We Float Upon a Painted Sea Read online

  When the tremors first occurred the natives would curse and mutter expletives under their breaths, but now they were part of everyday life, something they reluctantly accepted. There were some jobs but not as many as had been promised. A drilling accident had polluted the sea around the island with hydraulic fracturing fluid and the local marine life started to die back - the production company had denied responsibility. Later, the fishing industry collapsed and the local fish processing factory went into administration. Some locals found jobs eking out a living from the land or the black market, but those that could, took jobs on the rigs, rather than return to the mainland, where tales of flooding, food shortages and street rioting were rife.

  McIntyre watched the lobster boat hurdle a large swell. He held his breath and then gasped in relief when Donald MacNeil waved to him in the distance. Smiling, he returned to the Harbour Master’s office. He examined the Commandant’s face. He was expecting his skin to be tanned after his holiday, but it was a shade of grey only described on a painter's chart. Finally, McIntyre said,

  “One of the local fishermen...

  “Fishermen?” interrupted the Commandant, shifting his eyes to the ceiling, “I come from a long tradition of fishermen.”

  “You mean your family own a salmon farming company in Harris – it hardly makes you the Old Man of the Sea does it? ”

  “I know a fisherman when I see one, and they are not fishermen.”

  “Anyway, the fishing industry collapsed since our new fracking friends moved into the area, so what else are they to do apart from picking up the odd crab?” The Commandant frowned and said,

  “As long as that's all they are doing. I heard reports that some fishermen have been unloading the odd crate of Poitín with their catch of the day.”

  “I wouldn't know about that, but as I said, times are tough with subsistence fishing since aquaculture squeezed them out the market.”

  “Ok Mac, if I wanted a lecture on the fishing industry, I’d call someone at the Marine Conservation Alliance.”

  “The MCA got shut down years ago Saul, or didn’t you hear?” The Commandant looked at the antique clock hanging on the wall.

  “I know, I was just saying. Can you get on with your updates?”

  “Aye, if you like, but I keep getting the feeling I’m repeating myself here.” The Commandant sighed,

  “I don’t like virtual presence technology. I don’t feel comfortable communicating with a collection of shape-shifting nano-bots. I like it face to face.”

  “Well, that’s true. All digital data is analysed by someone these days, but as long as you have nothing to hide, then what’s the problem right?” said McIntyre sarcastically. The Commandant replied tartly,

  “Let’s not revisit that old chestnut. I wanted to see you anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re family. You’re married to my sister.”

  “We’re divorced Saul, or have you forgotten?”

  “We don’t recognise the concept of divorce, but we’ll talk about what you did to my sister another time. Continue with the updates.”

  “As I said to your 3D projection, we were unable to shed any light onto why so many naval vessels were present in that area. Usually, we are given prior warning if there’s going to be any exercises, but not this time. The satellites are down and the Lidar surveillance system needs calibrated, but strangest of all, the MoDs have instated a no-go zone with a forty mile radius of St Kilda. I was put through to someone called Myron, a big MoDs cheese I believe. He was a cagey bastard, Saul.”

  “Mac, I don’t mind you calling me by my first name in private, as we are here,” the Commandant waved his hand as if to introduce the room, “but for future reference, please address me as Sir when we are in company. You do understand the chain of command?”

  “Aye, anyway, Saul, as I said earlier, Myron at the MoDs said there were a few technical hitches with the satellites thermal imaging capabilities and we should sit tight until they come back online. He said MoDs will be coordinating search and rescue operations for now. I told him he was full of shite and that there was no way this wave was a result of a fracking tremor, and if it was, the Coast Guard, and not the Military would be leading search and rescue. I asked him what he was hiding.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said to follow orders or he would pull some strings and I would be cleaning out public toilets back in Glasgow.”

  “And what did you say to that?”

  “I might have called him a wee piss weasel, but I couldn’t confirm that.” The Commandant brought his fist down on the desk.

