I have stayed with the characters of Mary and Charles Metcalfe because I like them so much, likewise Captain Brown as Steve Blackburn. I remember reading in one of the TV21 comics that Captain Scarlet had a brother called Ronald. As this isn’t a popular name for a young man, I’ve changed it to Roland but kept his profession as a bank manager. I have also introduced the idea that when Spectrum was first formed, Captain Black and Captain Ochre had a strong friendship based on shared interests; it was after Captain Black ‘went over’ to the Mysterons that Captain Magenta became Ochre’s soul mate.
I am typing this story on 17th December – Captain Scarlet’s birthday and also mine.
November 2068
“I’m recommending two weeks’ leave,” said Colonel White. “During that time, I shall take up your case with Intelligence and request the earliest possible decision. In the meantime, I suggest you have a complete rest, Captain Scarlet. Your experience over the past month has been very trying and I shall not expect you to return to Cloudbase even in an emergency.”
Scarlet stood before his commanding officer’s circular desk, clutching his red cap and feeling relieved. When he was summoned to the Control Room, in the absence of a terrorist threat, he feared the worst. Dishonourable discharge, discharge on medical grounds, execution by firing squad… there were few negative consequences that hadn’t been mercilessly rolled round his mind. He was not keen on the idea of leaving the base, he felt as if he would be walking out on his fellow officers just at the time they needed all the solidarity they could get, but at least he would be returning, even if it was only to be told to pack his bags and go, permanently. And he had recovered from his injuries.
“Thank you, Sir,” was his quiet reply.
“I hope you enjoy your vacation. I expect your father will soon have a very long list of tasks to keep you out of mischief but I repeat – I suggest you have a complete rest. Whatever Doctor Fawn’s report might say. You are dismissed, Captain Scarlet.”
Scarlet saluted, turned on his heel and walked out of the Control Room mentally compiling a list of what he would need to take with him. He could not remember when he had last had the luxury of two whole weeks’ vacation; forty-eight-hour passes and snatched weekends had been the norm for years now. But at least he would be in a place where it wouldn’t matter if he had forgotten to pack something. And he would definitely be getting his laundry done.
Captain Scarlet, back in his role as Paul Metcalfe, left Cloudbase the following day. Captain Blue had been ordered to convey him, VIP-style, to Heathrow Airport in a Spectrum Passenger Jet.
“Do I have to wear a chauffeur’s cap?” Blue demanded when he had conveyed the news to Scarlet, at the time surrounded by pre-packing chaos in his quarters.
“You can wear sackcloth and ashes for all I care,” Scarlet retorted. “Just get me to Heathrow.”
And with that he had turned back to the none-too-neatly folded piles of shirts and jeans and socks which languished on the bed beside his open suitcase. Quietly Blue went out, closing the door behind him. Afterwards Scarlet thought he had been churlish. But Adam would understand.
The past five weeks had been a nightmare for everyone but for Paul in particular, as he struggled to come to terms with the fact that for the best part of a day he had been in the control of the Mysterons, succeeded in kidnapping the World President, almost murdered the man and now been informed that not only had the injuries he sustained in his fall from the London Car-Vu healed, he had also acquired the physiological ability to survive virtually anything. In short, he was almost indestructible. He asked himself how anyone would feel faced with such a revelation. Much the same as he did, he presumed – shocked, disorientated and worried that his actions would be held against him, even though he had absolutely no recollection of what he had done. His last memories before waking up in the Cloudbase sick bay, bandaged like a mummy, were of the car driven by Captain Brown running off the road and turning over. After that – nothing. His memory was a complete blank.
Captain Brown – Stephen Alexander Blackburn. Now buried in his native Australia, mourned by his parents, his brother and his wife Becky, who was expecting their first child. And add to the mourners everyone who had worked alongside him since Spectrum was inaugurated, Paul thought, laying two pairs of jeans on top of the clothes in his case and hoping it would close. What a thing to happen. What a bloody awful thing to happen. Suddenly, he was glad he was going. At least, it would give him the opportunity to think and perhaps by the time he returned, he would have settled everything in his mind. Of course, he then had to hear the verdict of the enquiry being carried out by Spectrum Intelligence in London, but that was in the future. For the moment he had enough with which to occupy his mind.
