Chapter Eleven
The following morning, John was back in front of the bank of computers in the Tracy penthouse.
"Not again," Alan groaned as he came into the dining room and shoved a breakfast bowl across the counter towards the sink. "Surely if there were any sordid secrets in Miss World Aid's locker you'd have found them by now."
John agreed grumpily.
"Hey, you see Penelope and Father have been in a huddle for over an hour. What do you think that's about?"
"Probably this." John took a newspaper from his lap and tossed it to Alan. "All the latest good news."
Alan frowned as he read the front-page article aloud. "'This paper believes International Rescue members are none other than the womanising, playboy sons of multi-billionaire former astronaut Jefferson Tracy. Mr Tracy is the founder of Tracy Corporation known world-wide for its ruthless pursuit of its own and US interests in major countries across the world to the detriment of the environment and local economies.'" Alan stopped reading. "What? That's bullshit."
John stretched back from the computer. "Well, maybe they got some of it right."
They glanced over their shoulders guiltily when they heard someone come in. It was Gordon, dressed only in his pyjama bottoms.
"Ah, Squirt," John said. "Female at six o'clock."
Gordon ignored him and leaned on the glass with his hands, looking at the ocean.
"We have got to find him water," Alan said. "He just has to have water. What's say about the pool, here?"
"Al, be imaginative. Use the American Express card."
Alan liked that idea and so did Gordon. They left with an armful of towels.
John leaned heavily on his elbow. He was getting edgy. The family was getting edgy. It was one thing to live under the one roof where they had separate accommodation quarters with an expansive tropical island at the front and back doors. It was another for all of them to live on the same floor of a medium rise building where their movements were restricted by heavy security. They were virtually living in each other's air space. He had more room to himself in Thunderbird Five.
Now they couldn't even go for a walk in the city to get some air and the tension showed between them each evening as they fought for a private space in the bed. Alan was the worst, going ballistic if anyone touched him and Alan finally agreed to sleep up the end where there was no danger of one of them accidentally rolling into him. Naturally, the temptation was too much not to give him a shove with a foot, Alan on more than one occasion ending up in a heap on the floor. It didn't help Alan's temper but it did give Gordon and John something to laugh about.
John was also beginning to think his pre-occupation with researching that young woman was due to the tension he felt. He knew he wasn't getting anywhere.
Deirdre Stewart emigrated to Australia with her parents from Ireland when she was ten. They bought a house on the Central Coast, where Deirdre had attended Gosford state schools, going onto nursing at Newcastle on completing her HSC. Her parents were also in the medical field; her father a dentist, her mother a nurse. Deirdre was not a member of a political party, mainstream or otherwise or any other group he could find. Not her, not her parents or brothers. She volunteered for four months every year with World Aid Services, a totally humanitarian project.
So, why do the hackles stand up on the back of my neck when I hear her speak?
"John?" Jeff strode into the dining room with Penelope a step behind him. "How long would it take to configure full communication systems to Thunderbird Five?"
John stood up in surprise. "Well, not long. Align the mobile dish. Test the pick-up. Boot up the remote relays."
"Good. Get on it. Get Brains. A family meeting in an hour. International Rescue must show itself or be damned. We can't afford to give our enemies the idea our absence has anything to do with this. Spread the word."
John punched the air. "Yes!"
Jeff went to leave then turned back to him. "And John, I haven't forgotten we need to talk about the other night."
"Yes, Father," he muttered but the thought dampened his new-found enthusiasm for only a nanosecond.
Thunderbirds are Go!
It was what they lived for. And in his excitement, John immediately put aside his interest in Deirdre Stewart.
Scott found he was getting used to the idea of having nothing to do and nowhere to go. He usually couldn't sit still for more than a few minutes but being medicated to the eyeballs wasn't so bad. After his run-in with the psychiatrist, they'd seen fit to knock him out with another injection. He'd slept through the previous night and now most of the morning, being woken up briefly to take care of the basic needs and to reassure family members he was still sane. He'd even kept down some soup.
