The Lubeck Diversion: The Coulter Confessions, #5

By J P Hidcote

The Lubeck Diversion Book 5 of the intense Coulter Confessions series finds British Agent Edwin Coulter recuperating in Cyprus following the traumatic end to his mission in Donegal. Coulter struggles to cope as he is subjected to an intense debriefing and rehabilitaion programme. Just as Coulter starts to dream of a life outside the service, events take a dramatic turn that forces him back into action against enemies old and new. The novel carries the reader effortlessly from heat of Cyprus to the great Hanseatic city of Lubeck before coming to a dramatic climax in the Mosel and Rhine valleys. 

 

Hidcote maintains his sharp dialogue and intensely drawn characters. The Lubeck Diversion introduces a swathe of vivid new characters and expands several familar ones as the complex plot presents the hero with a deluge of new challenges.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Kelly
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781916176676

J P Hidcote

J P Hidcote is a British author who has had a varied working life starting in the construction industry before joining the British Government Civil Service and moving to Technology Project management in the international banking sector. Born in South Wales of Irish parentage and educated in Scotland and England he believes that he grew up with a unique insight into the complexities of national identity in the British Isles. Hidcote cites his experience of trials and tribulations project management in the public and private sectors as an invaluable resource for a novelist. The Lubeck Diversion is the fifth of a series of novels based around the career of Edwin Coulter in the British Intelligence Services from the 1980's to the end of the 20th century. The Lubeck Diversion follows the rehabilitation of the hero after the near catastrophic end to his mission in Ireland. It is an exploration of way that a shared experience can affect each individual in a dramatically different manner. It takes Coulter from sun kissed Cyprus to winter in the old Hanseatic city of Lubeck before a dramatic conclusion in the Rhineland.

Book preview

Chapter 1

I enjoyed sitting on the veranda in the afternoons looking out over the ornate curved red brick wall to the manicured lawn. The cherry tree in the middle was a riot of gentle pinks, whites and greens in the spring sunshine.  Sometimes a pair of goldfinches would appear on the branches unmistakeable with their vibrant yellow wings and red caps. The place was so peaceful and safe it was hard to imagine a life outside its boundaries. 

I loved the two-storey art deco style buildings built in the 1930s to house an isolation hospital for victims of TB or maybe even leprosy. There must have been plenty of money around in those days if they could afford to build an isolation hospital this grand. The war had changed things and the place had been handed over to the Americans for use as a barracks and hospital. The nurses claimed that Clark Gable and James Stewart had spent time here while in the US Air Force. I doubted that but it did make me wonder if Rhett Butler might have made a Southern Belle or two, swoon in my room. The only fly in my ointment was the two o’clock appointments. I could really live without them. I looked at my watch and swore when I saw that it was 1:55pm, Cuthbertson would be coming for me now.

Mr Robbins time for your daily therapy session said Cuthbertson in his usual neutral tone.

Therapy my arse I said as he started to wheel me into the corridor.

Now you know that is not the right attitude. A more positive mindset will do you the world of good.

Positive! If you were in my shoes, you would find precious little to be happy about.

I am sure I wouldn’t, but you need to understand that getting through this will help you get better.

I can assure you that getting out is something I dream about every night, and I know that these interrogations you call ‘Therapy’ are no help whatsoever.

Don’t take it out on me. It is for the good of your health. 

It gets on my nerves when you try to make them sound useful.

All right, I won’t mention them again. I’ll just wheel you here in silence. he said as we stopped outside a big brown door that had Dr McDonald stencilled on it in solid gold letters.  Cuthbertson knocked a couple of times them pushed me in. It was a well-lit room with two huge bay windows that looked out to a rose garden.

Good afternoon Mr Robbins, how are you today? said the dark-haired woman sitting behind a large mahogany desk to the left of the bay windows.

I am fine I said watching enviously as Cuthbertson deftly left the room.

I know that this is an uncomfortable experience for you, but we do need to understand what happened.

You must know the full story by now I sighed.

