Breakfast was an uncomfortably silent affair. Only the scraping sound of a mean little sliver of butter being thinly spread across a slice of toast by a dour-looking Gordon Buie could be heard along with the chink of china cups hitting their saucers. It was clear none of the three at the table had enjoyed a decent night’s sleep and neither were they prepared to engage socially or even pretend to indulge in meaningless pleasantries.
Finally, Mr Petrie could stand it no more as he threw his linen napkin down and sighed: “Oh, for goodness sake. As Robbie Burns once said the suspense is worse than the disappointment. Duncan, have you made up your mind and if so, would you care to put us all out of our misery?”
Gordon Buie held up his hand as if requesting permission to speak and, without taking his eyes from the toast in his right hand, he said: “I want you to know, Mr Petrie, I have the utmost respect for you and whatever Duncan decides, I will not hold it against you nor will I take it personally. To be frank, I am exhausted with it all and my mind can barely turn. It’s like an over-sprung clock.”
The uncomfortable silence resumed for a few more seconds and this time it was Duncan who lifted his head and cleared his throat as he looked at the two men who were both huge influences in his life. "I have really considered the proposal, Mr Petrie, and I have taken in to account the words of wisdom offered by my grandfather, a man who has never let me down and offered me nothing but love and support.
“I am truly blessed to have both of you in my life and while I realise that I’m still too young to take full control, I would want some reassurances from both of you before I accept Mr Petrie’s offer, for, despite your reservations grandfather, it does seem to be a wonderful offer.”
Both men sat in silence, grim-faced, reflecting the gravity of the situation. “I want to become a Guardian and work as an apprentice under Mr Petrie, but I also want guarantees that my education at Sweetheart will continue and I will be able to go on to university, assuming I get the right qualifications. If there’s one thing both of you have instilled in me, it is the importance of education.”
Mr Petrie afforded a hint of a smile on his pursed lips and nodded before speaking: "Of course your education will be guaranteed and you will be introduced slowly into life as my apprentice. I don’t expect it will be very exciting for you initially and certainly you will not be exposed to the sort of adrenalin-fuelled antics of the last few weeks.
“Well, I am glad that is sorted. You will make an excellent Guardian, of that I am sure. And Gordon, I promise you here and now you’ve not lost your grandson. Life will continue as normal for the foreseeable future and you will barely notice a difference.”
Gordon Buie’s eyes brimmed with tears as he said: “There can be no going back, no looking back in regret… Are you sure laddie? Are you…” He lurched forward and passed out. Mr Petrie jumped up and ran to support the old man as he said: “Help me put him on the sofa. Don’t worry. He’s just reacting to a sedative in his tea.”
Duncan did as he was told and after putting his grandfather in a comfortable position, he turned to Mr Petrie and asked why it was necessary to drug him. "You have experienced, over the last few weeks, what life is like when you’re being hunted because people think you know far more than you do. There is no way I want your grandfather exposed to any danger and I imagine you feel the same.
"In ten minutes, Merrick will come through that door and administer some very special medicine which will erase from his memory anything to do with ‘The Guardians’, your decision at breakfast and all the revelations that poured out recently. There are bad people out there, Duncan, and when we go into battle, we cannot leave anything to chance.
“Don’t worry. He will still remember all the good things in St Petersburg, your singing and the sightseeing, but everything else will be gone as though it never happened. I could have done this much sooner but I wanted him to be part of your decision-making process. I love and respect your grandfather and would not want any harm to come to him now or in the future. Understand, eh?” Duncan felt uncomfortable but realised Mr Petrie was right.
Merrick, prompt as ever, arrived and without any acknowledgements to those in the room walked straight over to the sofa. Opening a small Gladstone-style leather bag, she produced a round disc the size of a pound coin and placed it firmly on a spot just above Gordon Buie’s forehead. She then administered a blue-coloured liquid into the old man’s left arm and whispered into his ear. Although his eyes were still firmly closed, he appeared to nod in agreement to whatever it was she had said. Duncan, who was chewing nervously on a forefinger and thumb, watched on silently.
