Free These Demented Lands by Alan Warner Page A

must be affection for this guy, dangerous and capable and at least a worthy enemy, out here on the edge of the world
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    Brotherhood sprinkled the ice splinters into the tumber, thudded it onto the bar then treated me by pouring the very cold water from the decanter himself; crushed ice tinkled up to the lip of the glass and he crossed through the shadows of the Observation Lounge to take the honeymooner’s order.A few of the honeymoon couples drifted up for feeding time, seething as usual, unhappy to be stuck for a fortnight with couples so identical to themselves; couples who, even with their talk of holidays, prudently hinted-at salaries, company cars and wedding days, were ultimately unable to differentiate themselves from each other. It was only slavish conformity to their desperate bid for happiness in wedlock that limited the infidelities and orgies that Brotherhood tried to orchestrate for his amusement.
    I pushed my plate away, as usual never eating dessert. I’d had the scampi, assuming it would be safest; all Macbeth had to do was drop it in the deep frier. My fingers smelled of lemon when I lifted the last of the cheap cigars to my mouth.
    â€˜Plane in fifteen minutes; I just talked to him on the radio, low pressure coming in so he’s straight out.’ Brotherhood walked away from my table and began putting on his cashmere overcoat. I stood and tossed the paper napkin onto the plate.
    Mrs Heapie had loaded two bottles of bad bubbly into an ice-box with four tall-stemmed glasses. I crossed to the bar. Chef Macbeth had on that silly flying hat (I suspected he kept it on while cooking).
    We trooped down the spiral staircase and Brotherhood moved behind the reception desk to arrange the polaroid camera he trained on his latest victims.
    â€˜Got that drop-dead-gorgeous thing a beauty, eh?’ Macbeth spluttered away.
    I smiled.
    â€˜Stuka dive bomber, Nyeemmmm!’
    â€˜Shut up. Come on,’ said Brotherhood and we stepped out the front door through the ridiculous fake Mexican portico. Outside in the dark we moved towards the staff caravans. Brotherhood looked directly up into the sky. There was low cloud but the ceiling was still acceptable.
    â€˜Just going to put my heater on,’ Macbeth crossed over to his caravan. I shook my head but only under Brotherhood’s eye. He corrected me with that look and strode off to the lean-to where the limo he’d bought off a yank at the old tracking station barely fitted. I tossed away the cheap cigar butt.
    Chef Macbeth: his lithe shanks, the icy-blue arm tattoos, the police record left behind in two cities, the son he never saw – I knew it all without having to prise it from him over cans of cheap beer back in his caravan. This man fiddling away at his remote-control aircraft, the heart-breaking teariness in his eyes as he worked – his banal dumbness as he stood, stupefied, holding the control box with its outrageously long aerial, circling the aircraft round him. To come near to what Brotherhood had reduced this man to! Maybe that was why Macbeth carried the flick-knife I’d glimpsed in the single dirty navy-blue dress jacket he wore when they would watch Saturday comedy programmes; laughing towards the prettiest wives – the closest to intimacy he could get – jokes they didn’t share but clutched to as a means of unity. By standing close to him (never laughing) I could peep down into the knife pocket. I could imagine Macbeth in stabbing mode – a whippity expression so you’d be more inclined to sneer and spit in his face rather than drop when he stuck you.Brotherhood had Macbeth in complete control, refusing him any of the cars for the Saturday-night disco at The Outer Rim, baiting him with the possibility of another winter’s employment, the reward of a hotel bedroom out of the caravan – earwig invasions in the rainy season, ants and mice in the heatwave.
    Brotherhood had dumped the ice-box in