Ah but is it the true story? Everyone even the most honest man tells lies the first time he tells a story.  Its only by frequent in depth questioning that we get to the crux of the matter.

Are you implying that I am deliberately not telling you the full story?

No not at all, just that your version of reality may not be shared by others. Two people can witness the same scene and provide a completely different description, sometimes even the colour.  Now for today I would like to discuss what happened on the bridge at Strabane.

I have already told you many times. The Gardai left the three of us on the bridge in full view of the British border guards. Nothing happened for a while until the squaddies’ curiosity got the better of them and them and they came out to investigate, realised we were in bad shape and called an ambulance.  All the time the Gardai watched proceedings impassively and didn’t lift a finger to assist!

Now, is that your memory or did someone tell you afterwards that the Gardai did not assist?

I remember it vividly. They carried us out to the bridge, Terry first then Fearghal then me.  As he laid me down; the fellow told us that if we tried to crawl back to Lifford, he would shoot us.  We were left there as the snow fell soaking us.

How did you feel when the soldiers came to rescue you? Elated? Reprieved? Scared?

By then all I cared about was staying alive! We were freezing, I was the only one who was conscious. Terry never spoke at all during the journey to Lifford or during our time on the bridge. Fearghal was unconscious, throughout the time that we were on the bridge. I just wanted us all to survive.

What did the soldiers do?

A couple crawled out from the border post, terrified I think that we might be a trap for a sniper or a remote-control bomb. When they didn’t draw any fire, they called over a bomb disposal man who studied us from multiple angles and went as far as pushing us over with a long-handed paddle to assess if a bomb had been planted underneath us.  He took forever before he declared us clean. Six squaddies then appeared with stretchers and proceeded to carry us into Strabane where ambulances were waiting.

What did the soldiers actually do and say? 

The original two shouted that they were covering and screamed at the stretcher bearers to get a move on. They all seemed to be very nervous, scared even.

Yes, I can understand that. Do you remember what they were wearing?

Usual British army rig, black berets with regimental badges, no idea which regiment!

Yes, can you be a little more specific about their clothing?

I suppose so, khaki green trousers, camo field jackets, black boots and green gaiters.

Mmm..... were they all dressed like that?

No, one was in the old fashioned all khaki outfit.

What kind of weapons were they carrying?

SLRs and Brownings as side arms plus the usual ammo and grenade pouches in their webbing.

Good. What did they say when they reached you?

The first two said nothing to me. They just checked the place out and called over the bomb disposal chap.  He didn’t say anything either just looked at everything very slowly and carefully.

Did you say anything?

I thought about it, but I was too afraid to speak in case it spooked them, and they shot us.

Why were you so afraid?

I had just been released from two days of brutal interrogation, my faith in human kindness was...  at an all-time low.

Surely the fact that you were on British soil would have made you feel safer?

To be honest, I wasn’t even sure I was on British soil. It could all have been a cruel hoax by Biggins to further break my spirit.

OK, let’s restrict the discussion to the actual events on the bridge.  When the stretcher bearers appeared, what did they say?

They knelt down in front of us and checked our pulses.  They put Fearghal on a stretcher first and carried him away, then they checked Terry.......

What did they say when they checked Terry?

The chap said, ‘This one’s dead!’ Then he moved on to me. ‘This one is still ticking’ he added, ‘But he looks like he has hypothermia, so we best get him into the bus as soon as possible’. After that they put me on the stretcher and raced off to the ambulance.

How did you react to this dramatic rescue?

I started shouting ‘Don’t forget Terry. Don’t leave him lying on the bridge!’

What did the stretcher bearers say?

Something like ‘Look mate, he’s dead he needs an undertaker not an ambulance’.

How did you feel at that point?

I was devastated, I couldn’t stop sobbing.

Why were you so upset?

I felt responsible. I could have saved Terry by not doing so many things.

You do realise you were demonstrating a very selective form of grief.  Terry wasn’t the only casualty of your Donegal mission.  At a rough estimate between fifty and one hundred people lost their lives or were seriously injured as a direct or indirect result of your activities.

