THE VERY THING

"Congratulations, Sir James." M cradled the white phone receiver between his shoulder and chin while he turned the pages of the report that lay on the desk before him.

"Thank you, M, but the honour hasn't been conferred officially yet."

"You forget, it's my job to know tomorrow's news today. I gather your Nobel Prize is richly deserved."

"That's not for me to say, but it is most gratifying to receive acknowledgement from my peers, especially when – "

"Indeed, but I don't wish to detain you from your patients for any longer than is necessary, so if I may ask you one or two questions about your report on Lady Denbigh?"

"Of course."

Was there a little resentment in Sir James Molony's voice? Well, bruised feelings couldn't be helped. Sir James might well be one of the world's most brilliant neurologists, but there were times when M was relieved that the Service's unofficial nerve specialist didn't charge by the hour. M perused a glossy black-and-white 6" x 4" society portrait of a young woman, supplied by kind permission of The Lady after a request to that august publication from a flustered young researcher. Universal Exports was researching a book celebrating the great families of Scotland, and if they would be so kind? They would and they were. A doe-eyed woman dressed in a tightly-cut hacking jacket and jodhpurs stood in front of a studio-bound rose trellis. The monochrome print did not betray the bizarre eye condition described in the file's notes, but M noted her gently parted lips, curled as if to suggest that she was well aware that the whole process was faintly ridiculous. Still, the photo was far more glamorous than the usual mug-shots that crossed his desk.

"It's a pity about Lady Denbigh, Sir James. I can't help thinking that she would have made a near unbeatable bridge partner."

"Or chess player – she could have memorised every opening variation without effort. But she really was extraordinary, M. Though some people have what is known as a photographic memory, Lady Denbigh had a very rare ability to memorise both visual and auditory stimuli. I've long thought it a qualification for genius. The Catholic Church once considered Allegri's Miserere to be such a miraculous treasure that it banned anyone from copying the work on pain of excommunication. Mozart heard one performance, memorised it and wrote it down note for note."

M looked at his watch. "Fascinating. What I want to know is – is it likely the Russians or anyone else has more of these "memory agents"?

"Most unlikely."

"Can we develop any of our own?"

"If you mean what I think you mean, then no. The mental strain involved in recording and storing sights and sounds is too great to induce artificially. It's the kind of ability you're blessed or cursed with. I heard of one case where the sufferer was confined to a sensory deprivation tank."

"Would some of these hallucinogenic drugs I hear about be of use?"

"The Americans have already gone some way down that route and I've heard a few horror stories – paranoia, fitting, manic depression and so on. In my opinion it would be unwise to risk the sanity of personnel in the hope that one might gain some nebulous and unproven advantage."

"Thank you, I'll take your advice on board."

"Now look, M, your eyes might light up at the prospect of turning Service staff into Recording Angels but I'm not about to recommend - "

"Thank you, Sir James, but that's not your decision to make. Anything further to add?"

"Alright, have it your own way. But I'll still send in another report on the matter, and see if I can knock some sense into that head of yours. One of my more primitive methods of treatment."

"I'll be sure to read it. Now, your patients must be waiting. About this evening – "

"Seven-thirty at Blades. And you're paying for supper. Basildon says he can get someone to make up a four."

"Agreed." M replaced the telephone in its cradle before Sir James had a chance to reply. He turned to the last page of the file.

To:M

From:Head of Medical Section

Copy Approved:J.M.

Subject:Lady Denbigh (commonly known as Millicent), née Daphne Bonham.

Cause of death:Severe trauma to brain stem, specifically the severance of the second cervical vertebra by a high-velocity gunshot. Higher brain functions would have ceased more or less instantly, though it is possible that the lower motor functions might have continued for a few seconds after de facto expiration. Lung tissue is flooded with seawater. The absence of foam in the respiratory passages indicates the fluid was ingested after death.

Distinguishing Features: Upper body covered in minor contusions and scar tissue. X-rays reveal a number of healed bone fractures. Subject suffered from heterochromia (non-matching retinas), a condition that normally results from the contraction of eye diseases such as the Horner, Waardenburg or "piebald" syndromes. However, the profusion of injuries both old and new suggests that the heterochromia was the result of a violent blow to the head, resulting in the detachment of the left retina. Cranial capacity is perfectly normal, but the hippocampi are remarkably prominent. In addition, both medial and lateral nuclei of the mammillary bodies appear enlarged. The brain is dense and weighs over a pound more than would be expected for a female of her age and weight. Further research in this area might yield startling results: per ardua ad astra, so to speak.

