by Scott Church
Was made within those schools
Where slipper cane and tawse awaited
Fools who broke the rules
Where seeds were sown in clever minds
That smacked of risk and mystery
But shaped the ways of things to come
And changed the course of history
Friday 4 May 1984
Norma Nichols decided she liked Edinburgh. As she sat on the crowded early evening commuter train from Dunfermline to the Scottish Capital, she reflected on the events that had brought her there. The noisy ScotRail carriage rattled noisily over the iconic oxblood-red Forth Rail Bridge, and through the salt-stained window the 26 year-old watched the dazzling evening sunlight flicker brightly between the thick steel girders as the train flashed past.
Thinking back, Norma remembered the aptitude tests she had completed at the army recruitment office. Her outstanding talent for problem solving, and skills with both numbers and words had set her aside from the rest of the applicants they processed there, and as a result she was immediately head-hunted for special duties. Although she still had to complete a gruellingly hard condensed course in basic infantry soldiering, she was soon fast-tracked into military intelligence, where the work was far more demanding on the brain cells than brawn. Now stationed at historic Pitreavie Castle in Fyfe, the pretty young lass found her situation both exciting and satisfying, despite having to interact with an older generation of academics. It was an unusual place of work, where she found her colleagues to be rather eccentric and unpredictable. The only down-side to the job was the fact that she had yet to become acquainted with anyone she would class as a friend, and there were times when she felt a little lonely and wondered if she was missing out on the companionship of normal service life.
Following the success of the Falklands Campaign, the nearby naval dockyard at Rosyth had been a hive of activity, with battle-weary ships needing refits or replacement upon their return from the stormy South Atlantic. There was also a nightmare of lost documentation, which presented a real threat to national security. On top of that a national miner's strike was in full flow as well as threatened industrial action from refuse collectors, tanker drivers and firemen, to name but a few. To Norma, it felt like she was at the cutting edge of military intelligence. The work she was doing addressed threats which could come from any part of society, and as she rode the train home to the city, she looked out at the view over the Firth of Forth, and allowed her mind to clear of all the facts and figures she had been processing at work. To her right, framed by the giant suspension bridge, Norma watched a sleek battleship-grey frigate steaming out of the nearby naval base, and to her right, framed by the Fife and Lothian coastlines, the white-capped waves of the cold-looking Firth of Forth heralded the choppy North Sea beyond.
After the tranquillity of the Yorkshire Dales, the Scottish capital was such a vibrant place to be, and when she had time Norma loved to wander into the City Centre and drink in the heady atmosphere. Having crossed the blue-grey waters, the train now turned eastwards passing RAF Turnhouse and Edinburgh Airport, as it neared the metropolis known as 'Auld Reekie'. The biggest drawback to her new lifestyle was the constant need to maintain her personal security, and ensure she didn't end up in a compromising situation which would leave her vulnerable. Norma had been told to maintain a constant state of vigilance both on and off duty. Her reverie was broken as the train slowed on its approach to her station. She wondered what would be for tea this evening.
Since taking up her post, Norma had found herself in comfortable digs located in a big town-house owned by a retired headmistress called Agnes Maxwell. The accommodation had been arranged by the Army and was located at 34 West Lothian Street, a three-story property with a basement. It was just a short walk from the railway station which suited Norma perfectly. Miss Maxwell seemed to understand the sensitivity of Norma's work and never pried too deeply into her professional life. In return she'd made it abundantly clear to Norma that the cellar area below her house was private, and that she mustn't go down there. In her tweed skirt suits and severely combed back steel-coloured hair, Norma thought her landlady looked the epitome of an old fashioned school mistress. If they had been casting for The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie. Agnes Maxwell would have been perfect for the title role.
It was only a short walk from the railway station, and as she arrived back at her digs a middle-aged lady in a big overcoat was coming out of the house. Norma smiled and said hello, but the visitor kept her head low and walked stiffly away without replying. Puzzled by this, the young lodger nimbly climbed the steps and let herself in through the front door, just in time to see Agnes locking the door to the cellar staircase.
"Oh, hello dear," said the older woman, smiling. "How's your day been?"
"Not bad thanks," Norma replied. "I see you've had a visitor."
"Yes dear, but don't you worry about that. You go and get freshened up and I'll make us some nice ham and eggs for tea."
Norma was a little puzzled by the way Agnes had evaded her reference to the visitor, but decided not to push the matter. She hung up her hat and coat, then went to her bed-sit on the top floor to get changed. On her transistor radio she listened to previews of Eurovision Song Contest which would be televised the next day.
