It was night and there was an orange haze in the sky to the north. Phosphorescent red and green navigational lights on the ships in the channel picked out bright fractions of hull. The water carried a gentle swell and the noise of it slapping against the concrete walls of the fort reached the ears of the guards strolling around the perimeter. There was no wind, and with the grumble of the idling engines of the container ships came the sounds of a distant horn. Fog was on its way.
“I don’t get it, still,” said one of the guards, the younger of the two.
“They were a good idea at the time, mate. That’s all there is to it.”
“And it was…?”
“Because of the French.”
“Weird. I was in France last weekend on a booze cruise.”
“Oh? How was it?”
“All right. It’s not as cheap as it used to be.”
The younger guard’s name was Michael Goodie and the elder one was Brian Welch.
“Nothing ever is,” said Brian.
The foghorn sounded again over the water. Michael stopped and leaned on the railing over the central courtyard of the fort. He flicked his torch over the patio, the chairs and the swimming pool below him.
“I never thought I’d be able to come out to one of them,” said Michael.
“Yes, well, it’s not like you’re a guest, mate.”
“I know. I just…saw them, every time I caught the ferry or went to the beach or the funfair at Southsea, out in the water, and after a while I just never thought…you know?”
“I’ve been doing this gig for two years now,” said Brian. “You get used to it.”
“So we were at war with the French, then?”
“We’ve been at war with the French hundreds of times.”
“Hundreds?”
“I’m not lying.”
“Blimey.”
“Didn’t you ever pay attention in History?”
“Not really. I didn’t like school.”
“These were built out here in the water to protect Portsmouth and Southampton from the French navy. All armour plated, lots of cannon, twenty blokes, boats, the lot. Never used, not even once. Palmerston’s Folly, they call it.”
“Must have been quite impressive, even so,” said Michael.
“Yeah,” said Brian.
“Never once?”
“Nope.”
“Why did they build them then?”
“They seemed a good idea at the time, like I said.”
The two of them took some steps off the top wall of the fort and plodded down into the courtyard and the noises of the sea were muted and far off, the sound of the water gone completely.
“So we just tour the walls once an hour and keep an eye on the cameras the rest of the time, mate,” said Brian. “That’s it.”
“Okay,” said Michael. “But…seriously? Armour plating?”
“Armour plating. Enough to protect from a cannon shot, anyway. I’ve got a book on it, I’ll lend it to you. If you’re on this job for any length of time you’ll get into the habit of reading. Ain’t much to do here, but the owner, that millionaire bloke, he does insist on two of us. It was Jones before you. Know him?”
“Not really,” said Michael.
“He’s a good bloke,” said Brian.
They came into a small room with two chairs, some papers and a kettle on a desk set before a wall of small black and white television screens. They showed an array of brick walls, water, darkened rooms and a small jetty with a rigid inflatable dinghy moored to it, rising and falling with the gentle swell. Brian and Michael sat down, and Brian flicked on the kettle.
“Armour plating,” said Michael.
“Armour plating,” said Brian.
“So…if these things are built to withstand a naval attack…” said Michael.
“Yeah,” said Brian.
“With all that stuff…armour, the rest of it.”
“Yeah…”
“And it’s all out here in the middle of the Solent…”
“Yeah…”
“Why the hell does this guy want two security guards on the place?” said Michael.
Brian raised his eyebrows and blew between tightened lips.
“Sign of the times, mate," said Brian.