Yes, well you must understand that Terry was the only one who actually died beside me and was a person I actually knew.  I was also badly injured and in a mentally weakened state.

You knew plenty of the others Clawson, Tim Herrity, Phonsie Alcock, Davie Farrell, Sean Foley and Jimmy O’Donnell for example.  All men you have testified to having dealt with directly during your mission. All of whom ended up dead for one reason or another. Why didn’t you break down when they died?

I was very close to emotional collapse many times, but I held on because I thought I had no option other than to follow Crichton’s orders or I would end up dead myself.

I must challenge that assertion.  You are a trained intelligence officer who is more than familiar with your organisation’s rules of engagement. Fear of a superior officer is no excuse for breaking the law.  You were a willing participant in one of the most serious breaches of discipline in the history of the intelligence services.  You operated illegally in a foreign state and oversaw multiple military actions without any political sanction. Did you at any point carry out a review of your activities against your department’s guidelines and assess whether they met the ‘Yes check’ criteria for proceeding?

No, I didn’t believe I had any option but to proceed.

Why?

Because I knew Crichton would kill me if I didn’t.

That is strange, because according to Major Crichton you were an enthusiastic participant in the operation. A natural undercover man who blended in so well the Irish government is convinced you were a leading Republican.  Even some leading Republicans, we have subsequently interviewed believe you are one of them. I would also point out that as the West Ulster Intelligence Chief; you outranked Crichton.

That is a sham title. I have never been appointed chief of anything.

I must disagree as there is plenty of documentation to support the fact that you were promoted to the role in September 1984.  There is also evidence of you chairing Committee meetings.

The written record may suggest that, but I certainly never felt as if I was in command or indeed control of the situation.

Thank you for bringing up the subject of control.  I would suggest that you were guilty of overreach.  You attempted to crush the IRA’s cross border arms smuggling operation by enticing the Irish government into attacking them by using Franz Zuck as bait.  When the Cranford raid was botched, you allowed the situation to get further out of control by bombing the Cross Keys to allow Zuck to escape and then not satisfied with the Irish reintroduction of internment you organised the Finner Raid to incite Dublin into formally proscribing IRA membership and forcing the Republican movement to either disband or go into exile.

I think you are overestimating my involvement somewhat. I was no more than a pawn in Crichton’s game!

Again, and again you disassociate yourself from an operation that as the West Ulster Intelligence Chief you were directly responsible for. Especially in terms of the approval for the mobilisation of funds and resources. 

That’s a damned lie! At no point did I sign any approvals for this operation for the simple fact that at no point in my career have I held a role with any budget responsibility.

The paperwork does not support your position. This folder contains reams of requisitions and invoices signed off by you in Donegal.  Do you deny processing them?

I blushed as I recalled the paperwork, I had naively processed at the FOB in Letterkenny thinking it was for the TyRaVent work at the Cranford and the Chemniz plant.  Crichton had set me up as the fall guy from the outset.

No I said, I am sure that I did sign those documents, but I was not aware that they were being used to mobilise the military activity.

You do understand that in the eyes of the law ignorance is no defence.  You were the senior officer and you approved the release of funds and manpower for the Finner raid.  Not to mention the extraction of weapons and ammunition from the naval arsenal in Belfast for use in the raid.

I shook my head in frustration I had known for a long time that Crichton had intended me to be some kind of ‘patsy’ for his operations, but I never envisaged just how comprehensive his plans were.  I was surely heading to prison for a long time.

You are a major issue for the government.  There are some who believe that we should come clean and hand you over to the Irish for prosecution. Of course, that would mean that the British Government would have to take responsibility for the Finner raid and at least partial responsibility for Cranford and the Cross Keys. That option is definitely not supported by the bulk of the cabinet or indeed the PM.  Your friend Superintendent Biggins has been on trial for some time in Dublin and his defence team have frequently referred to a mysterious British born Republican as the mastermind behind the whole operation.  Luckily for you and the UK, the record of your interrogation by Biggins has been suppressed by Dublin on national security grounds.  Without supporting evidence of your existence, it just sounds like an attempt at deflection by Biggins’ team.

