Behind closed doors

Across town from where entirely medicinal drinks are being consumed in The Wee Hoose, the evening sunlight is leaving the last of its warmth on the door of the disused church.

In spite of the boarded-up windows, from inside the building comes the sound of voices.

One of them - belonging to the man we know as the Major - is raised, in what sounds like a combination of annoyance and frustration.

"Look," says the voice. "I'm not calling you a liar - let's just say you must be mistaken, OK? If you had followed the procedure correctly, there's no way she could have told you a pack of lies and given you the slip."

We hear an indistinct voice, and it becomes apparent just how loudly The Major must be talking.

"What, some old dear? Oh please. I've seen battle-hardened Taliban fighters after they've gone through this - and I tell you what, if the project hadn't been cancelled, we'd have won a shitload more hearts and minds over there, believe me."

More mumbling in response, which doesn't seem to improve the Major's mood.

"Let me put it this way, Mr Armstrong: I have never seen the equipment fail. Never. The project wasn't canned because the process is unreliable. If anything, it was too thorough. Offended some soft-hearted liberal idea of human rights, or something. No, Mr Armstrong. I'm suggesting operator error. And since you were the operator, to me that strongly suggests it's your error."

We hear a third voice, its tone placatory - though once again, the words evade our ears.

"No, you're quite right, Mr Hewson," replies the Major, his voice still carrying although he no longer sounds anything but calm. "There is little to be gained by pointing the finger of blame. The question is, how do we intend to deal with our little geriatric insurgents?"



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