“I’m frightened by what I did.
How I wish that I’d had kids.
Now years are crashing by.
Girls don’t look me in the eye.
Its loneliness for me,
in the café drinking tea,
with older folk,
who wish that they’d had kids.
Steve Dixie 2002 “Redemption Rant” CD
CHAPTER 83 THE CHARIOT OF FIRE
The boat rental man told the police there had been something “funny” about the guy. But actually, at the time, he'd noticed nothing. It was just some bloke rented a small yacht, and said he was sailing alone to France. He had some sort of skippers licence from Venezuela, but nothing odd about that. He said his name was Smith, but the credit payment was from someone called Juan MuRillo in Brazil. But that wasn’t really unusual. It could be someone else was paying for all sorts of valid reasons. There were tourists from all over calling at Portland Marina.
Susan Cushing walked out of the shower and looked at the mirror. “I can still pass for sixty years old you know.”
“Yes.” Mary Watson hung her doctor’s uniform in the locker. “I’m sure you could.”
“Except for the skin cancer. You know, if I'd only known about sunbathing, but everyone did it then. I have had bits cut out, frozen and ark welded from everywhere. They used to say a sun tan was healthy you know. So look at me, all blotchy and pink and white and, oh well, thank God for the spray.”
Susan tucked her short blond hair into a plastic cap, and swiped her hand over the pay point. The spray booth opened, she stepped in, closed her eyes, and tried not to laugh with the tickling, she didn’t want her tongue sprayed in fake tan. She smoothed cream on where the spray probably hadn't reached, then the blow dry.
“Not too bad.” Mary Watson dressed. “I hope he’s worth it.”
“Oh yes.” Susan did a twirl in front of the mirror. “He’s luscious, a retired Colonel called Sebastian Moran.”
“Moran. Is he Irish?”
“I shouldn’t think so, he’s black.” Susan combed her hair.
“Black? So which army was he in?”
“Ours. He was born here.”
“Well, so long as he’s gorgeous.”
“Oh yes. Real lush.” Susan dressed. “So how is Doctor John? I’ve been meaning to ask.”
“He’s back here now, under orders not to move till it’s all healed. But you know what bad patients doctors are. And he's the worst. Says it’s all the fault of the hospital in Kandahar, but I’m sure it was him.”
“So what happened?”
“Well you know we met while we were working for Nimrod Helmand?”
“The drug company.” Susan had heard of them.
“Yes, they buy most of the opium in Afghanistan. Anyway we were in the labs in Kandahar, and even in those days John was a bit of a military buff, so when he heard Arthur, that’s my brother, Arthur Morstan, when he was going back out there on one of these daft re-enactment things, then he went with him. Anyway he shot himself in the leg with a jezail, it’s an old gun thing, and he says the Docs in Kandahar said he’d be OK, but of course it all went septic, and now he’s dosed up at home. But I’m sure they told him to rest or something and he thought he’d go horse riding instead or whatever.”
“That’s men for you.”
“That’s why we love em.” Said Doctor Mary Watson.
“Well, I am off. I might be late in tomorrow, I'll be on the beach watching the Discovery start up.”
“Oh, I’d forgotten that was tomorrow. You’re sure you can see the ship from the beach?”
“Oh yes. I have
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