I winced at the sound of Biggins’ name for good reason the psychopath left me with a fractured skull, broken nose, broken ribs, scarred kidneys and a bruised liver.  Even now ten months on I was nowhere near fully recovered.

So, what do you recommend Doctor?

I don’t recommend anything. I just make assessments of your physical and mental capabilities.  The powers that be can use my information to make their decision. 

You must have an opinion you can share with me? After six months you know the story as well as I do.

Well, you are certainly far more coherent now than were at the beginning of the year, but your story is full of holes and despite your protestations of innocence I find it hard to believe that such an outrageous series of events could have occurred without your willing involvement.  One of the biggest questions is around the fate of John Herrity.  He has not been seen or heard of since he left Finner in your company.  Certain elements of the Republican movement believe that the raid was organised by the Army Council to kidnap and execute Herrity as punishment for the Cranford incident. They cite the death of his accomplice Foley as further proof of this.

That is nonsense! Foley was killed by the Free State Army when they opened fire at us as we were getting Herrity and Foley out.

Again, some of the internees who witnessed the incident say that there was a confrontation at the breach in the fence between the raiders, Herrity, McGill and O’Donnell which ended with Foley, McGill and O’Donnell being shot and Herrity being dragged away.

Rubbish!  McGill confronted Crichton and Herrity, and also tried to get the rest of the prisoners to go back to their cells.  He told them that running would ruin their lives forever whereas if they stayed, internment would be over in a few months and they would go home as free men.  While he was speaking the Irish Army opened fire hitting him, O’Donnell, Foley and Crichton.  Crichton was carried away by Zuck and Pye.  A bunch of internees tried to escape across the minefield and were blown up, then Herrity helped us organise a fighting retreat to the getaway vehicles.  I drove him to Gortahork and never saw him again.  What did Crichton and Pye tell you?

I am afraid I am not at liberty to reveal your co-conspirators testimony.  As for the Herrity story, men like that don’t disappear into thin air.  That makes me believe that you did indeed execute him. Is there anything you would like to say about that?

The mere idea of me being able to overpower and execute a brute like John Herrity is preposterous! You must be able to see that.  He is a veteran mercenary killer who would snap my neck before I had finished thinking about killing him.

My father always told me to be wary of men who too enthusiastically protest their weakness.  Your track record suggests that you are an extremely dangerous and durable individual.  People die around you at an alarming rate and we have evidence that you have survived not one but two intensive bouts of interrogation and some would say torture in less than four months.  That is not the record of a wimp.  It would be better all round if you would just admit to killing Herrity and let us know where you buried him. It would allow us to close the book on the whole sorry Donegal affair.

I am sorry I can’t help you there. Herrity left me midway through the evening in Sean’s Cabin and effectively disappeared.  I have no idea how he disappeared or who helped him, but he did it. It would have been easy enough to escape in the rioting and chaos that followed the Gardai decision to close the venue early.  If I had known how things would pan out with Biggins, I would have made a run for it myself and avoided ten months of hospital treatment.

Any sensible man would have got out of Donegal as soon as they disposed of Herrity.

If I had been sober and thinking straight, I would have. Instead I tried to follow orders and wait until Boxing Day before heading to Dungannon.  It was a near fatal error.

Why were you ordered to go to Dungannon?

Crichton said that was where the East Tyrone IRA were based and that they were most likely to be the ones who killed Davie Farrell.

What exactly did you plan to do in Dungannon?

Simple, find Davie’s killers and blow their brains out.

Strange. You claim to be incapable of killing Herrity, yet you planned to head to Dungannon like a lone gunslinger from a Western, hunt down the murderers of your friend and kill them.  Where does this fit into the meek, mild mannered civil servant persona you keep trying to present?

"It is no act; I am just an ordinary man trapped in a nightmare devised by Crichton. The man is a psychotic megalomaniac.  

Major Crichton speaks well of you too. You do seem to be obsessed with convincing me that he is a crazed killer.  You do realise that as a career soldier he has been through many psychological assessments and there is nothing in his record to support your claims. 

