One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night (42 page)

They say we all have a child within, but that didn’t necessarily mean some soul of innocence and lost dreams. Having borne two, Simone knew there was nothing more selfish in the world than a child, until that child is forced to learn that it must share the place with everyone else. Gavin had been forced to learn that, but it didn’t mean he’d been forced to agree with it, and he’d spent his adult life compensating that child for all the compromises it had endured as a result.

Simone closed her eyes. She didn’t want to face the others. Most women only had to put up with their husband embarrassing them by having a few too many at a dinner party. Still, at least there’d be no morning after.

‘He’s sold us out,’ Davie Murdoch said, neutrally, almost as though he was open to contradiction.

‘No,’ Catherine obliged. ‘Maybe he just panicked. They’ve got a gun to his head, for God’s sake. Maybe he panicked and told them about the bomb.’

Simone opened her eyes again and looked around at the others. They were all seated on or leaning against shelves and table‐
tops, apart from McGregor, who was standing up straight as he tried and retried the laundry depot’s phone, in wait for that vital outside line. ‘He has sold us out,’ she declared. ‘Not only did he probably reckon his chances of getting off were better with the bad guys, but it’s in Gavin’s best financial interests. If he gets off here and this place goes bang, he’d be due a big share of the insurance, plus no doubt payouts from Jack Mills for keeping his mouth shut and in compensation for trying to kill him. We’re screwed.’

‘We’re not screwed,’ Vale countered. ‘And here’s why: the hijackers’ boats have been sunk, so they’ll need to organise another way of getting themselves ashore. That means they’ll have to restore the phone lines at some point.’

‘I’ll keep trying,’ said McGregor.

‘I can’t remember,’ Davie said to Matthew. ‘Did I ever leather Gavin at school?’

‘No.’

‘Fuck.’

‘I’ve got a tone!’

‘Keep it brief. They’ll cut the link again as soon as they’re finished with it.’

‘Sure.’

Nine. Nine. Nine.

Ring.

Ring.

‘Hello. Which service do you require?’

‘Police.’

‘Transferring you now, sir.’

Ring.

Ring.

‘… caller’s number is 717474.’

‘Hello, this is the police. What’s the emergency?’

‘Oh thank Christ. We’ve got a terrorist situation in Kilbokie Bay, on … whit’s the name o’ this place?’

‘Floating Island Paradise Resort.’

‘The Floatin’ Island thingmy. Hijackers and upwards of fifty hostages. There’s a bomb, due to go off in less than an hour. We need transport immediately. That’s the Floa—’

‘Excuse me, sir, can I have your name please?’

‘My name is Insp … Hector McGregor. We need—’

‘Ah, Mr McGregor, yes. This is DS McLeod at Rosstown. I spoke to you earlier today, remember? Your wife has been on the phone in the last hour, to report that you had gone missing from your bed.’

‘Look, never mind my wife, there’s a bo—’

‘She was worried that you might be having some sort of breakdown, or perhaps concussion sustained from that blow to the head earlier today. I can share her concern, Mr McGregor, but nonetheless, you’re the last person I should be having to remind about the seriousness of wasting police time. I think—’

‘Look, I’m tellin’ you, there’s—’

‘… said earlier, retirement from the force can be a difficult thing to get used to, but—’

‘Will you fuckin’ shut up and listen, ya brainless fuckin’ sheep‐
shaggin’ hill‐
billy, in‐
bred teuchter numpty, there’s fifty people trapped on—’

‘Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr…’

‘He hung up!’

‘The
police
hung up?’

‘Eh, well, there was a wee bit of an incident earlier today, Mr Vale. They’re not the most credulous bunch up here.’

‘Oh good grief. Give me the phone.’

‘No. They’re fuckin’ useless anyway. I’ve got a better idea.’

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

Ring.

‘Christ, come on tae fuck.’

Ring.

Ring.

Ri— ‘Hello?’

‘Dougie? It’s Hector, here. No, Molly’s fine. Look, I need your help, an’ I mean seriously. No, she’s no’ kicked me oot again. Listen, Dougie, whit shape’s the
Ha’penny Thing
in?’

When he tried with his mobile, Vale got much the same response from the local polis as McGregor. Quoting his former MI6 rank and serial number to the plod at the other end probably had the opposite effect to that intended, massively detracting from his credibility rather than granting weight to it, but at least it allowed Matt some clue as to the man’s intriguingly murky background.