Over the last couple of hours he'd figured out a way to stay in bed without going crazy. He partially closed the blinds so he couldn't see the planes taking off. Now, he lay flat-out on his stomach, his head turned so he didn't have to stare at the ceiling. The apparatus on his arm was a problem but he just let the limb hang in mid air over the side of the bed. It hurt but pain was a good thing, right?
There was, after all, no reason to get up. The great Tracy disappointment was now officially grounded. The gears of the justice and health systems were grinding their inevitable workings on his behalf whether he wanted them to do or not. All he had to do was lie there passively and everything would happen around him.
He had turned his Thespian mask flip side. He was polite, co-operative and even made the effort to smile, not because his problems had been miraculously solved but because he'd made a decision. He'd tidy up this mess. He'd take what was coming. No hesitation. All in a manner that wouldn't humiliate his family like this again.
And he knew of only one way to do it.
He felt he'd already lost the respect of his younger brothers. One by one they'd filed past him last night, to sit in that chair Virgil had occupied, looking like they wished they were anywhere else but making meaningless small-talk with their fallen leader. Alan was always fidgety, maybe that wasn't so unusual. John sat passively, his face difficult to read, the content of his conservation non-existent. Gordon was the worst. He squirmed and grinned like he'd been called to the headmaster's office as the visit went something like this.
"How are you, Gordo?"
"Fine. No problems."
"We haven't had that talk."
"S'okay, Scott. It doesn't matter, now."
"Sure it matters. We had a shit day and you were cut about it. We haven't debriefed. Of course it matters."
"It can wait until you get home."
"That might be awhile, Gords."
"You get yourself right. That's all we want."
"Thanks. How's it going with Amber?"
"Good," Gordon chorused.
"Bullshit. It must be hell. You must be re-living what you went through."
"It's okay," his brother said and was gone like a shot out of a gun.
So, big brother was left to doze numbly in this nebulous, free-floating state.
Some time in the morning, Virgil shuffled in. Scott didn't open his eyes but he could hear the rustle of the fine fabric, the scuff of slippers, the screech of the chair legs on the floor.
Then Virgil played the harmonica. Quietly at first as if Virgil wasn't sure he was awake. Scott listened as he played a retinue of tunes, some sad, some lively. It did his soul good. He listened to the soothing strains of the instrument for some time. Scott knew Virgil was great on the piano and there was nothing better after a rescue to hear Virgil play in the living room at home but how could he make the little mouth organ speak to him like that?
He smiled until the last number touched him more deeply than he cared to admit. Reassurance of the family's care was littered around his room in the form of cards and balloons but they'd failed to move him. Even Tin-Tin's effort to ease his soreness from the extensive bruising by massaging him was only physical comfort. As the doleful notes floated around the room, he covered his face to resist the emotion he felt. Before the mesmerising tune finished, catches of the lyrics came unbidden to his mind: about being concerned for his welfare, about being no burden and about being reassured they'd make it together.
Scott knew that song. It was in Gordon's golden oldies collection. And long after Virgil stopped playing, the title circled his mind.
"He ain't heavy, he's my brother…"
Scott was aware Virgil stood over him. He opened his eyes to look into that soft, liquid expression of his. So like Mom it took his breath away, only Mom wouldn't be smiling at him the way Virgil was now.
Scott raised his good fingers towards him and Virgil's strong, callused hand reached out to take his.
"I'm sorry, Virgil."
"We'll get through this," he whispered. "You'll see."
"Good morning, Amber," Gordon said, leaning over the dark-haired patient. He took her hand to hold it and this morning she didn't squeeze back.
Her eyes slid open. She looked at him with tense, hazel eyes that immediately filled with tears.
"Uh-oh, someone's had a tough night," Gordon said. And he knew now the real work would begin.
A/N: He ain't heavy, He's my brother Copyright 1969, Bob Russell & Bobby Scott, Producer Ron Richards UK parlophone R5806. Vinyl recording. Special thanks to LMC for bringing it to the TBs