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Authors: Edward Wilson
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discreet friends. And since the Wolfenden Report the need to be ‘discreet’ was no longer so pressing. Catesby sometimes wondered if Henry had an active love life, but he was reluctant to ask directly. In any case, Bone was a quintessential product of his mandarin English upbringing and past. Henry had at least once in his life suffered great emotional hurt, but never showed it or discussed it. Catesby admired his dignity.
Catesby continued crunching through the shingle as if summoned by Southwold Light. He wondered if he should carry on to Walberswick where the Blyth poured into the sea. There was a pub that would do simple suppers of fish and brown shrimp. Catesby knew the fishermen who propped up the bar, but the landlord was new. The fishermen always took the mickey out of his ‘success’; they thought he worked in the Foreign Office and always called him ‘Ambassador’.
Catesby stopped and listened to the night sounds. The North Sea sucking at the shingle; the communal piping of the oystercatchers from Dingle Marsh; his own breath. He wouldn’t go on to Walberswick . He wasn’t in the mood for jolly banter – and he could feel the tears coming. He counted the months. Twenty-three of them had now passed. Maybe there would have been a baby by now – and maybe another one on the way. The tears were really coming now. He looked out across the North Sea and tried to send his heart across the water and on to the cold Baltic to where he had last held her in his arms. He began to shout her name like a madman over and over again. Then he stopped and waited. But there was no reply. He turned to go back to where he had left the car. He needed to go back to London where he’d whisky himself to sleep and then spend a lonely Sunday in a nearly deserted Broadway Buildings reading cables and writing reports.
Catesby stopped and looked once more across the sea. The tears welled again like drops of molten iron. ‘My job killed you,’ he whispered , ‘my job killed the only, the only …’
He wiped his eyes and continued walking, then stopped and reached for the gun in his pocket. But instead his fingers touched a folded piece of paper. Catesby remembered that he had saved a copy of the letter for himself. It was deceitful, he should have handed it over to Bone. Catesby took it out of his pocket and squinted at the words in the dying light.
… Those nearest the launch pad – including Marshall of Artillery Mitrofan Nedelin himself – were incinerated instantly.
I am more atheist than ever, but I will leave Babushka to believe in her old lies. There is no heaven or hell except what man creates. I don’t know whether man can create heaven, but I know that he can create a hell beyond the imagination of any painter of medieval icons.
The fires continued to burn for more than two hours until well after dark. There was a full moon and the night was very cold. I was surprised at the way some of the bodies, naked and hairless, seemed to glow like phosphoresce in the moonlight. We had to scoop them up on long sheets of metal, otherwise they disintegrated like a fragile lace of ashen paper. There is nothing left of those nearest the rocket. Someone said the only remains of Marshall Nedelin are two molten keys. There are more than a hundred dead, perhaps 200, but most of the bodies will never be identified because there are no bodies to identify. I am sorry to have to tell you that Vasya, the young chemistry genius with the shy smile who turned beetroot red whenever a woman spoke to him, is among the missing. I know that you had a soft spot for Vasya – we all loved him. The fire at the centre was 3000 degrees.
This is a serious and tragic time for our Motherland. Most of our best scientists and rocket engineers are now dead. Mitrofasha ignored the safety rules because of haste. Nikita Sergeyevich had wanted the new rocket on display for the October Revolution parade. If the truth were known our country would spend 7
Catesby continued crunching through the shingle as if summoned by Southwold Light. He wondered if he should carry on to Walberswick where the Blyth poured into the sea. There was a pub that would do simple suppers of fish and brown shrimp. Catesby knew the fishermen who propped up the bar, but the landlord was new. The fishermen always took the mickey out of his ‘success’; they thought he worked in the Foreign Office and always called him ‘Ambassador’.
Catesby stopped and listened to the night sounds. The North Sea sucking at the shingle; the communal piping of the oystercatchers from Dingle Marsh; his own breath. He wouldn’t go on to Walberswick . He wasn’t in the mood for jolly banter – and he could feel the tears coming. He counted the months. Twenty-three of them had now passed. Maybe there would have been a baby by now – and maybe another one on the way. The tears were really coming now. He looked out across the North Sea and tried to send his heart across the water and on to the cold Baltic to where he had last held her in his arms. He began to shout her name like a madman over and over again. Then he stopped and waited. But there was no reply. He turned to go back to where he had left the car. He needed to go back to London where he’d whisky himself to sleep and then spend a lonely Sunday in a nearly deserted Broadway Buildings reading cables and writing reports.
Catesby stopped and looked once more across the sea. The tears welled again like drops of molten iron. ‘My job killed you,’ he whispered , ‘my job killed the only, the only …’
He wiped his eyes and continued walking, then stopped and reached for the gun in his pocket. But instead his fingers touched a folded piece of paper. Catesby remembered that he had saved a copy of the letter for himself. It was deceitful, he should have handed it over to Bone. Catesby took it out of his pocket and squinted at the words in the dying light.
… Those nearest the launch pad – including Marshall of Artillery Mitrofan Nedelin himself – were incinerated instantly.
I am more atheist than ever, but I will leave Babushka to believe in her old lies. There is no heaven or hell except what man creates. I don’t know whether man can create heaven, but I know that he can create a hell beyond the imagination of any painter of medieval icons.
The fires continued to burn for more than two hours until well after dark. There was a full moon and the night was very cold. I was surprised at the way some of the bodies, naked and hairless, seemed to glow like phosphoresce in the moonlight. We had to scoop them up on long sheets of metal, otherwise they disintegrated like a fragile lace of ashen paper. There is nothing left of those nearest the rocket. Someone said the only remains of Marshall Nedelin are two molten keys. There are more than a hundred dead, perhaps 200, but most of the bodies will never be identified because there are no bodies to identify. I am sorry to have to tell you that Vasya, the young chemistry genius with the shy smile who turned beetroot red whenever a woman spoke to him, is among the missing. I know that you had a soft spot for Vasya – we all loved him. The fire at the centre was 3000 degrees.
This is a serious and tragic time for our Motherland. Most of our best scientists and rocket engineers are now dead. Mitrofasha ignored the safety rules because of haste. Nikita Sergeyevich had wanted the new rocket on display for the October Revolution parade. If the truth were known our country would spend 7
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