Well he is clearly very skilful at hiding his true personality is all I can say.  In my experience he was directly responsible for the Bowling massacre, the murders of Sean Farren and possibly Frank Thompson from Glasgow Special Branch plus most of the killings in Gortin as well as the Cross Keys bombing and the Finner raid.

The interesting thing is that you are the one accused of these crimes and Crichton himself was shot on Christmas Day.  Is there anything you wish to tell me about Crichton’s shooting?

Nothing that I didn’t already cover when I gave my statement on the Finner Raid.  We breached the fence with Bangalore torpedoes.  Pye led the assault team in to extract Herrity and they reappeared five minutes later with Herrity and Foley followed by a crowd of prisoners.  McGill started arguing with Herrity and Crichton telling them to abort the escape, trying to persuade Herrity to stay and accept his punishment.  The argument was getting heated when the Irish Army opened fire.  Crichton dropped like a stone followed by McGill then Jimmy O’Donnell and Jock from the assault team were killed.  Pye and Zuck carried Crichton away and I never saw them again.  After that several of the prisoners detonated the Claymore mines, we realised that we had to make our escape asap.  Bill, one of the assault team had been wounded in the blast so I carried him away from the camp while Herrity and Rab held off the Free State troops until we made contact with the rearguard.

Ah the rearguard including the unfortunate Terry Conlan.  So, you ordered them to hold off your pursuers while you and Herrity escaped.

Not just us, Rab and Bill too.

Still they sacrificed themselves for you.

I don’t know what happened to them. I only encountered Terry again when Cahal Barry secured my release, but he was in no condition to speak so I don’t know what happened to Tug or Rog.  Did they survive?

I can confirm that Mr Wilson did survive. Mr Harper died in January of wounds he suffered during the raid.

I didn’t know about Rog, that is sad news.  I expect Tug blames me for everything.

Again, I cannot comment on anyone else’s evidence.  You appear to be persisting with the story that Crichton was an active participant in the raid and was not shot by masked gunmen at his home on the evening of Christmas Day after you had taken his security team away for a special operation.

Yes, I am because it is true.  Is Crichton denying that he was at Finner?  My understanding is that he was taken to the RUC station at Belleek and airlifted from there to Omagh. If he is saying anything else; I can assure you that he is lying.

What makes you so sure that he was airlifted from Belleek?

Barry McCabe told me that when we met up in Dungloe to change clothes.

Mr McCabe is another missing link in your story. No-one appears to have seen or heard of him since Christmas Day.  Are you sure that you didn’t dispose of him in the same manner that you eliminated Herrity?

Good God no! What kind of a monster do you think I am? I exclaimed.  I looked up and Dr McDonald stared back at me impassively.  Emotions had no discernible effect on her.  Her dark hair remained rigidly in place and her tanned skin showed no tell-tale signs of blushing.

Not a monster just a very dangerous operative who is known to have been responsible for multiple deaths.  The Finner raid was highly expensive in terms of manpower, Harper, Conlan, Mackintosh, Woods and Shannon were killed in the raid or died later of their wounds.  McCabe has disappeared, Crichton was seriously wounded, you ‘lost’ Herrity and ended up almost being beaten to death by the Gardai.  I make that eight casualties from a seventeen-man team plus the target is missing presumed dead.  That is Battle of the Somme levels of attrition which doesn’t even take account the number of Irish troops and internees who were killed or injured. 

Look I didn’t kill Herrity and I certainly didn’t kill Barry. He was very much alive when we left Dungloe.  As for the overall casualty rate, I suggest you raise that with Crichton.

Don’t you worry Major Crichton has undergone extensive questioning.  The question is how do you as the senior Intelligence officer in West Ulster explain why the attrition levels were so high?  What level of risk assessment was undertaken before the raid to assess whether it was actually feasible? Other than capturing and executing Herrity; what was the purpose of the raid?

Well as I have said many times, I can’t answer any questions about the planning or pre-planning of the raid.  My involvement was taken as a fait accompli by Crichton and indirectly Herrity.