“Job done. He’ll wake up in five minutes and imagine he’s had a catnap. I’ll see myself out,” she said brusquely before heading towards the door. As she lifted the latch, she hesitated and turned around to look at Duncan. Half smiling, she said: “Welcome on board. I’m sure we’ll bump in to each other again.”
As the door closed, Duncan gasped and said: “Is she one of…”
But he couldn’t get his sentence out before Mr Petrie said: “Not now. There’s plenty of time for questions later. Let’s wake your grandfather and finish off our breakfast. There is one thing I’ll say, Duncan,” said Mr Petrie as he stretched out his arm placing it on the boy’s shoulder: “I’m glad you agreed to join me. A whole new world is about to open up to you and every day will have the potential to become an adventure.”
Duncan was excited, although he tried to contain his feelings. Gordon Buie awoke from his slumbers feeling quite refreshed and returned to the breakfast table. “I think I’ve just had one of those power naps, apologies for drifting off before breakfast.” The others smiled as a fresh round of toast was produced by Mr Petrie. Mr Buie took a crust and lavished it with lots of butter which melted easily into the warm bread.
It was nearly the start of a new term and so, the school was bustling with activity as parents arrived to drop off their children while the school bus was on a constant shuttle between the airport and the train station. Duncan and his grandfather walked to the village while Mr Petrie went off to the main school building where new parents and arrivals were being greeted.
“I’m really sorry, Mr and Mrs Barsukov. I’ve simply no record of your boys being registered here, none at all. This is most peculiar,” said Penny Jones who had been sent to the school by an Edinburgh recruitment agency. Mr Petrie strolled over and asked Miss Jones if he could help.
Pulling him to one side she said: “I really have been thrown in to the deep end here but the registration seems pretty straight-forward. However, I simply can find no record of the Barsukov boys. I’m really not sure what to do. Is there any news yet on, Miss Hunter?”
Mr Petrie shook his head and added: “It’s a complete mystery. She seems to have vanished and has not left any messages, which is most uncharacteristic of her. Just soldier on, Miss Jones, and leave the Barsukovs to me.”
Mr Petrie walked over to the Russian family, introduced himself and said: “There seems to be a misunderstanding and we will get this little matter sorted. In the meantime, would you care to have a look around the school and its grounds, Mr and Mrs Barsukov?” Glad of his intervention, the family agreed and one of the boarders was summoned to escort the family on a tour of Sweethearts.
The old Scottish history master smiled to himself and went outside by the steps just as the Volkov’s chauffeur-driven car pulled into the drive. The limousine had barely stopped on the gravel when the twins jumped out and ran towards some friends they had spotted leaving the more graceful Svetlana and her husband, Viktor, to emerge.
There was a sharp intake of breath just behind Mr Petrie who was almost rudely swept aside as Dr Jones hurtled down the stone steps to greet the Volkovs. The Welsh choirmaster’s beneficiary swept her white-gloved hand towards Dr Jones and linked his arm walking off as they both talked excitedly about their plans for the forthcoming term.
Viktor was unimpressed and began scanning the entire area as though he was a leopard looking for prey. “Searching for someone, Mr Volkov?”
He turned to see the Scottish history master walking down the steps and appeared slightly irritated he would have to engage in conversation. “No, I was just looking for my boys but they ran off as soon as they saw their friends, and as you can see Svetlana is already plotting with Dr Jones on how to spend my money.”
Mr Petrie grinned: “Ah, yes, the burden of being such a generous benefactor. Still, you must have been pleased with the outcome of St Petersburg. It was such a success. By the way, some of your friends arrived about an hour ago asking for you.” Viktor’s leather soled shoes crunched through the gravel as he stopped suddenly and turned to face the smiling master.
“Who? Who is asking for me?” Mr Petrie gently touched the sleeve of his cashmere coat, as if to reassure him, and said: “Really, it’s nothing to be concerned about but your acquaintance Yury Barsukov and his delightful wife, Olga, have arrived with their sons claiming to have registered for places at the school. May I be frank with you, Mr Volkov?”