“Typical November weather,” he declared as the SPJ descended towards the runway at Heathrow. “Mist, damp, possibly rain by the end of the day.”
“Do you think Great Britain will get a white Christmas this year?” was Adam’s amused question.
“No idea,” said Paul. “December can do anything. I remember my tenth birthday party – it was so mild, Mum threw everyone outside to play in the garden - eight days before Christmas. Then we all trooped back in with mud on our shoes and she thought she’d have been better off letting us wreak clean havoc in the house…”
With a grin, Adam began pre-landing procedures and waited for Air Traffic Control to inform him he was clear to land.
“Have a good vacation, buddy,” said Adam, shaking Paul’s hand. “And don’t worry – about anything. I’m sure things will be just fine when you get back.”
“Thanks, Adam,” said Paul warmly. “I suppose I am looking forward to going home for a couple of weeks.”
Although he had not lived permanently at Tudor Lodge, Winchester, since he was eighteen, Paul still thought of the place as home. It was where his mother had brought him and his younger brother Roland when their father was posted to Germany. Both Mary and Charles agreed the boys should have a settled school life, but Mary was not keen on boarding schools. The house belonged to Mary’s parents then – Amy and Paul Blake. When Charles left the Army, he and Mary bought the house and the Blakes – now retired – downsized and moved to Christchurch. It was from Tudor Lodge that Paul had sallied forth on his bicycle to go to school; it was to Tudor Lodge that he returned at the end of each university term and for most of his leave when he was in the Army, and it was to Tudor Lodge that he now came as a Spectrum field officer on Rest and Recuperation leave.
Charles was waiting on the platform when the train from Waterloo rolled into Winchester. He shook hands with his son and clapped him affectionately on his shoulder.
“Let’s get you home,” he declared, turning towards the station entrance, “your mother will implode if she doesn’t set eyes on you soon. She’s been behaving like an oozlum bird for days.”
Paul snorted with laughter. Coincidentally, he had used that expression only a day or two earlier. Captain Ochre had demanded to know what an oozlum bird was.
“It runs round and round in ever-decreasing circles,” Paul explained, “until it disappears with a puff of smoke up its own backside.”
It had been a good ten minutes before Ochre stopped laughing.
There was no demure hand-shaking from Mary. She fell on her older son the minute he crossed the threshold, hugging and kissing him.
“You don’t look too bad, dear,” she declared, standing back to inspect him, “all things considered. How bad were your injuries, Paul? You’ve been rather reticent about telling us.”
“It hurt,” said Paul. “But fortunately, I’m a tough cookie and everything’s fine and dandy now, so don’t worry, Mum. I’m fine.”
“I’ve put the heating on in your room, and I’ve left clean towels in the bathroom for you.”
“That’s great, Mum, thanks.”
“And I’ve put the kettle on. I was sure you’d want coffee as soon as you arrived. I’ve also made a batch of mince pies; I know it’s a little early for Christmas, but I know how you like mince pies and I needed to make some for the church Christmas fayre. Would you like coffee, dear, or would you prefer tea? There’s Earl Grey if you fancy that…”
“Coffee will be fine, Mum, thanks. Slow down, you don’t have to treat me as if I’m some visiting head of state. Dad said you’d been behaving like an oozlum bird for days.”
He gave her an affectionate hug and winked at his father.
“Really, Charles, I wish you wouldn’t use that expression, it’s not pleasant.”
“Oh dear,” said Paul, “and I’ve just taught it to a colleague. But don’t worry, Mum, if I ever bring him here, I’ll make sure he doesn’t use it in your hearing. I’ll nip upstairs and take my case and have a quick wash. Do you want to tell me to remember to wash behind my ears?”
“Do I still need to?”
“Absolutely. Even after all these years.”
For the first few days, Paul found it hard to relax. Inactivity had never appealed and he found himself scouting around the place for jobs to do.
“Do you need the chrysanths lifting, Dad?” he asked on the third morning of his holiday.
“I can manage them, thanks, Paul. I really need to keep up my exercise regime; a couple of games of golf a week are not enough. Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
“That’s my way of resting. Doing something I don’t usually do.”