Once again you demonstrate disassociation with the planning and approval of the raid.  I struggle to comprehend why you think I will believe that Crichton a veteran intelligence officer would manipulate his civilian commander so completely that he approves a raid which contravenes the sovereignty of an independent friendly state. You were supposed to be on an undercover information gathering exercise not invading another country.  In your version of this story the raid was executed because Herrity blackmailed Crichton into it by threatening to expose past misdeeds in Africa and that Crichton was sheltering Franz Zuck. I must admit that even with the best will in the world I cannot accept that your story has any truth in it.

Look why do you ask these questions and then complain that I don’t give you the answers you require?  It would be easier surely if you just wrote down my answers in advance and sent them off.

Don’t be cynical. All I am doing is trying to extract the truth from an extremely unlikely tale.  Even after ten months, your story remains variable and it is very difficult to understand your motivation.

Fear was my sole motivation, fear of death.  At every turn I expected either Crichton or the IRA to murder me.  In the end both set me up as the villain.

"It’s all very convenient that you are at the centre of multiple killings yet someone else is always responsible.  From my perspective it feels like you have cobbled together this narrative where Crichton and Herrity cynically manipulate you into facilitating murder on a grand scale.  Honestly, it’s simply too good to be true.  Northern Ireland was a brutal but relatively low-key conflict until ‘The Bowling Massacre’ in 1983 which triggered an unprecedented wave of sectarian rioting and violence in the West of Scotland. 

During the current troubles prior to ‘Bowling’; British security forces had not openly killed any IRA suspects in Scotland then you show up to investigate a relatively insignificant report of Republican activity in Dumbarton and in no time things escalate. A building site worker is murdered in his flat potentially by his geriatric Polish émigré colleague.  A Special Branch officer is murdered whilst carrying out surveillance of the Pole’s home. Out of the blue whilst the Pole is being questioned by the local CID; British Special Forces kill the five Republican suspects in an ambush at Bowling.  Rumours abound of your involvement, many exacerbated by press interviews with the General Foreman at the Dumbarton building site.  Shortly afterwards, he too was killed during an Orange Parade in Lanarkshire which sparked the extreme sectarian rioting.  Do you still claim that you had no influence whatsoever on the decision to carry out ‘The Bowling Massacre’ despite being the senior intelligence officer in the ground?"

Yes! ONE HUNDRED times Yes!!

You do understand that vehement aggressive responses are generally regarded as an indication of guilt.  Frequently they are a clumsy attempt to use anger to deflect the interrogator.  Now the case against you stacks up even further when I look at the events of September to October in the Gortin area.  At the point of your arrival direct conflict between the IRA and Loyalist paramilitary groups was low with essentially amicable relations being maintained whilst both sides pursued their respective protection rackets and weapons smuggling activities.  Shortly after your arrival you were set up for a beating by the Army allegedly by the local Loyalists.  The Loyalists then attempted to murder you in an attack that resulted in a leading Republican and a Civil Rights lawyer being killed.  There is a suggestion that these events prompted your campaign of violence which resulted in the massacre of the Loyalist Paton brothers’ gang by persons unknown using an anti-aircraft cannon.  Simultaneously the Loyalist suspected of the previous double murder was himself murdered and some of his remains discovered at the site of the Paton massacre.  Throughout all of these events you were a prominent figure in Gortin.  After you left Gortin, the level of violence dropped dramatically.  Are you going to persist with your claim that you were not involved?

Yes I said quietly, unsettled by her comment that vehemence was regarded as a sign of guilt.  Crichton was in control of all operations, and I was essentially a pawn.

