved. Eilidh searched my eyes, “Supper will ready when I give you a wave.” Although the pitch fork was too big for him, Eachan set about lifting the lines of hay. We worked side by side, man and boy.

Old ways are hard to better. Supper started with a plate of porridge and most evenings for a short time the headlines of BBC's six ‘o' clock news overlaid our conversation. Out of choice we had no T.V. and didn't miss it, nor did Eachan seem to feel deprived. Whether about the animals, down to check the boat, or roaming Halasay with his pals, he spent most of his time outside. But there could be no hiding that night's serious concentration on the broadcast.

In spite of the BBC's customary avoidance of any emotion on the part of their newscasters, the sombre tones in carefully measured words conveyed more than a hint of grimness. An overnight pre-emptive strike, deployed from a US station in the Indian Ocean and from bases in Israel had destroyed nuclear installations throughout Iran. Several major fires were burning, including one in Tehran. Heavy radioactive fallout carried by a strong south westerly wind was spreading across Pakistan and up into the mountains of Afghanistan. No reports of Iranian casualties were available. A small number of retaliatory rockets had struck Tel Aviv but did not carry nuclear warheads. Israeli casualties were put at eighty-two dead and over two hundred injured. Our heads bowed in rapt attention. The boy looked from one to another.

Westminster MP's had been recalled from their summer holidays. The Prime Minister would make a statement to the House tomorrow. The United Nations Security Council in New York were meeting in an emergency session. All flights in and out of the Middle East cancelled. Total condemnation in the strongest terms had come immediately from Russia, India, China, and North Korea. Germany, France, the whole of the EU, apart from Britain, had issued warnings. Already people on the streets of Paris and Berlin were massing in protest. Given the gravity of the situation in terms of an international conflagration, the terseness of the report fully amplified the extreme nervousness of the UK Government's position in being America's staunchest ally.

Radiation casualties, an escalation of the conflict; as best we could, we kept our dread of all out nuclear war away from Eachan. He lay in bed that night asking his mother, “Why are they bombing Iran? What will happen to us?” Difficult questions to answer without creating feats of imagination and fear in a young mind. Eilidh finally got him settled down to his bedtime story, a children's tale of adventure about a stowaway on the last windjammer.

I sat alone through in the room. Almost in a state of shock my thoughts wandered over the ramifications of such precipitous action. At least those instantly vaporised at the nuclear sites wouldn't suffer the terminal vomiting of radiation sickness nor endure waiting the months or years before being picked off by the misery of some form of cancer. More insidiously, the land and water supplies upon which millions of some of the worlds poorest depended could remain contaminated for many generations.

I shivered with a feeling of helplessness. Democracy reduced to a capitalist dictatorship. There seemed no way out, the trap was closing, inexorably closing, for the planet's billions the actions of a handful, sane or otherwise, determined the fate of countless innocents. Globally, lethal weapons concentrated in so few trigger happy fingers begged the possibility of unilateral retaliation on the part of some autocrat. TV spin or torture chambers, megalomaniacs on the grandstand of extremism, thriving on the mirage of their own self-belief and the curse of religious rivalry. A planet destroyed by the hand of human ingenuity and the myth of religious truth.

Sanguinary images paraded through my head in a tapestry of carnage. The features of a drunken Anderson persisted in appearing. Again I saw a circle on his chart surrounding the island of Diego Garcia, America's launch pad for this strike. ‘I have a job to do.' Had his vicious rant any significance? No, impossible, pure fantasy, anyway what job? Why wasValkyrie and her hidden cargo radio active, Sandray ----Nuen's major involvement? My temples thumped.

The room faded, Twilight encroached. A fever of uncontrolled thoughts challenged any basis for reality. An idyllic day for us, a cataclysmic end for so many; in the flash of the tube train explosion, I stood on the lip of a precipice, assailed by the dizziness of vertigo.I was falling, swirling into the blackness of an unknown dimension.

Creaking boards dragged me from the edge. Eilidh tiptoed down the stairs. “He's sleeping at last, it wasn't easy to get his mind off war.” I rose and pulled her to me. I needed to look into her eyes, see beyond the darkness. “I can believe you,” was all I could say. Not wanting to cast the shadow of a hopelessness that drained me, I went over to the piano.

Eilidh put her hands on my shoulders and gently rubbed my neck. Softly, I began to play some of our favourites, ‘Bonnie Mary of Argyll, The Rowan Tree, My Ain Folk', the tunes of old Scotia that would not die.

Fragrant steam drifted upwards the elaborate stucco mouldings which corniced his bathroom ceiling. Ingeniously concealed lighting enhanced their delicate filigree. A special commission, they were the work of a much sought after Italian master plasterer of classical taste. A bald head lay back on the cushioned rim of a pool- sized marble and alabaster Jacuzzi. The dilettantish Sir Joshua Goldberg relaxed. How fittingly the whole magnificent effect reflected his appreciation of life's finer aspects.

Nuen's concerns during the gloom and doom days following that nuclear fiasco at Fukushima were no more than the little curls of fragrance lifting off the warmth. These matters are always best left to experts he reflected. How very sensible of these Japanese chappies to take my advice on the PR, what's a drop of radioactive coolant in a pond as big as the Pacific, and really that tsunami, nothing which couldn't be rebuilt, Iraq proved it, godsend to his friends in the construction industry, such a windfall. But, he cautioned himself, one mustn't be envious. The grey hairs on his chest and corpulent midriff winnowed in the swirling waters, already his back felt easier.