Tea was uneventful, and afterwards Norma excused herself before going back upstairs to write some letters. However, try as she might, she found it very difficult to concentrate and was unable to compose a newsworthy letter to her parents. The sight of the mysterious visitor followed by her landlady emerging from the forbidden cellar had sparked her curiosity, and the intrigue of it was nagging at her brain incessantly.
In a smoky cellar bar beneath the Blue Angel Night Club in Montreal, Brendan O'Neil was entertaining his guests. It had taken a lot of organising but Brendan felt that tonight would be a momentous landmark in his lifelong ambition to do something positive in support of his ideals. His grandparents had left Ireland for Canada during the land wars of the late nineteenth century, and despite his recent success in the shipping industry, he still nurtured a passionate hatred towards the British Government and English people in particular.
Around the table were four more powerful men, all with the same fanatical beliefs. There were the brothers Sean and Michael Callaghan, who ran successful protection operations in New York and Boston; Patrick Shaughnessy, a senior member of an aid organisation, and Kevin Adamson. Prior to the meeting a couple of events had taken place which made their agenda possible.
Brendan had recently purchased a shipyard in Leith near Edinburgh which he would use to provide engineering services to the growing offshore oil and gas industry in the North Sea. It would also be used as a breakers yard and had extensive dry dock and storage facilities, including underground ammunition bunkers built during the Great War. Brendan had already identified a ship in the St Lawrence Seaway that he wished to buy and dismantle for scrap purposes.
In the meantime the Callaghan family had come into possession of a consignment of sixteen Stinger surface-to-air missiles which had been destined for the Mujahedeen in Afghanistan. Not wishing to start a war with the CIA, the brothers were keen to offload their deadly weapons and would be happy to see them shipped across the Atlantic without delay.
For his part, Kevin Adamson had been tasked with securing weapons and supplies. The acquisition of a covert arsenal in a Scottish dockyard run by a friendly shipping magnate would be a substantial fait accompli, and the idea of stocking it with Stinger missiles was just music to his ears. A Stinger could bring down a fully laden troop-carrying aircraft, and details of army battalions arriving back from the Falkland Islands were regularly published in the press. Likewise, engagements taken by members of the Royal Family were no great secret, and aircraft of the Royal Flight could easily be targeted en route with the Queen or one of her close relations on board.
As for Patrick Shaughnessy, he had amassed a healthy amount of money with which to fund such a venture. After listening to the proposals he stated that he could not think of a more appropriate use for the funds at his disposal, and readily pledged long term support for the project.
The men talked at length, and after a productive discussion, arrangements were made to have the anti-aircraft missiles, along with a significant number of Armalite rifles and ammunition, smuggled into Canada where they would be concealed in a redundant boiler aboard the ageing cargo ship SS Leather. The ageing ship would then be towed across the Atlantic Ocean to Leith sometime in June or July.
Once he was satisfied everyone was happy with their part in the plan, Brendan ensured his guests all had their glasses filled, before toasting the success of their forthcoming venture. He had a busy month ahead of him, finalising the purchase of the shipyard and recruiting a team of trusted workers to meet the Leather when she arrived at the Scottish port.
After concluding the meeting to his satisfaction, Brendan returned to his hotel room alone. He was becoming more fond of his own company of late, and tonight he looked forward to a comfy chair, a big cigar and the familiarity of his private thoughts. He also liked the idea of visiting Edinburgh again and having kicked his shoes off and loosened his tie, he sat down and let his imagination wander.
As always at these times, his thoughts took him back to his late teenage years in St John where he was educated in a strict Catholic Convent School. The nuns of the Holy Order of the Immaculate Fundament took discipline very seriously, and throughout his time there Brendan found there was rarely a day went by when his buttocks did not bear the marks of their austere instruments of correction. He vividly recalled the humiliating summary punishments that were meted out with alarming frequency during the lessons there, but deeper in his memory were the times he was punished for more serious misdemeanours. On these occasions he would find himself held down over a wooden vaulting horse while the more powerfully-built sisters would take it in turn to beat his naked backside with a heavy strap or cane.
However, despite that extreme pain and embarrassment he suffered during this time, the memory of it became more and more enjoyable as he got older. As the years rolled by, Brendan found he was developing an ever stronger yearning to relive those harsh punishments. It was something he found hard to control, and there was rarely more than a couple of hours went by when he didn't think about it. As always when he had such thoughts, he felt his sexual arousal increasing and the bulge in his trousers was almost painful. He undid his trousers and fly, then took his erect penis in hand as his imagination started to get the better of him.
No matter how hard he tried to maintain his self-discipline, Brendan found that this nagging urge to recreate the punishments of his youth was becoming more and more of an obsession. Even for a man of his power and influence, he found it difficult to pursue this special interest without the risk of letting his guilty secret out, and he certainly did not want that. Deep down he knew that he needed to be very careful.
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