He could have added that constant activity diverted his mind from what had happened, and what might happen when he returned to Cloudbase, but there was no way he would discuss his worries with either parent. From the time he left home to go to university, Paul had kept his own counsel and solved his own problems and he was not about to break with that tradition now.
Roland celebrated his birthday at the end of October. At the time, Paul had been confined to base and had to be content with asking Captain Ochre to design a birthday card and send it to him as an attachment, so that he could email it to Roland; he had not even been able to send his brother a gift. On the fourth morning of his freedom, Paul walked into the centre of Winchester and bought a biography of Sir Edward Elgar. Roland had recently acquired a taste for Elgar’s music. Paul could give him the book at the weekend, when he and his wife Chrissie came from Chichester for a belated celebration. It would be good to see Roly again, he thought, as he walked home with the book under his arm. Totally unalike both physically and in character, the brothers had nonetheless always enjoyed a close relationship.
“How are you, Paul?”
Roland, slightly shorter and with his father’s light brown hair and grey eyes, surveyed his brother critically.
“I’m fine,” Paul answered. “Honestly.”
“What about your injuries? You’ve been pretty close-lipped about that; what did you do to yourself this time?”
“Nothing that’ll leave any evidence,” Paul lied. “Bruising mainly. And that’s all faded now.”
He was not about to reveal to Roland any information about the fractures which had miraculously healed in a few weeks, the internal bleeding that had stopped with very little assistance, the severe shock which had receded almost as soon as he arrived at the Cloudbase Medical Centre. Neither was he going to reveal any information about the mental anguish he had suffered – was still suffering. That was something he had to work through alone.
It was a happy, lively evening. As he helped Chrissie to collect glasses from the lounge and take them into the kitchen, Paul realised that for several hours he had forgotten everything. Helping to ravage Mary’s scrumptious buffet, enjoying a few drinks, laughing at everyone’s amusing stories, telling a few himself… It had been wonderful to shut off even for a short time. He wondered if that was the turning point. Then he thought probably not – one evening’s diversion did not change the facts of Steve’s death, of his own bizarre behaviour, of the impending enquiry and the possible consequences. One thing pleased him however – that he had not selfishly allowed his own problems to spoil Roland’s birthday celebration.
“There’s one thing you could do for me, Paul,” said Mary the next morning.
“What’s that, Mum?”
“Could you help me with the things for the church Christmas fayre on Friday evening? I need help loading up the car and unloading it at the other end.”
“Not a problem, Mum.”
“Thank you, dear.”
Paul wondered if she had asked him because she knew he was desperate to do something to convince himself he was not idling away his time, taking advantage of being looked after. That was before he discovered how much they would be loading and unloading.
There had been no reason for Paul to go into his parents’ bedroom until now. When Mary, who had spent every afternoon of the week baking, asked him to help her collect everything together, he bounded up the stairs, expecting to fetch a couple of carrier bags. When he saw what was languishing in a corner of the room, he was speechless.
“Where has this lot come from?” he demanded when his voice returned.
“Well, there just isn’t room in the church hall, dear,” Mary explained. “We need it for the Sunday School and Scouts and Guides and the Mothers’ Union meetings. So I said I’d store it all here until the evening of the fayre.”
“And how much stuff is there in the pantry?”
“Only a few tins of mince pies and some cakes.”
“Yes – eight dozen mince pies, three big cakes and about a tonne of small ones… Don’t you think you ought to contact Wynns Heavy Haulage?”
“It should all fit in the car,” Mary assured him. “I’ve asked Dad to clear out the boot; we can put these things in there and the cakes can go on the back seat.”
“And we pray there’s no need for an emergency stop en route,” Paul declared. “The church would be lost without you, Mum.”
On Friday evening they loaded up the car.
“There’s no need for you to wait, Paul, I’ll ring you when I’m ready to come home and you can fetch me,” said Mary, fastening her seat belt and casting an anxious glance over the tins of cakes and mince pies on the back seat.
“I might stay and have a wander round,” said Paul. “See if I can swell the church funds a little. Everyone puts in such as lot of effort towards these things, it’s up to everyone else to support you.”
They parked in the church grounds and were busily conveying the cakes into the hall when one of the helpers charged up to them, all a-fluster.
“Hello, Mary,” she gasped. “Hello, Paul. I didn’t know you were home. How are you?”
