Free Powerstone by Malcolm Archibald Page A

you like Scotland , then?’
    ‘Love it,’ Irene enthused as the
young Royals gathered around her. She was well aware that they were ogling, but
enjoyed the attention. These joking warriors were a change from the corporate
suits and sycophants with whom she normally spent time.
    ‘Even in winter?’ The red headed
private seemed doubtful.
    ‘We have winter in the States
too,’ Irene told him, ‘and it’s about the only time we could both get off
work.’
    ‘Your crown jewels were awesome,’
Patrick said, ‘but it’s amazing that they’ve never been stolen.’
    ‘How?’ The redheaded private asked,
his eyes shrewd. ‘How’s it amazing?’
    ‘How?’ When Patrick looked blank,
Irene realised that the Scots often substituted the word ‘how’ for ‘why’. ‘Well,
they’re so valuable. Somebody must have tried to steal them.’
    ‘Maybe.’ Another of the privates,
a man with a sombre complexion and a scarred lip said, ‘but how’re they going
to get them oot? What with the redcaps and us and all the cameras and that.’ He
shrugged. ‘Anyhow, we’d kill the bastards.’
    Irene exchanged a glance with
Patrick, who was suddenly very quiet. ‘Kill them? For stealing?’
    The privates nodded. ‘Aye. How
no’? That’s what we’re paid for.’ The scarred man stared at Patrick without a trace
of humour. ‘You ken that. The American Marines would dae the same.’
    Irene recognised the words as a
challenge, although she was not sure how. She laughed to defuse the tension.
‘Quite right too,’ she said. ‘That’s the Queen’s crown after all.’
    ‘Aye so it is,’ the red head said,
‘but she doesnae wear it.’
    The sergeant glanced at his watch.
‘All right lads. Back on duty in ten minutes.’ He downed his pint in a single
vast swallow, stood up and adjusted his uniform. ‘Have a good holiday in Scotland , miss, and you too, marine.’ He
smiled to Irene, but when he looked at Patrick the humour dropped from his eyes
and just for a second Irene saw something of the steel within. The trio of
ribbons on his chest took on a new significance.
    ‘She’s wanting it this year
though,’ the red head continued as though the sergeant had not spoken.
    ‘Wanting it?’ Irene found it
difficult to keep up with the speed of the conversation.
    ‘She’s wanting the croon,’ the
redhead explained, shaking his head at her inability to comprehend.
    ‘How’s that?’ Irene slipped into
Scottish vernacular. ‘Is she coming to Edinburgh ?’
    All the three soldiers began
talking at once, obviously eager to impart their information. After a few
minutes Irene held up her hands, laughing. ‘One at a time, please, gentlemen.’
    The soldiers grinned and subsided
into quiet until the scarred man spoke. ‘The Queen comes up to Scotland every summer for a wee holiday
and to remind us that she exists. This year her visit is at the same time as
some European political meeting, so she’s doing the whole pageantry thing, with
the Crown Jewels carried doon the High Street under a guard of honour. The
whole works.’
    Irene nodded. Suddenly everything
seemed very simple. ‘Will you be there?’
    ‘Naw.’ The soldier shook his head.
‘We’re away tae Helmand . Some other lot will be the
escort.’
    Irene nodded. Lifting her camera,
she took a couple of quick photographs, for which the soldiers posed quite
happily. She could feel her heart beginning a rapid tattoo as ideas were
forming. Not yet complete, they formed a series of unrelated images in her
mind, and she knew she must have peace in which to create an ordered tableau.
‘Your sergeant will be waiting for you,’ she said, and was surprised at the speed
with which the three soldiers finished their beer before leaving the pub. She
looked at Patrick.
    ‘Let’s go for a walk.’
    Irene liked to walk. She found
that the regular physical motion helped clear her mind of all non essentials
and enabled her to view her problems one at a time. Walking also