inch of her room with them. Each canvas had a blue background and featured a female figure with
long black hair, wearing a black wedding dress. The female’s face
was always blank; just a white, featureless oval.
A psychiatrist’s report said Lucy was
terrified of being ‘in the blue’ – Lucy’s own description of her
condition, apparently. Vernon didn’t need any translation. Lucy and
her father were both keen divers and they’d taken him out with them
on several expeditions. ‘In the blue’ was a diving term for the
place in a deep dive in clear water where the diver could see
neither the surface of the sea nor the seabed: all he had around
him was the colour blue in every direction. Many divers found it an
inspirational, exhilarating place, but for a few it was
disorienting and filled them with panic. Vernon was one of the
latter. He once heard a diver who’d suffered a mental collapse
describing the experience as being ‘in the blue’. The diver had
subtly changed the meaning from a specific point in a dive where it
becomes difficult to know up from down, backwards from forwards, to
the perfect label for acute depression – the loss of a person’s
bearings, their very identity. Lucy was now using it in that
context too, it seemed.
Vernon had been in the blue just once –
on a summer’s dive in amazingly clear water off the Cornish coast
near Penzance – and never wanted to be there again. Lucy and her
dad accompanied him at the start but were anxious to explore an old
shipwreck. He stupidly said he’d like to be on his own for a while,
and they swam off. After a couple of minutes, he couldn’t see
anything except blue. He was in a blue world extending in all
directions, a place where he had no anchors, no bearings, no
pointers. He quite simply lost himself. He began to think he might
actually have drowned and was now in some blue hell, but Lucy swam
up from below and dragged him back to the surface.
‘ What’s happening to
your captain?’ Gresnick’s voice jerked Vernon back to the present. ‘What caused those injuries? You must know he’ll be dead within
hours.’
‘ The captain isn’t
dying.’ Morson smirked. ‘He’s being reborn.’
‘ What?’
‘ You’ll see by
morning.’
‘ Some people are saying
the world is about to end. What’s your opinion,
sergeant?’
‘ Something astonishing
is coming. The very earth will tremble beneath your
feet.’
‘ Are you referring to
the Turkish earthquakes?’
Morson continued to
smirk. ‘ He knows
we’re coming for him. He stopped us before, but this time there’s
nothing He can do.’
‘ What are you talking
about?’ Commander Harrington spoke for the first time in the
interrogation. ‘Who is He ?’
‘ Are you a religious
man?’ Morson asked.
Harrington nodded.
‘ Then you know exactly
who I mean.’
Vernon leaned forward, curious to see
Harrington’s reaction. His boss had never concealed the fact that
he was a fully paid up God squadder – a Methodist, Baptist or
Quaker; Vernon couldn’t remember which. He wasn’t interested enough
to find out the difference between the three, and always got them
mixed up. Harrington, to Vernon’s irritation, kept a Bible
prominently displayed on the desk in his office. Vernon felt it was
inappropriate for religion to make such a brazen appearance in
MI5’s HQ.
Harrington’s expression barely changed. He gazed at a wall-calendar showing Ferrari supercars. ‘Are there
any significant days coming up, Mr Vernon?’ he asked. ‘Anniversaries, religious festivals, that sort of thing?’
Vernon knew the drill. Spectacular acts of terror, protest, revolt, rebellion were often
scheduled for memorable dates, as if they could draw legitimacy,
power perhaps, from the previous incidents. Swinging round to a
computer on a side-table, he used the internet to search for
imminent big dates. The first one up was 30 April, the eve of May Day.
‘ The Germans call April
30 Walpurgis
long black hair, wearing a black wedding dress. The female’s face
was always blank; just a white, featureless oval.
A psychiatrist’s report said Lucy was
terrified of being ‘in the blue’ – Lucy’s own description of her
condition, apparently. Vernon didn’t need any translation. Lucy and
her father were both keen divers and they’d taken him out with them
on several expeditions. ‘In the blue’ was a diving term for the
place in a deep dive in clear water where the diver could see
neither the surface of the sea nor the seabed: all he had around
him was the colour blue in every direction. Many divers found it an
inspirational, exhilarating place, but for a few it was
disorienting and filled them with panic. Vernon was one of the
latter. He once heard a diver who’d suffered a mental collapse
describing the experience as being ‘in the blue’. The diver had
subtly changed the meaning from a specific point in a dive where it
becomes difficult to know up from down, backwards from forwards, to
the perfect label for acute depression – the loss of a person’s
bearings, their very identity. Lucy was now using it in that
context too, it seemed.
Vernon had been in the blue just once –
on a summer’s dive in amazingly clear water off the Cornish coast
near Penzance – and never wanted to be there again. Lucy and her
dad accompanied him at the start but were anxious to explore an old
shipwreck. He stupidly said he’d like to be on his own for a while,
and they swam off. After a couple of minutes, he couldn’t see
anything except blue. He was in a blue world extending in all
directions, a place where he had no anchors, no bearings, no
pointers. He quite simply lost himself. He began to think he might
actually have drowned and was now in some blue hell, but Lucy swam
up from below and dragged him back to the surface.
‘ What’s happening to
your captain?’ Gresnick’s voice jerked Vernon back to the present. ‘What caused those injuries? You must know he’ll be dead within
hours.’
‘ The captain isn’t
dying.’ Morson smirked. ‘He’s being reborn.’
‘ What?’
‘ You’ll see by
morning.’
‘ Some people are saying
the world is about to end. What’s your opinion,
sergeant?’
‘ Something astonishing
is coming. The very earth will tremble beneath your
feet.’
‘ Are you referring to
the Turkish earthquakes?’
Morson continued to
smirk. ‘ He knows
we’re coming for him. He stopped us before, but this time there’s
nothing He can do.’
‘ What are you talking
about?’ Commander Harrington spoke for the first time in the
interrogation. ‘Who is He ?’
‘ Are you a religious
man?’ Morson asked.
Harrington nodded.
‘ Then you know exactly
who I mean.’
Vernon leaned forward, curious to see
Harrington’s reaction. His boss had never concealed the fact that
he was a fully paid up God squadder – a Methodist, Baptist or
Quaker; Vernon couldn’t remember which. He wasn’t interested enough
to find out the difference between the three, and always got them
mixed up. Harrington, to Vernon’s irritation, kept a Bible
prominently displayed on the desk in his office. Vernon felt it was
inappropriate for religion to make such a brazen appearance in
MI5’s HQ.
Harrington’s expression barely changed. He gazed at a wall-calendar showing Ferrari supercars. ‘Are there
any significant days coming up, Mr Vernon?’ he asked. ‘Anniversaries, religious festivals, that sort of thing?’
Vernon knew the drill. Spectacular acts of terror, protest, revolt, rebellion were often
scheduled for memorable dates, as if they could draw legitimacy,
power perhaps, from the previous incidents. Swinging round to a
computer on a side-table, he used the internet to search for
imminent big dates. The first one up was 30 April, the eve of May Day.
‘ The Germans call April
30 Walpurgis
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