“I’m fine, thanks, Dorothy; how are you?” he replied from behind half a dozen tins stacked on top of one another.
“I’m fine… well, I was… Mary, we’ve got a bit of a crisis on the white elephant stall; two of the volunteers have phoned to say they can’t come. Do you think you could help Collette? I’m sure they can manage with two on the cakes.”
“I’ll do it,” said Paul. “You go and sell your cakes, Mum.”
“Would you, Paul? That’s terribly kind of you.”
“I wouldn’t describe myself as the world’s best salesman, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
“He does have the gift of the gab,” said Mary reassuringly.
And so, Captain Scarlet, Spectrum’s leading field agent, spent the evening cajoling people into buying objects many of which were totally impractical and had obviously been donated by people desperate to be rid of them.
“Now ladies, I’m sure one of you could make very good use of this work basket. Look – there are all sorts of tools inside, one of you must be keen on sewing and it’s just what you need.”
The work basket sold for two pounds.
“This is the bargain of the season – a folding bookshelf, just right for all those books you’ll be getting for Christmas…”
The folding bookshelf sold for three pounds.
“Who’s going to take this letter rack and matching waste paper bin off my hands? I know it looks well used, but it could be an antique and worth a fortune.”
The letter rack and bin were the ugliest articles he had seen in his life but they sold for three pounds fifty. When the takings were counted at the end of the evening, the white elephant stall was among the highest earners.
“For someone who described himself as ‘not the world’s greatest salesman’, you did a splendid job tonight, dear,” said Mary as they drove home, a dozen empty tins on the back seat of the car.
The thought crossed his mind that if he was drummed out of Spectrum, he could perhaps pursue a career as an auctioneer. He would have told his mother that, but while the bit about the auctioneer would have made her laugh, the notion of being drummed out of Spectrum wouldn’t. It didn’t amuse him either.
“There’s another little favour I wouldn’t mind you doing, Paul, if you could.”
“Hm?” He shook himself out of his reverie. “What’s that?”
“Well, the rehearsals for the nativity play have started; could you help me take the costumes down to the church on Sunday afternoon? I’ve been storing them.”
“Where, for Heaven’s sake? You’re like a magician pulling rabbits out of a hat. What else have you got stashed away in the house? The Crown Jewels?”
“I’ve been keeping them in the airing cupboard,” Mary laughed. “To be honest, dear, I will be glad when they’ve gone back to the church. I opened the door to get clean towels for you and I was hit on the head by two crowns, Gabriel’s wings and a shepherd’s crook.”
“I think we should swap jobs, Mum – you handle danger extremely well.”
On Sunday afternoon, Paul sat in the church watching as two dozen eager young actors from the Sunday School rehearsed for the nativity play.
“Hail Mary full of grace, the Lord is with thee.”
The boy playing Gabriel knelt before the girl playing Mary, an earnest expression his face. He could not have been more than ten years old. Paul was transported back to school nativity plays when he had taken parts. Because he had always been tall for his age, he was allotted one of the more authoritative roles – head shepherd, innkeeper, one of the wise men. The latent actor in him had revelled in it all. He aspired to the part of Joseph but before he achieved those dizzy heights, his father was posted and he changed schools.
Now Mary and Joseph were arriving in Bethlehem, desperately seeking accommodation.
“There’s no room at the inn.”
The inkeeper fixed them with an imperious stare. Paul suddenly saw a parallel. No room at the inn. No room in Spectrum. Goodbye and good luck, Mr Metcalfe. Don’t call us, we’ll call you. Spectrum was his life and had been for eighteen months. He had no experience of civilian life – what would he do? Then there was the question of his colleagues. They were more than colleagues. They were soul mates. They not only worked together, they lived together and risked their lives for each other. The thought of leaving them filled him with horror. He would have to leave them eventually, he knew, the age limit for field officers was forty-five. He was only thirty – thirty-one next month. He did not want to be robbed of that fourteen years. He wanted to see the job through to the end. And that brought him back to Steve. No doubt Steve had also wanted to see the job through to the end, not be robbed of his life at twenty-seven. At least he, Paul, was alive, and free. Not like Steve. Or Conrad.
