Free Orkney Twilight by Clare Carson Page A

sisters.
    ‘Jim’s good-looking, isn’t he?’ said Tom, ignoring the lightning streaks outside. ‘In a rugged sort of way. That rough look that women always seem to find attractive. But obviously a bit of a difficult old sod,’ he added.
    ‘I did warn you.’
    ‘So what exactly does he do anyway? You said he’s an undercover cop.’
    Sam winced.
    ‘Does he keep an eye on organizations like CND?’
    Jesus, he didn’t waste time. She caught her reflection in the train window, staring at her with its firmly pressed lips. She was losing it these days though, her self-censorship. Her ability to manage a convincing cover-up for Jim.
    ‘He doesn’t talk much about his work,’ she said.
    ‘But what do you think Jim is up to in Orkney then? You obviously think he’s up to something.’
    She shrank back into her bunk so she couldn’t be seen in the mirror, grappled with the urge to confide, wondering what she could say that wouldn’t give too much away, sound too ridiculous. Too alarming. The proclamation of impending death. Operation Asgard. The Walther.
    ‘Maybe it’s something to do with the miners’ strike.’
    ‘What, you think he’s picking up some information on the strikers from a contact to pass on to the Force or something like that?’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘But why would he go all the way to Orkney to do it?’
    ‘I don’t know. Maybe that’s where his contact lives. Orkney is full of dropout lefty types who might have some information on the strike. Although I suspect it’s not quite that straightforward.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘I’m not sure it’s as straightforward as him looking for intelligence on the strike to feed to the Force.’
    She shouldn’t have said that, should have kept her hunches to herself.
    ‘You mean, you think he’s feeding information to someone else?’
    ‘Possibly. I don’t know.’
    ‘Who would he be feeding it to?’
    ‘I’ve no idea really. KGB perhaps.’
    ‘Sounds a bit far-fetched. Why would the Soviets go to a cop for information about the miners’ strike? They can probably get it direct.’
    He pulled a dismissive face, irritating her instantly. What did he know about anything?
    ‘Actually, he used to hang out with the KGB.’
    ‘Did he? The KGB?’
    ‘He worked at the docks. Tilbury. He checked the boats coming from the Soviet Union and he was mates with some of the KGB agents.’
    Well, she had always assumed they were KGB agents. She sensed Tom assessing her disbelievingly; she could tell he thought she was a bit of a fantasist. She tried him with the story about the strange men from the Russia she had seen drinking at their house. Related how she had corrected their English. Tom laughed. She was momentarily chuffed by his reaction.
    ‘But even if they were KGB, they were probably really low level,’ he said. ‘More like security guards.’
    ‘Yeah, probably.’
    ‘And I really don’t see what the connection might be to a trip to Orkney twelve years later.’
    She couldn’t see a connection either. ‘I guess you’re right.’
    Rain-blurred brown semis rattled past, the dog-end of the periphery. They cracked open a couple of miniature bottles of whiskey, purchased from the buffet car. Jameson’s. One of Jim’s pearls of wisdom: if you can’t afford a single malt, buy Irish. It’ll leave you with less of a headache. Some people’s parents steered them through difficult career choices. Jim gave her guidance on what to do when faced with a confusing array of bottles behind the bar.
    ‘What are you thinking?’ Tom asked.
    Why did anyone ever ask that question? As if they seriously believed they would get an honest answer. She searched for something to say. ‘I was thinking that it’s a compulsion. It’s a way of life he’s incapable of giving up. He can’t exist with only one identity; he has to have secrets, somewhere else to escape. Sometimes I think undercover work is little more than a professional licence for men who want to