  “This isn’t normal protocol Rob," he wailed, “this Myron boy is keeping the Coastguard out of the loop. Nothing ever happens out here in this backwater, and now we have a natural disaster, we’re treated like lepers and told to stay away.” McIntyre expanded the 3D map of St Kilda to display more of the British Isles and beyond. He pointed to the fault line in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean stretching north to Iceland and said,

  “It’s obviously not a natural disaster Saul. I mean, there’s no history of natural seismic activity in the Outer Hebrides. There is a fault line running the mid-Atlantic ridge but no plate boundary subduction zones. It’s likely to be related to shale extraction on an existing stressed fault line, or possibly a military operation. If was a natural occurrence, then it wouldn't be subject to a news blackout.”

  “Whatever it is, I smell bull ploppy.”

  “Bull ploppy?” stated McIntyre, wrestling with a blossoming grin.

  “Its something the wife says instead of saying shite. She even made me a frickin swear jar! I need to put a coin in the jar every time I frickin swear, can you frickin believe that?” The Commandant dropped a coin in a glass jar and looked up at McIntyre.

  “Have I said something that amuses you Mac?” McIntyre shook his head. Fighting the urge to laugh, he said,

  “I don’t even know if frickin is an actual swearword Saul?”

  “Maybe its not a swear word in your house. Sorry, you don’t live in a house do you, you live in a caravan infested with earwigs.”

  “Only since your sister threw me out – it’s not through choice. Anyway, its a pod, not a caravan and they’re not so bad once you get used to them, the pod that is, not the earwigs. They’re wee frickers as you would say.”

  “As I said, we’ll talk about Morag later. What about the new lad? Wasn’t he due to start today?”

  “As I told your virtual-self last night, he was getting the ferry from Ullapool yesterday, but he didn’t show. I hope he’s alright.”

  “Was he on the new hydrogen cell boat?”

  “It’s not hydrogen fuelled Saul, it’s a reactor that electrolyses sea water into…” The Commandant frowned and said,

  “You think yourself so intellectually superior don't you? If I wanted a lecture on marine propulsion, I’d call the Royal Engineers. Well, whatever it does, the prototype ship has gone and taken the new technology to the bottom of the frickin Atlantic Ocean. Is there anything more I need to know?”

  “There are a few other complications. According to one of my contacts in Norway, a Green Movement ship tried to disrupt a Russian drilling operation in the Arctic. A few Hedge Monkeys got arrested and one got shot, but the Earth Liberation Front captured several Russian security personnel and ransomed them in exchange for activist prisoners. The GM Catamaran fled here, to St Kilda, with a Russian surveillance ship picking up their trail. But get this; the Russian ship was hit by the wave when entering shallower waters.” The Commandant flushed with irritation. He reached inside his trouser pocket and took out a coin. He put it in the swear jar.

  “What the frick have the ELF got to do with this?”

  “They’ve upped their game. I suppose this is the fruits of their labour.” McIntyre emphasised his use of the word suppose, knowing it was one of several words the Commandant hated. He failed to take the bait this time. McIntyre continued,” They also sabotaged
a Russian oil rig and destroyed a military surveillance base so they couldn't be followed. I suppose you need to admire their balls?”

  “You sound as if you approve of what they did?”

  “I suppose I’m ambivalent Saul, but you must admit, the Russians have had this coming. They opened up the old gulags in Siberia just to process the amount of detained greenies, so the animosity between them has been brewing.” The Commandant appeared anxious. He exhaled loudly and then said,

  “The Russian Government doesn't concern me. I need to know what happened in British waters. I want to know how can MoDs conduct search and rescue operations when the satellites are down?”

  “They’re relying on good old fashioned radar I suppose.” Finally, the Commandant took the bait. He grimaced and raised both his hands to make a quotation sign and said,

  “You don’t get paid to suppose, Mac. Find out what they are up to.

  “As you instructed, Jansen and Lennox have taken a cutter up to Loch Ghlinne to see what they're up to, but they haven’t reported back yet.”