Conrad Turner – Captain Black – had been the third victim. Returning from the prematurely aborted Mars Project, which he led, he disappeared. The next time Spectrum became aware of him, he had obviously crossed over. What had happened to him from the time of his disappearance to the time he appeared as controller of the plot to kidnap the World President? What had the Mysterons done to him to induce him to work for them? Conrad would never have switched sides unless he had been beyond all rational thought; what would it have taken to break a strong man like him? Now Spectrum was hunting him. Hunting the enemy was one thing. Hunting one of their own was something else.
In reality, there were far more than three victims. All the field agents and angel pilots, Colonel White and Lieutenant Green – all were victims. They all felt the loss of Steve and the harrowing business of trying to bring Conrad in as acutely as he did. Captain Ochre probably felt the loss of Conrad most – having been required to fake his own death before joining Spectrum, he had forfeited every friend he had ever made in order to induce the world to believe Detective Commander Richard Fraser had been assassinated. The two men had forged a strong friendship born of a mutual love of aircraft and the Great Outdoors. How did Richard feel about having to pursue his soul mate, capture him, turn him in, possibly even shoot him? That was the point at which Paul stopped feeling sorry for himself.
He began to feel ashamed of his selfishness. Here he was, wallowing in self-pity, while everyone on the base had to go on doing their jobs, no matter how unpleasant. He was the lucky one – he had been allowed two weeks in which to rest and recover; for everyone else it had been business as usual. Suddenly, he wanted – desperately wanted – to go back.
The rehearsal was ending now. The cast gathered in front of the altar for the final scene where everyone was united. The play always had a happy ending. Maybe his decision to stay for the rehearsal, instead of returning to Tudor Lodge then coming back for Mary, had been an omen. Maybe his story, too, would have a happy ending.
“It’s been lovely having you around, dear,” said Mary, tucking Paul’s scarf inside his jacket, “but I know you’re anxious to go back.”
“It’s where I belong, Mum.”
The night before, he had received a telephone call from Colonel White, informing him that he had succeeded in having him reinstated, despite the efforts of Intelligence to discharge him. White thought he should deliver the good news as soon as possible. Paul thanked the colonel sincerely, grateful for his thoughtfulness. Now he was about to start his journey to London where Adam would collect him in the Spectrum Passenger Jet. His feeling of relief, which had lingered deliciously all through the evening, had now mutated into one of excitement. He could hardly wait to set foot on Cloudbase again.
It was evening. Paul was in his room, having unpacked and settled down to send an email to his parents saying he was fine. Everything was back to normal and he would be on duty at eight the next morning. The telephone rang. He picked up the receiver.
“Scarlet.”
“Hi, Paul.” Captain Grey. “Have a good vacation?”
“Excellent, thanks, Brad.”
“I guess you won’t be due any surface leave for a while, being away for two weeks?”
“I think I’ll need to accrue some duty hours before I’m let loose again, yes.”
“When you are, how about we go out for a beer? I was talking with the guys last week, and we all agreed we should do something to mark your return – we were all worried Intelligence was going to refuse to reinstate you. Hell, when we found out you were coming back, we all wanted to celebrate right then.”
“Well, that’s great of you all, Brad, I really appreciate it. Look, Christmas isn’t too far away; we managed to keep up some kind of celebration last year, despite providing twenty-four-hour coverage, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t do something similar this year.”
“Guess we’ll have to do it in relays – we can’t all escape at the same time. But think it over, Paul, we should do something, even it means two or three of us escaping at a time.”
“I’m game,” Paul declared. “I want to celebrate – you don’t know what a relief it was to know I’m not going to be kicked out of Spectrum.”
“Better run now, Paul, I’m on watch at eight; have to relieve Patrick. Catch you later.”
As he replaced the receiver, Paul felt he was the luckiest man on the planet.
Not only did he have his job back – the job he loved and lived for – he also had
the respect of his colleagues. From the time he knew exactly what he had done,
there had been a nagging unease at the back of his mind, not only that
Intelligence would condemn him, but also that his fellow officers would. To a
man, they had stood by him. Everyone he had encountered since his arrival had
shaken his hand and welcomed him back.
When he set off for Tudor Lodge two weeks earlier, he had thought of his journey as going home. But wasn’t his home here? Shouldn’t he be thinking that rather than going home to Tudor Lodge, he was coming home to Cloudbase?