M tutted in annoyance and wrote in green ink: "Refrain from corrupting what we must now call the Queen's English with these interlopers. Absit invidia." He grunted at his little joke and placed the dossier to one side before pressing a button on his intercom.

"Ask 007 to come in, Miss Moneypenny."

M busied himself with lighting his pipe, noting in passing that Bond stood waiting until a quick nod gave him permission to be seated. He slid a yellowed edition of the Evening News across the desk.

"Welcome back. Just to confirm about the Denbigh woman, I had a word with the Home Office. They slapped a 'D' Notice on the whole mess – the press printed the bare details but no more."

Bond had already digested the broadsheet accounts of what was being reported as a crazed servant's retribution. He read with increasing distaste the Evening News's breathless tale of 'A Highland Tragedy'. After being spurned by the fragrant Lady Denbigh, the attaché to the Russian embassy had run berserk through Idlerave, killing the unfortunate woman, her husband (the last of the Denbighs), and his Russian colleague. There was some mystery as to how Lady Denbigh's body had been recovered near the coast after the madman had contrived to burn himself to death in a bothy near Idlerave House, but the events of that fateful night were still unclear. It took Bond but a moment to gauge the lurid nature of the 'journalism' and then drop the newspaper on M's desk as though it was contaminated.

Following Bond's lead, M held the paper between forefinger and thumb. "Your involvement has been glossed over. One rag called it 'snobbery with violence'. I think we can file the Evening News dossier in the round filing cabinet." He dropped the newspaper in the waste bin whose contents would be emptied into the basement furnace by the evening's end.

"I've read your report," said M, pausing to suck heavily on his pipe. "Your transport recommendations have been passed on to Q Branch. Think you might have ruffled a few feathers there, 007."

"Sir, about MacIntyre?"

"Who? Oh, the poor man who found you? Terrible thing to happen. There's nothing we can do in an official capacity, of course, but it seems that he was a veteran of the Black Watch. I'll get Accounts to send something to his family via the British Legion – we'll say the Home Office miscalculated his war pension."

"Thank you, sir. May I chip in as well? Without MacIntyre's intervention the whole thing would have gone belly-up."

"If you feel it necessary." M looked curiously across the desk. Bond felt his chief's piercing gaze examine him. He held his breath and tried to decipher M's poker face. This was it. He was in or out.

"The M.O. has passed you fit for active service. You look as though you've lost some weight, James. How are you feeling?"

How long was it since the old man had called him by his first name? Bond couldn't remember. There was a momentary urge to apologise to the man he respected so much, to reassure M that Bond would stay focused on the job, but something stopped him from saying so. They understood each other. Let it lie.

"Fine, sir. I still have a few bruises, but nothing serious." As with the over-cautious Chief Medical Officer, Bond decided not to mention the four painkillers he still took each morning.

"Good. The Service needs the Double-O Section at full strength. I must say, it was a stroke of luck that the Appleton's sawbones was an expert with knife wounds."

Bond nodded in agreement. He had been lucky that a doctor had reached him at all, let alone a superb surgeon. HMS Appleton's radar operator had been nearly deafened by a most unusual signal emanating from the Sutherland coast. By the time Coastal Defence had ordered the minesweeper to make all possible speed to help a Royal Navy commander in distress, the radar's whine had revealed another strange contact a mile off shore, and the balloon had gone up – not that Bond had known anything about it. Before his wartime call-up, HMS Appleton's surgeon had practised as a doctor in Glasgow during the notorious razor wars and could therefore decipher the bush telegraph of cuts, slashes, hacks and punctures that the Gorbals gangs had used to carve their way through frail flesh. When Bond emerged two days later from what the surgeon wryly called his 'brief coma', he knew that he owed his life to the lean, stern-faced yet genial man with a taste for tall glasses of iced gin. Apparently Bond had died on the operating table – twice. As sometimes happens in such trying circumstances, the two men became firm friends in a very short space of time; it seemed they had much in common. Bond, a captive audience, had nevertheless listened with fascination to the older man's unlikely anecdotes about mountaineering, travel in the Far East, and idyllic times in Geneva and a still peaceful Munich. And if sometimes the tired patient began to feel the strain? Well, the absorption of a glass or three of ship's rum eased any mild discomfort. Perhaps he would take up the invitation to visit his new friend's estate the next time he was in the West Indies. Perhaps.

The surgeon's departing words before Bond was stretchered off at Faslane lingered: "Try not to get into such a state of excitement again – unless she's worth it."

Bond thought it very good advice. He realised M was waiting for an answer.

