The Dancing Horse

by Angus MacVicar

  Suddenly Bulldog chuckled. ‘Odd, isn’t it? The fish fishing for the fishermen. In the final count it will depend on who can think the faster.’

  ‘I think so. And our fish may be a lot smarter than we thought.’

  ‘Aye. There’s that.’

  They stopped for lunch at the white hotel in Lochgair. They had a piece of salmon, recently caught at the mouth of the burn, and in spite of everything enjoyed it. When they had finished they went into the cocktail bar, where they had a glass of Drambuie. Following a pleasant chat with mine host — a keen fisherman with a fisherman’s love for tall stories — they felt ready for the last sixty miles of the run to Campbeltown.

  And as they journeyed down the west coast road on the long finger of Kintyre, where hedges and trees basked in the afternoon sunshine, Bulldog forgot his worries and waxed lyrical about the scenery, pointing out after reference to a map the islands lying like jewels in a platinum sea: Gigha and Carra, green grassy Islay, and Jura with its three towering mountains. And beyond the tip of the Mull, where seven tides meet in a turmoil of white water, the round blue hills of Northern Ireland.

  But at last, incongruously, he brought his travelogue to an end by expressing the hope that the Red Lion in Campbeltown would provide them with good draught beer. ‘And someone,’ he added, ‘who knows a bit more gossip than Lady Mary Kennedy.’

  NINE

  The beer was good. The colour of a peaty burn, it came frothing and cool from stainless steel taps. Both Donald and Bulldog, tired and hot after their adventurous journey, fully appreciated its quality.

  At the early hour of five o’clock there were few people besides themselves in the bar of the Red Lion. Only a miner coming off shift from the nearby Machrihanish pit, his eyes bloodshot from the coal-dust, and two elderly farmers, whiskered and smelling slightly of manure, discussing over a wee half the rival merits of Ayrshire and Friesian cattle. The place was fresh and comfortably old-fashioned compared with the ritzy chromium of Donald’s London haunts.

  The barman had a straggling sandy moustache and eyes set narrowly in a bullet-shaped head. He was of an age difficult to calculate — anything between forty and sixty — and there was a shrewd alertness in his expression such as is often found in those engaged in serving a public inclined to be off its guard. His name, it appeared, was Jock Thomson.

  Bulldog smacked his lips, put down his glass and smiled at him — engagingly, as he erroneously thought. ‘M’m. Not bad stuff you keep in Campbeltown! Not bad at all.’

  ‘Ach, the Red Lion’s weel kent for its draught.’ He was obviously suspicious of compliments from strangers. Drying a glass, he continued more hospitably: ‘Are ye steyin’ here the nicht?’

  Donald said: ‘One night at least. Probably longer. We’re from the Echo — looking for a story about your atomic station.’

  A defensive look came into the man’s eyes. ‘The station, eh?’

  ‘Yes. Quite a project, I hear,’ said Bulldog.

  ‘Aye, that’s richt.’

  The conversation threatened to die out. Donald put in, quickly: ‘It’s bound to have done Campbeltown a bit of good as far as employment’s concerned?’

  ‘Maybe it did,’ conceded Jock, leaning bare, sinewy arms on the counter, when they were buildin’ it a couple o’ years ago. But nooadays — ach, there’s no’ a local man near the place. If it’s a story ye’re efter, I’m feart ye’ll be disappointed. Veesitors,’ he concluded, heavily, ‘is no’ encouraged at the Mull.’

  Bulldog shrugged, like a heavyweight boxer brushing off an unexpected uppercut from a sparring partner. ‘We’ll take a chance,’ he said. ‘How far south is it from here?’

  ‘Aboot thirteen mile — through the village o’ Southend.’

  ‘Near “The Dancing Horse”?’ said Donald.

  Jock’s wiry body appeared to stiffen. He looked down and studied his finger nails, which were anything but clean. Finally he raised his head and looked Donald straight in the eye. His Kintyre brogue became even more pronounced. ‘Whit dae ye ken about “The Dancin’ Horse”?’ he queried.