Without waiting for a reply, he continued: "I get the feeling that Mr Barsukov intends to call our bluff. I don’t believe he has registered the boys as I take a personal interest in all new arrivals and many of our pupils are registered years in advance. I believe they were so impressed with the choir in St Petersburg that they fell in love with the idea of sending their sons here, and who can blame them?
“What do you think?” Mr Volkov tugged on his crisp white shirt cuffs and smoothed down his tie. He was clearly ruffled but he wasn’t quite sure what Mr Petrie was after. “I’m a simple man, Mr Petrie, and rather direct. It matters not to me if Yury Barsukov enrols his sons here, although Svetlana may not agree. However, it might suit my purposes if you can see your way to bending the rules and allowing them entry as long as they are made aware that, erm, it was I who intervened and made it possible. But what do you want out of all of this?”
As the two men walked towards the main entrance, Mr Petrie scratched his chin and this time he stopped and turned towards Mr Volkov: "It was not lost on me that you and some of your associates had more than a passing interest in one of my students. Duncan Dewar to be precise. They were under the impression that the boy was in possession of vital information which could be of value.
“I want it known that he is no longer a person of interest. I think that you could do that in your sphere of influence, Mr Volkov. This information needs to be spread far and wide so the boy can feel safe again. Is this within your gift?”
The Russian, who was twice as wide as the schoolmaster and slightly taller, looked at him and smiled: “Where is the microchip now? Who has it?”
Mr Petrie looked straight into the Russian’s dark brown eyes and said: "You are indeed well informed. I can say in all honesty it is no longer on his person. It has gone. No one has it and whatever secrets it contained have also gone. The boy was not even aware he was carrying it until he dislodged it during a shower.
“I would like to tell you a glamorous, exciting story but the truth is it simply was washed away disappearing down some plughole, along with the secrets. A rather unspectacular and ignominious end, don’t you think?”
Laughing out loud, Viktor responded: “And who is going to believe such a tall story?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Mr Petrie said: “I don’t care what you think, quite frankly. You can walk away now with some information which will increase your standing in whatever shady world you occupy and, in addition, you can have the eternal gratitude of Yury Barsukov. Symbiosis, Mr Volkov, benefits both parties, not just the parasite.”
Viktor Volkov’s nostrils flared as he took in an amount of air so large that it seemed to increase his already massive chest and as he exhaled he seemed to expunge the anger that had been accumulating during his conversation with Mr Petrie. “We have a deal, Mr Petrie. Is there anything else?” The master held out his hand and both men exchanged forced smiles and shook on their agreement.
As Mr Petrie turned to walk away, the Russian leant forward towards his right ear and said: “Just who are you and who do you really work for?”
Mr Petrie stopped and turned his head without moving his body. “Me? Why, I’m a person of no consequence, Mr Volkov, just a humble teacher trying to interest teenagers in Scottish history which is quite a challenge, I can tell you.”
He then continued walking towards the administration block but could feel Viktor Volkov’s piercing gaze on him until he disappeared through the doors. Walking inside Miss Hunter’s office, he went to a filing cabinet and pulled out two forms of registration which he backdated to the previous year in the names of Ivan and Dmitry Barsukov.
Clutching the forms, he then strolled in to the headmaster’s office: “Dr Collins, how is your day progressing?” The head was sitting at his desk with his palms over his ears as if to block out all noise.
"I really do not know how I am going to get through today. Where the hell is Miss Hunter? Did she say anything to you? The woman’s gone completely off radar. We’ve even had the police to her home in Dumfries but there’s simply no sign of her, absolutely nothing.
“On top of that, the agency sent Miss Jones from Edinburgh, a very capable woman I admit, but there’s only so much she can do and, on top of all of this, I’ve got some Russian parents threatening all sorts because we’ve no record of their sons and they assure me they registered them last year,” moaned the unusually exacerbated Dr Collins.
“Well, I can’t help with regards to Miss Hunter’s whereabouts but I have found these forms in the back of her desk. I think she simply forgot to file them and, given the events of today, it is quite clear she did not have her mind entirely on the job. Are the Russian pupils called Ivan and Dmitry Barsukov, by any chance?”