"The Navy took good care of me, sir."

"I should think so. As you know, while you were confined below decks the Appleton and HMS Reliant escorted the sub back to neutral waters, during which they managed to get useful information about its radar signature." M stoked his pipe with satisfaction. "Well now, it seems our Russian friends have developed a new type of submarine and this time it's nuclear-powered. Very fast and very quiet. The NATO boffins are calling it the November class. The tub managed to park itself on our north coast without Coastal Defence being any the wiser but, thanks to your usual calm, orderly methods," - Bond detected the ghost of a wintry smile - "we've got a much better chance of detecting her and her sisters in the future. Her Majesty's Government has also complained very strongly about the 'accidental' straying into British waters. The Russians are naturally very sorry - it won't happen again, they trust this unfortunate incident won't sour the amicable relationship between the Russian and British peoples, and so on - the usual rubbish. Apparently their navigational equipment was malfunctioning. The First Sea Lord sent Admiral Gorshkov a rocket."

"Pity it wasn't the real thing," said Bond.

"Quite. Perhaps we'll send him an atlas for Christmas."

Bond returned to his office with as much of a 'well done' as he was ever going to get from M. The room was still empty. Both Bill and Francis had fallen off the map and neither man had been in touch in weeks. But all three sets of desks and chairs were dusted and polished – the Service always expected the return of a Double-O agent, even if their whereabouts were unknown. To do otherwise was bad for morale. Bond opened a window to let in some fresh air and release a manic fly. He gazed sightlessly at the traffic edging along Regent's Park. Bond tried to remember the last time he had spoken to his colleagues and couldn't. What about Milly? Could she have had something to do with their disappearance? Perhaps an overhead remark at a rowdy party, or a glance through her husband's confidential papers had provided a tiny but deadly hint for Britain's enemies?

Bond turned from the window and flopped into his chair. It was futile to speculate on such matters. He picked up a pencil and began to work his way through memos and circulatory notes. He tried to deal with the alarmingly large stack of folders squatting in his in-tray, but the deathly quiet office seemed to force his mind to wander. He closed his eyes and replayed Milly's last moments. She had turned to face the beach. Why? Was she saying a last goodbye to her home? Was she gathering her strength? Surely she must have heard the sailors screaming behind her.

And then Bond's pencil slipped from his fingers, tumbled onto the blotter and rolled off the desk. He made no attempt to stop it. She had seen the first bullet splash. She had turned and was looking for him. Bond swore softly as he recalled that last strange upward tilt of her chin. She had given herself to him. Perhaps that last look at the charnel house, that last urging from Schaalk and the thrill of pleasure in his voice had shocked her to the core. Perhaps the thought that she would be responsible for yet more torture and killing was more than she could bear. Perhaps Bond wasn't the only one that night to experience a pleasant drive through Hell.

It is said that in the last seconds before death one's whole life flashes before one's eyes. Bond hadn't experienced anything like that on that evil night on the Scottish coast. But would Milly have seen every last detail, every waking moment of her tragic life before succumbing to the inevitable? If so, how she must have suffered as her memories turned on her, replaying in unrelenting detail everything about her married life - every single blow, insult and contemptuous glance. He decided it was just as well that he couldn't clearly recall his friends' faces. A good memory was a curse.

A rap on the office door preceded the appearance of a face he did know well, that of Bill Tanner, M's Chief of Staff, and Bond's closest friend in the Service. Bond scolded himself. One must hang on to the good things in life and forget the rest.

"How did it go with the old man?"

"Well, he's never going to make me faint with damn praise, that's for certain. But I think he's pleased."

"Of course he is. Come on, I want to lunch at Langan's and try some of that oyster chowder you're always raving about."

Good old Bill. They both knew he was proposing the oldest medicine of all: amusing company, good food and strong drink. And would that rather attractive cocktail waitress with the devilishly seductive lisp still be there? There was only one way to find out. As the two men left the room, Bond heard Loelia Ponsonby emit a frustrated cry. She looked angrily at Bond and Tanner.

"It's this OHMS stationery – why do people insist on stapling envelopes these days? I've lost my letter opener and this is the second nail I've broken this week."

Bond took hold of her slim, pale fingers and surveyed the damage wreaked by an errant staple. He gently patted his beautiful secretary's hand and purred, "There, there Lil. Fear not."

He returned to his office and scanned his desk. There, between the shrapnel paperweight and shell-case ashtray ("Ardennes '44 vintage," as he kept reminding the disapproving Ponsonby), was the sgian dubh. Bond smiled to himself.

"I have the very thing."

FIN