The lines were cut again moments later, but not before the mad McGregor claimed to have organised some means of evacuation, on his brother‐
in‐
law’s fishing trawler. The very pertinent question was whether it would make the trip from Portmeddie, along the coast, in the forty‐
five minutes they had left at that point. By McGregor’s own admission, it was going to be tight.

‘I’m sure Dougie’ll row his hardest,’ he’d said. It took Matt a deeply disturbing second to realise the man was joking.

It had been Vale’s recommendation that they get out of the laundry depot and head upstairs, contending that if Gavin had told Connor about the bomb, there was no reason why he wouldn’t also have betrayed where they were hiding out. Having ascertained that everyone was up to the ascent, he suggested they make for the top floor, where they could look out for the approaches of the
Ha’penny Thing
and whatever transport Connor had hailed, as well as keeping an eye on what was happening at the Carlton. Vale and Matt handed their pistols to Catherine and Davie respectively, and off they all set in two‐
by‐
two cover formation: Vale and McGregor in front, Davie and Catherine next, Simone and Matt the rearguard.

Their climb took them past one end of the Laguna’s lobby, from where Matt could see the reception desks and the entrance to the ballroom. The last time he’d stood by the former, the biggest problem he had to contend with was the mildly ironic news that the object of his rekindled teenage yearnings was married with kids. The last time he’d passed through the latter, he was holding her hand, imagining scenarios in which her husband was out of the picture.

This, despite fulfilling the principal criterion, had not been one of them.

Vale set his laptop down on the floor next to the Orchid suite’s double doors, having plugged his cable into a ‘node’ socket outside in the hallway. Davie and Catherine were on the balcony, looking alternately towards the Carlton and beyond the platform at the black waters below. The curtains were closed behind them, to hide the light that was streaming into the room through the double doors. These were open to allow vocal communication between the Orchid suite and the water‐
side bedroom opposite, where McGregor had shot the glass from the sealed and double‐
glazed windows. Having delegated computer duties to Simone, Vale joined the ex‐
cop in leaning out and scanning the view to the south, but so far there was nothing but darkness to look at.

Simone raided the suite’s fridge and handed out soft drinks, then returned to monitoring the laptop. Matt stood guard in the doorway, keeping his eyes and his gun trained on the stairhead down the hall.

He looked at his watch with gut‐
deep dread. He’d just endured the longest couple of hours of his life, only to segue straight into what would undoubtedly be the shortest forty‐
five minutes. Showtime was twelve thirty‐
eight. McGregor had raised help at 11:54 and it was already twelve zero‐
three. There
were
still sixty seconds to a minute these days, weren’t there?

‘Any sign?’ he called to McGregor.

‘Ach, naw,’ he replied calmly. ‘We’ll no’ see him until he’s quite close, anyway. He’ll be oot o’ sight until he’s round the headland.’

Terrific, Matt thought. Maybe they could restart his heart once they got him onboard.

‘A good thing, too,’ Vale remarked. ‘Our best chance is if the hijackers have left on their boat before ours becomes visible. They can’t afford for us to escape, remember, so if they see the
Ha’penny Thing
, they’ll blow it out of the water with their rockets.’

‘And what do we do then?’

‘Overboard and every man for himself.’

Christ. The phrase had chilling, specific connotations. Thanks a bunch, Ms Bambridge. Cheers, Mr Cameron. True, it wasn’t the North Atlantic in midwinter, but then freezing wasn’t likely to be the problem. Forecast temperatures were going to be in the region of three thousand degrees, due to an area of extremely high pressure centred around an exploding oil rig.

It had been decided not to tell the group in the Carlton about the bomb until such time as it would be of any help for them to know. The eventuality Vale just described definitely qualified, and there’d be a very short queue to be the one who broke the news.

Simone glanced up at Matt from where she knelt on the floor by the computer. ‘That wasn’t bollocks, by the way?’ she asked.

‘That stuff you said about me being the one you had a thing for at school?’

‘Absolutely not,’ he assured her, surprisingly able to raise a small laugh. ‘Why?’

‘Well, I was just thinking: hell of a first date.’

‘Aye, you cannae say I don’t know how to show a girl a good time.’