She shook her head and looked at me disparagingly before resuming her questioning.  In Donegal the pattern continued, two fishermen disappeared more or less the day you arrived in the county and were found dead in Lough Swilly. Mr Clawson a fellow guest at your lodgings disappeared suddenly and was found dead in a burnt-out car near Dublin.  The landlord of a pub in Downings reported being brutally beaten by a psychotic Englishman.  You start working at the Cranford Demesne hotel and within a couple of weeks it becomes the scene of the worst gun battle in Ireland for sixty years. Later the same evening, a Republican bar near Lifford is blown up by a car that may well have been driven by an Englishman fitting your description.  These events trigger the local introduction of internment for Donegal Republicans. To really put the tin hat on it you organise a raid to rescue the main Republican protagonist in the Cranford gun battle.  Afterwards the rescued ‘prisoner’ disappears without trace and you are arrested in Gortahork following a wild brawl at a dancehall.  You withstand a couple of days of extreme interrogation bordering on torture before you are miraculously released following the intervention of a high profile Republican politician.  So once again are you continuing to claim that you did not participate in the planning and execution of these activities?

Yes.......

"OK then, please explain to me why you are still alive?

I don’t know, luck I suppose.

Luck alone doesn’t keep a man alive! Survival in a conflict situation requires planning and organisation plus animal cunning.  Qualities that I suspect that you have in abundance!  This interrogation has taken months because you have been deliberately evasive.  I had to revisit every piece of information multiple times, before I started to detect chinks of truth.

That’s a damned lie! I scowled. I have consistently told you the truth.  You have chosen to reject the facts I have presented and twist them to your own agenda.  I can assure you that I am not some kind of psychopath who decided off my own bat to commence a campaign of state sponsored murder against Irish Republicans.

For a start, I have never diagnosed you as a psychopath.  In truth you display the features of a classic sociopath.

And what would they be? I sneered.

"I’d rather hoped not to have to do this but listen to this list and tell me if you don’t recognise yourself:

when a sociopath does something wrong, they tend not to accept any blame, preferring to blame others

sociopaths don’t care who gets hurt as long as they achieve their objective

sociopaths are perfectly comfortable telling lies and even when the lies are exposed prefer to tell more lies to cover up the originals.  If they realise their lies are going to be completely exposed, they often confess everything to try and retain the loyalty of the person exposing them.

sociopaths habitually lie about their pasts and their current activity so frequently that they believe that their lies are actually the truth

sociopaths are able to endure traumatic events without experiencing a dramatic emotional response.  For example, brushes with death or extreme physical and mental danger have very limited impact on them and they are able to recount the events in a calm matter of fact manner

sociopaths are expert manipulators able to get even strong characters to do what they want them to do

sociopaths often seem outwardly calm but can snap into outraged violence in response to a minor offence

sociopaths have delusions of grandeur and are impervious to criticism

sociopaths have few if any friends and often explain the absence of long-term friendships as the product of previous betrayals

sociopaths often make their victims feel as if they were responsible for negative events that were actually caused by the sociopath."

Dr McDonald sat back and watched me cringe as I recognised many of the behaviours as my own.

As I thought she said eventually, You have strong sociopathic tendencies which really made you totally unsuited for the role you were put into in Glasgow.  Unfortunately, your rash actions that led to ‘The Bowling Massacre’ were not identified as such by your commanders and you were posted to Ulster with enhanced powers which due to your personality defects you were doomed to abuse.  Closer control by your seniors may have prevented things escalating so dramatically but I fear you would have simply continued to lie until you were finally exposed.

Fine. I said unwilling to listen to any more of her ruthless assassination of my character.  Now that my physical strength is improving when will I be allowed to leave this place?  I presume that based on your assessment I will be dismissed from the service and sent back to Civvy Street.

I don’t believe that it would be appropriate to release you at present.  You will require a new identity as your previous identities are severely compromised.  Phil Featherstonehaugh is allegedly dead, and Edwin Coulter would be better off dead rather than facing trial in the UK or Eire for mass murder.  Therefore, my recommendation is that you remain here in Akrotiri for the immediate future.

I considered protesting but based on her assessment of me as a sociopath that would just be playing to the stereotype.  She rang a bell and Cuthbertson reappeared with my wheelchair and took me back to my ward.  