In jocular mood he flipped a little water over his bathing companion and confidante, Nick Fellows. “I have to say, Nicky, I wasn't taken by surprise, knew this exciting little Iranian tea party was about to be pulled orf. Pentagon chaps told me as much after our last shipment went out to Diego Garcia. Job well done; only way to deal with these extreme types. No occasion to worry, bit of fallout, it'll soon blow over, mercifully in the right direction,” Goldberg's frame shook with laughter sending ripples round the pool. “By the way, hope you understood my clever little hint the other month. One shouldn't hold back, excuse the pun, it was a golden opportunity to stock up the vaults. Perhaps you did the same?” he enquired innocently, reaching out a hand for his glass of Chateaux Noir, 1993 Special Reserve.

Banker Fellows wriggled his toes, surreptitiously tickling those of Sir Joshua, “I couldn't be more pleased, Joshy, brilliant timing, you must have seen the market today, bedlam in there, billions lost in minutes; suicidal, out of the window stuff. You're such a friend, yes- I improved my position in gold, immeasurably.” Beneath the bubbles, he patted Sir Joshua's chubby thigh, “Up forty percent on the day, maybe another ten at first trading, a little profit- taking then up, up, just lovely. Run on the dollar today, it was pure dysentery.”

Goldberg sipped his wine and whilst fending off Nicky's straying hand he allowed their toes to mingle a little more. “Good boy, how simply divine of you, but please don't be so coarse.” The slight admonishment gave Nuen's Chairman the edge he needed. “Look here Nick, I may require your help,” he squeezed the banker's hand. Fellows moved a little closer. “Not just now, Nicky dear.” No distractions, for the moment. “It is most useful to have an ex- prime minister on one's board, I have it on the highest authority that Britain's nuclear submarine station and weapons storage base is to be privatised.”

Sir Joshua flapped a petulant hand, “Unfortunately it happens to be located on the river Clyde in Scotland. I can't stand the Scots, always poncing around in kilts reciting incoherent nonsense from some philandering poet of theirs.” He patted his friend's hand, “More to the point, the whole of this base is to be sold orf, supposedly to the highest bidder. Naturally I happen know the right people so it's the least problem, easily handled.” Instantly reading the Chairman's intention, a ‘friend' of course, but a banker's evasive mentality first, “How interesting,” he trilled.

Goldberg sniffed, “As you know our last accounts show that I, or rather I should say my company has made a highly rewarding investment with our waste facility on that God forsaken island, turnover's up twenty-five percent so far this year, material's just pouring in. Obviously with our new build reactors in England going ahead, acquiring this naval base is a logical step, it's only half an hour's helicopter away from our island operations. Pentagon is pressing our case within the MOD. The US submarine fleet have used the place for years. It really should be under our control. We're talking large sums, very, and that's where you come in, Nicky dear,” Sir Joshua gripped the banker's hand. “When this deal goes through I need enough finance available for a majority holding. Vertical integration, always wise you know, and I want control.”

Fellows smiled through the steam. Bubbles jetted up from below lifting their two bodies. Thighs touching, they floated side by side. “Joshy, I don't see any difficulty, you have masses of collateral. Dollars sinking like a pricked balloon, the Chinese Government's huge holding of US treasury bonds is such a disappointment to them, and they just love gold. All the Arab States, even Israel, are dumping dollars and buying gold. This smart operation in Iran is such a God send to us, we have plenty of the lovely yellow metal, it could double in value in the next week. Financing your take over will be easy, there's been plenty heat over Iran since yesterday; I always say, make gold whilst the sun shines.”

Goldberg perked up, “Heat, I so glad you mentioned heat, Nicky, Perhaps I haven't told you, but under Nuen's wing,” the turn of phrase pleased him, so clever. He repeated it, “under Nuen's wing, on a world wide basis of course, I'm launching a company which supplies air conditioning systems, houses, factories, whole cities if you like. It's really energy greedy and guess who'll supply the juice? You see Nicky dear, before long, many cities, Houston is one, will become so unbearably hot and sticky the vulnerable, old, sick and what have you, will be swatted like flies. Uptake of my systems will be exponential, for those who can afford it,”

Sir Joshua added with a smirk, “This global warming lark definitely has its plus side. As a scientist myself I can assure you Nicky, it's a lot of hot air,” his reams of fat quaked with laughter. “Heat waves dear boy, everything rises with heat, especially shares in my latest venture, got to put this climate guff to good effect you know.” He smiled at his friend, “Just another of my wheezes to turn an honest coin as they say. I shall call the company, Air Con. Amusing name don't you think? Want me to let you in? “

Nicky wasn't listening. His hand began to wander, excitedly. Sir Joshua didn't object, his mind floated as freely as his body. No wonder the CIA lost interest in that off the record dealing in weapons grade uranium. Nuen's ex-chief executive was safely behind bars and the investigation closed.

This latest strategy lifted Goldberg into paroxysms of delight. Already Nuen enjoyed controlling shares in uranium mining, the control of a major section of the world's nuclear energy production, control of waste storage and soon the overseeing of a US, British and French weapons base. Presidents and Prime Ministers had no option but to consult him on any major international issue. No more waiting in the anti-room, some menial informing him, ‘The President will see you now.' So demeaning.