‘No. But maybe just dinner next time, eh?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Or a take‐
away an’ a couple o’ videos.’

Matt looked at her face, seeing again the girl he had once been so unheraldedly captivated by, and the equally beguiling woman she had grown into. He had only caught a glimpse of her tonight, he knew. He realised that he wanted to meet her daughters, to see what they looked like, see her beside them, see her complete. Nothing juvenile, nothing sentimental, nothing daft, nothing heavy: he just wanted to know her, properly, like adults, like grown‐
ups, like pals. But then what were the chances of that, guns and explosives aside? Tonight had been insane even before the hijackers showed up. Strange and unique circumstances, never to be repeated. If they made it through this thing alive, she wasn’t going to let a shambles like him near her new life. And if he really cared for Simone, he wouldn’t try and inflict himself on her, anyway.

‘Are you up for a next time?’ she asked. She was smiling, but her lip trembled a little. ‘I mean, you wouldn’t want to get yourself involved with one of these single mothers, would you?’

Matt recalled his last thought. If he cared for her, he should stay away. That’s what his conscience told him, still diligently operating despite how fucking hypothetical this whole thing was. Then he recalled the last time he’d listened to his conscience – dried, purple‐
black mementoes of which were still flaking off his trousers.

‘Haud me back,’ he said.

The curtains billowed suddenly at the front of the room as Catherine stuck her head through them.

‘Get Vale,’ she said urgently. ‘Something’s happening downstairs.’

Simone looked back at the laptop and began toggling through the windows.

‘Tim!’ Matt called. ‘Action out front.’

Vale bounded nimbly into the suite and crouched beside Simone to get a closer view of the screen. He had a brief look, then got up and headed for the balcony. Matt made to follow but was curtly ordered to ‘Stay at your post’. Matt had littered tours with the smashed egos of hecklers, from Hollywood to Linwood, Brooklyn to Brechin, but this was one night when he’d happily keep his comebacks to himself, especially where Death’s Dark Vale was concerned.

‘What can you see?’ Matt asked Simone.

‘They’re doing something at the front of the Carlton. There’s some of them inside the lobby. I can’t see properly. The image is too fuzzy. Oh, shite.’

‘What?’

‘The ones outside have got one of those … I mean, I think … have a look yourself. That’s … isn’t it?’

‘Jesus.
Vale
!’

‘I know, I know, fire in the hold,’ Vale said, coming back in from the balcony. ‘They’ve started blazes in the Carlton lobby. They’re getting ready to pull out, and this is their version of cover fire – to keep the good guys at bay while they get down to the jetty.’

‘No,’ Matt said, pointing out the rocket launcher on the laptop. ‘I think
that
’s their version of cover fire.’

Vale looked at the screen.

‘Bugger,’ he said.

This was like the sickest kind of psychological torture, Ally thought. Standing there forever, scared out of your mind, waiting and dreading and waiting and dreading, the seconds and minutes ticking on, the tension growing, the pressure building, and still nothing happening. He almost
wanted
the fighting to begin, if only for some kind of release, all the time aware of Jackson’s words about what would happen when Connor decided his time limit had expired.

The pressure had been cranked up at least a full atmosphere when Jim Murray, who was on look‐
out at the front windows, announced that the baddies were amassing on the terrace. It went up another when he reported that a group of them had run inside. Then after that, nothing. Just more waiting, impossible waiting. How long could it take them to climb the fucking stairs? he’d begun to ask himself. He’d even heard footsteps close below at one point, followed by … more nothing. In time, Jackson came by again and suggested that Connor’s men may have sussed the set‐
up then pulled back to consider a change of plan.

Aware of how limited those change‐
of‐
plan possibilities might be, Jackson pulled everyone who wasn’t on look‐
out or guard duty to the very back of the restaurant, ordering a couple of them to dismantle the rearmost barricade. Jackson transferred Ally to guarding that now most crucial stairway, then handed his own Nagan automatic to Eddie Milton and stationed him at Ally’s previous post. Ally decided to keep to himself the tales of Eddie being stung by a dead wasp or knocked unconscious by a pillar while playing tig. Jackson could have done without knowing, and Eddie could certainly have done without reminding. Just as long as he didn’t blow his own – or Ally’s – head off.