Dr Collins breathed a sigh of relief: “Yes, yes. But what are we going to do now? I’m not even sure we have places…”
Mr Petrie interjected: “We have had one deferral in the first year which gives us an opening for Dmitry and we can easily slot in Ivan. I think I can smooth this out for you, headmaster, if you want.” Dr Collins was in no mood for more problems that day and anyone offering solutions was gratefully received and so, with that, both the Barsukov boys were enrolled.
As anticipated, Yury and his wife, Olga, were eternally grateful to Mr Petrie, although the Scottish History Master told both parents that their gratitude should really be extended to Viktor Volkov. He handed them both the backdated registration forms and asked them to complete the family details and pay two years of school fees in advance.
On seeing his friend in the school dining room, Yury Barsukov rushed over: “Viktor, Viktor, how can I thank you, my friend? How did you manage to plant the registration forms? How did you know we were even coming today?”
Viktor smiled at Yury: “I make it my business to know these things. You are one of my dearest friends, Yury, and if I can help you, I will, for I know you would do the same for me.”
Leading Yury out of the room and into the corridor, he leaned forward and said: “As it turns out, there is something you can do for me.” With that, the pair walked back towards the exit in deep conversation. By the end of the week, the Russian underworld had dropped all interest in the Scottish schoolboy Duncan Dewar. He was no longer considered a person of interest by them and news soon filtered out to other intelligence agencies.
The story of the lost Infinity Cell travelled well, and there seemed to be general relief all round that no one had its secrets. The news was welcomed by the Council of Anam Cara. “So, Mr Petrie, when will we get to meet your protégé in person?” asked Salar, as the monthly meeting was about to conclude.
“Oh, soon, very, very soon,” responded the Scottish History Master.
After the first week, life at the school began to resume as normal and the mystery of Miss Hunter was no longer a hot topic with local police more than happy to file her as a missing person rather than the victim of a suspected crime.
“Dewar!” shouted Mr Petrie as Duncan and his friends walked across the courtyard. The gangly teenager ran towards Mr Petrie and followed him in to the classroom. “If you could meet anyone in Scotland’s rich history, who would it be?”
Duncan thought for a while and said: “Burns, Robert Burns.”
Mr Petrie smiled: “I thought you might say that. If you’ve no plans tomorrow. I want you to come to Dulce Cor for 10 am.” Punctual as ever, Duncan was knocking on the cottage door at the appointed time.
Mr Petrie invited him in and said: “Consider this your first day as my apprentice. So young Guardian, follow me, keep your mouth shut and your eyes and ears open.”
Wide-eyed, Duncan followed the master through secret doors and passages which led to a warren of dimly lit underground tunnels towards an old oak door from where shafts of moving light poked through the framework. “Where are we going, Mr Petrie?”
But before he could get an answer, Mr Petrie opened the oak door and the pair walked through.
“Welcome to the Black Bull Inn at Moffat,” smiled Mr Petrie. Aghast, Duncan looked around and saw lots of men dressed in strange-looking heavy wool clothes. Some wore loosely tied woollen kilts and there was a heavy smell of damp and body odour in the air.
Duncan looked at Mr Petrie and then down at himself. Their twenty-first century attire had vanished and instead, the pair were wearing white shirts, waistcoats and knee breeches with heavy, long overcoats trailing their calves. “Follow me, laddie,” instructed Mr Petrie as he pushed his way through the bar towards another room.
“Petrie! What a man! Why, I was just about to leave but I think I will change my mind. Come, sit down. Landlord, more ale! And who is this young callant?”
Mr Petrie turned to Duncan and said: “Allow me to introduce you both.” The man, dressed like a country gentlemen, rose up from his seat in the back room. Looking striking with his black, wavy hair brushed and secured with a black ribbon, he pulled at his yellow and blue striped waistcoat before extending his hand to Duncan.
“Master Duncan Dewar, let me introduce you to this most handsome fellow. This is Robert Burns… Some say he has a way with words and poetry…”
<Ends>