Chapter 2

Early winter in Cyprus was very pleasant, dry sunny and around 80 degrees.  As my injuries healed; my sessions with Dr McDonald decreased in frequency and I was passed to the physiotherapy team headed by a jolly red haired Scotsman called Colin Bain. He would appear in my room at 6am and rant until I was out of bed and in my gym kit of white t-shirt, red shorts, red socks and silver trainers.  We went out to the quadrangle and he would take me through endless circuits of squats, star jumps, press ups, burpees, shuttle runs and weights.  At first, I collapsed in a heap after twenty minutes but slowly my strength returned, and I was able to last an hour and felt rather proud of myself which annoyed Colin.  He was so annoyed he introduced a post session run that started as a couple of laps of the building and slowly increased to three miles to the Salt Lake and back.  After lunch we went to the gymnasium and I struggled through dips on the parallel bars, climbing ropes, cycling furiously on an exercise bike and more weights.  By dinner I was exhausted and barely able to move, frequently I was asleep before nine pm.

The exercise gradually made me feel stronger and it was a very happy day when I realised that I was able to walk upright without pain. Colin never addressed me by the name on my base papers, Jim Robbins, instead he preferred to call me ‘Number 6’ like the Patrick McGoohan character in 1960’s tv series The Prisoner.

Right ‘Number 6’, ah think it’s time ye spread yer wings a bit.

Who do you think I am; Icarus?

Naw, ah jist think yer getting stale just running about here wi an auld bam like me cramping yer style. Come outside ah huv something tae show ye.

In the quadrangle he stopped beside an old green bicycle with a basket on the front and a carrier on the back.  What dae ye think? he asked proudly patting the handlebars.

Very nice I said, Have you got a job as a baker’s delivery boy?

Naw, ya cheeky tosser! This is for you.  It’s time you spread your wings and did a bit of exploring.  This magnificent machine is your key to the beauties of Cyprus. I want you to use it to travel around. 

I’m not sure I am allowed to leave the hospital.  Isn’t there a border check with the rest of the island?

Don’t panic, I have agreed this with the lovely Heather. She also believes that you need some more freedom and contact with the outside world.  The bike is ideal because it is good exercise as well as a decent form of transport.  There is a map in the basket along with some money, a canteen of water, some bread and cheese.

Do you expect me to go straightaway?

Yes, why not?

What way should I go?

Turn left out of here and follow the road along the left hand side of the Salt Lake until you reach a crossroads. Go left there as right would take you into Limmasol.  Whatever you do avoid Limmasol, it is much too big a town for you to be safe cycling in.  Going left will eventually take you to the beach. If you head off now you can have time for a couple of hours sunbathing and be back here for teatime.  There is a wallet in the basket with a couple of tenners just in case you need to buy anything.

Are you sure this is on the level? I haven’t been anywhere alone since I arrived months ago.

Naw mate, its nae joke. You just need to get on the road and enjoy yersel in the real world for a while.

With that he wheeled the bike out to the street and told me to be on my way.  I wobbled away from the kerb initially struggling with the weight of the ancient bike.Luckily I was starting on the flat so I was able to settle into a rhythm fairly quickly as I trundled out of the base area and headed for the Salt Lake.  The sun beat down on me and I was soon sweating profusely into my dark green polo shirt and black shorts.  A coolish breeze from the sea made things slightly less oppressive but I couldn’t imagine attempting this trip in the summer sun.  The Salt Lake looked magnificent with a flock of flamingos seemingly walking on the water. 

The traffic was light; only the occasional Land Rover or Bedford truck whizzed past me as I struggled to propel the bike along the road.  I wondered if I would be tailed, but so far there was no sign of any vehicle following me or anyone by the roadside paying me any attention at all.  I was exhausted by the time I reached the crossroads and as instructed took the left turn for the interestingly named ‘Sunshine beach’.  The road signs were in English and Greek and fortunately I had managed to pick up a modicum of Greek whilst at school thanks to the efforts of Mr Shaughnessy our tyrannical Classics teacher.

The road narrowed to a single track and thankfully there was little or no traffic for I would have had to jump over the wall into a field before any vehicle could get past.  I passed some whitewashed cottages with old ladies dressed in black working in their thriving vegetable