  “What about your contacts for frick sake - you used to work in Communications, didn’t you? Isn’t your brother some Government big wig? Do some more raking about. Get me some answers!”

  McIntyre turned away from the Commandant and walked to the window - he didn’t want him to see his face flush with irritation. He resented his elder brother, Raymond being brought into the conversation. He hadn’t heard a word from him in eight years, and then last week he received a message requesting he contact him. He ignored it. McIntyre rubbed the temples of his head with his forefingers to alleviate the pressure. Finally, he turned to the Commandant and said,

  “Another thing. The MoDs communications centre up on the hill is being mothballed again. They tried to keep it hushed up, but you know how these things leak out.”

  “I thought with all the recent developments there would be a reprieve? This is a mess.”

  “I’m presuming that the MoDs new satellite network will be up and running again, so there is little use for ground surveillance.” The Commandant paused for a moment and straightened his tie. He said,

  “So we’re hanging around like farts in a trance! I’ve seen this before. Funding redirected to pay for enforcing more frickin curfews and anti-terrorism personnel? We’ve already got Islamic fundamentalist running amuck, don’t get me started on those beggars, but now we have frickin hedge monkey terrorists getting in on the act.”

  “Yeah, religious fundamentalist’s Saul? The world would be a better place without them telling everyone to do as they say, but not as they do. It’s all repent or burn in hell with those guys. I presume they’re still doing that?” The Commandant took a bible from his satchel, held it in his hands, caressed it and said,

  “A wave that can destroy on this scale cannot be the making of man. These are the days of retribution Mac. HE has seen society’s morals decaying before him and once again HE has returned, HE lives amongst us again and HE has sent a flood to destroy all life. It was predicted by the Good Book thousands of years ago.” The Commandant opened the Bible and pointed to a page. “Genesis, chapters 6-9, it’s happened before and it will happen again!” McIntyre stared aghast and then said,

  “What shall we do Saul? Build an arc? World of Timber are doing a discount on illegally imported tropical hardwood.”

  “Make jokes Rob, but one day you’ll see things differently – you’ll see the world the way I see it and then you won’t be laughing. They sneered at Noah then God sent the flood and Noah laughed last.”

  “Aye,” sighed McIntyre, “That story always makes me laugh too. It can't be climate shift due to solar activity or the beginning of a new glacial epoch, or God forbid, humans upsetting the balance?”

  “Save me your agnostic doctrine Rob. You islanders are all the same; so haughty and arrogant.” McIntyre shrugged his shoulders,

  “Its not agnostic doctrine Saul, its scientific evidence, but much better to distract the gullible masses by throwing them a bone called religion and watch them fight over it?”

  “It is God’s word. You should read it – it has the answers to the questions you and all mankind seek.”

  “I think you might be right Saul,” said McIntyre sarcastically, “I’ve always wondered how much I should pay for my slaves and why menstruating women are unclean or why homosexuals should be stoned to death – but much more than that, I really want to understand why insects have four legs when clearly they have six and what God has against creeping things that creepeth, birds of prey and rabbits when, he supposedly made them in the first place! I think your Bible throws up much more questions than answers, Saul.”

  “So you have read the Bible!” exclaimed the Commandant excitedly.

  “My beliefs are personal Saul, but if you are going to ask me to believe in something that changes my life so dramatically, I’d like to see better evidence than a two thousand year old manuscript written by unenlightened men to justify their own means.”

  McIntyre tried to remember when the Commandant evolved into a radical Christian. He knew he had always been religious but in recent years he had become more vociferous with his beliefs. Maybe it was a reflection of the uncertain times facing the world. McIntyre thought back to the time when the Commandant’s son died in a boating accident. The Lords of the New Church specialised in targeting bereaved family members and furtively recruiting them, even offering to pay for the funeral. They believed that the messiah had returned, living in secret and under guard by the Select Few, until he reached an age where he could start his work and bring about the apocalypse. In their opinion man’s redemption could only be achieved by purification, which effectively meant the destruction of modern civilisation.

  The Commandant cheeks were flushed with anger. He said,

  “I could have you put on a charge for insubordination.”

  “For disagreeing with your extreme religious beliefs? Surely not? I think the disciplinary panel would take a dim view of that Saul.” The Commandant shifted uncomfortably in his seat and then an look of calm settled on his face. He said,

  “For your information, I’m acquainted with several members of the panel, but I don’t want to be dragged into a theological debate with you – we will only have another falling out. Let’s get back to work shall we?” The Commandant played with a coin for a moment and then dropped it into the swear jar. McIntyre said,

  “I didn’t hear you curse, Saul.”

  “That coin was for impure thoughts. Look, when Jansen and Lennox return, I want you to take the cutter to Rockall Bank and see what the MoDs are up to. When you are done, report straight back to me, clear? We’ll talk about last nights drinking session when you return.” McIntyre left the office and walked towards the boathouse. In the village, a small gathering of islanders had collected by the floating dock. Some were fixing frack off placards on the lampposts and others were pointing out to sea and towards the gas flares on the horizon.

  Chapter 2: Sink or swim

  He lay naked, watching the sea from his bunk. From the porthole, he looked at the grey pulsing mass running to the horizon to meet a grey sky. A featureless, monochrome scene, so different from the colourful but fake image surrounding him in his cabin, he thought. Judging by the time, he knew the islands of St Kilda would be close and his journey would soon be over. He recalled his mother's saying that you can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep re-reading the last one, and decided that he wanted to arrive at his destination with a new perspective, strong and centred.

  He listened to the words of a recording through his earpiece, promoting the tranquil properties of the sea. The relaxation technique was part of a audio therapy session to overcome his fear of water, but the remedy wasn’t working. The alternative was taking the pills that his doctor suggested, but he didn't want to subscribe any more than he had already, to the pharmaceutical cartel gravy train. Perhaps moving to an island, so soon after nearly drowning was an ill-conceived ide
a, he thought. Initially, he believed confronting his fears by facing the daily sight and sound of the vast ocean would produce a familiarity that would help suppress his anxiety. He was having second thoughts.

  “There’s a rhythm to the sea,” said the voice in a softly spoken mid-Atlantic accent, “it isn’t immediately noticeable but after a while you become aware of its seamless beating pulse. The human heartbeat duplicates the timing, running in tandem and often creating an atmosphere of peace and tranquillity.” Once more, he looked through the porthole. Outside, the sea spat foam up at him as if to help justify his decision to turn the recording off.

  He had put five months behind him since that fateful day, and although the headaches and amnesia had stopped he had never really felt the same. Something had changed, he thought. Something mental as well as physical. There was his hypersomnia, the sudden light-headedness and loss of balance, and his recent inability to concentrate his thoughts. His mind would drift and then brought back to reality with a jolt. It was as if his mind had left his body. He was absorbed by an emotion he described as waiting on the edge of a precipice, counting down the days to an unknown event. Even thinking about it now, he felt the anxiety rise again. It didn’t help that the air inside the cabin was becoming unnaturally thick and heavy.

  His brain was sinking into the slow folds of sleep and the onset of a dream, when a noise roused him back into full consciousness. The sound reverberated from deep beneath the ship, down in the bowels of the earth. It was detected in his internal organs, rather than the ears. The metal hull vibrated liked a plucked guitar string, sending a shudder the length of his body. He lay flat and motionless, as if gripped by the cold steel jaws of a vice. The tremor passed. Silence descended like a comfort blanket to dampen his rising fear. He savoured the moment of relief. Unusually for him, a seed of serenity was germinating from within, and then an alarm bell sounded out in the corridor. The ship suddenly veered off course. He felt a heave in his gut and his chest bulged, as if recoiling from the crushing influence of a dead weight being lifted from his torso. He sat up and peered across the cabin to the porthole. He heard a thunderous noise from outside and then the natural light was snuffed out.