  ‘Oh — somebody mentioned it.’

  ‘Weel, ye’re richt,’ he said, and for a moment broke off to serve the miner with another beaker of stout. His duty done, he resumed the conversation, almost with eagerness. ‘Aye, twa years ago there was naethin’ up there at the Mull — naethin’ but peat an’ heather an’ curlews cryin’. Noo there’s a great big boiler kind o’ thing, wi’ concrete buildin’s o’ a’ shapes an’ sizes. Fenced in like a ruddy concentration camp.’

  Bulldog ordered two more drinks. ‘You wouldn’t know its phone number off hand?’

  Jock filled the glasses with expert accuracy and switched off the taps. ‘Phone number!’ he exclaimed, sneering. ‘It hasna got a phone number. I tell you there’s somethin’ gey queer aboot yon place!’

  Donald swallowed some of his beer and offered cigarettes. As the others lit up he said: ‘How d’you mean — queer?’

  ‘The scientists — a funny lot, Mr. Grant.’ Jock drew the smoke in, deeply. ‘Whiles they come here for a drink an’ a ceilidh. In fact, tomorrow’s their nicht — a Friday — an’ ye’ll be seein’ them for yoursel’s if ye bide on. It’s the only recreation they get, ye ken, an’ weel — maybe in the ordinary wey they’re ceevil enough, but mention their job an’ they’ll stare at ye as if they were seein’ bogles!’

  Donald nodded. He said: ‘They don’t actually avoid the Campbeltown folk?’

  ‘No, they’re no’ against a bit o’ company. Whiles on the Sabbath ye’ll see them in their jeeps, gallivantin’ aboot wi’ the local talent.’

  ‘M’m. Cherchez la femme!’ observed Bulldog.

  ‘Whit’s that, Mr. MacPhail?’

  ‘Nothing, Jock. Nothing. Fill them up again, will you?’

  ‘Aye, sure.’

  The third lot of half-pints had foamed into the glasses when the bar door opened. A thin girl wearing a black frock and white apron peered round it. She had glasses and a slight sniffle and was easily recognizable as one of the maids.

  Jock eyed her without enthusiasm. ‘What is it, Nellie?’

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘There’s a Mr. Grant wanted in the hall.’

  Donald swung round. ‘What! Who the dickens knows I’m in Campbeltown?’

  ‘You booked the rooms,’ said Bulldog. ‘Maybe you forgot to sign the register.’

  ‘Are you Mr. Grant, sir?’ piped Nellie, coming farther in.

  ‘Yes, but — ’

  ‘Come with me, please.’ She was helpful in a persistent kind of way. ‘It seems to be urgent.’

  Donald shrugged. ‘Keep an eye on my beer, boss, will you?’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Then suddenly Bulldog’s disciplined nerves broke loose for a moment. He added: ‘You keep your eyes wide open, too. If you get what I mean.’

  ‘I get what you mean.’

  Donald left the bar, watched with interest not only by the miner but also by the two farmers, whose conversation had come to an abrupt end.

  As they went down the narrow, carpeted corridor outside, Nellie half turned to him. ‘She’s waiting in the hall, Mr. Grant. I asked her to come into the lounge, but she said no.’

  ‘She?’

  ‘Yes. Wouldn’t give her name, neither.’ She paused at the rear entrance to the hall. ‘Straight through there, sir. Behind the big plant.’

  ‘Thanks, Nellie.’

  What happened next became fixed in his memory like a piece of film. As he crossed the parquet of the deserted hall, intrigued but wary, and rounded the broad green leaves of the tall house-plant, he came face to face with Janet Marshall.

  He stopped and stared. She was still wearing the grey suit and red tammy; but he scarcely noticed. He saw bitter determination in her eyes and struggled to think of a reason for this, and for her presence in the hotel.

  She, too, was clearly beset by complex emotions. But as th
ey stood there, saying nothing, she made an effort to compose herself, abruptly looking down and fidgeting with her gloves. A flush in her cheeks died away, and Donald felt a touch of unreasoning pity for her. This he carefully concealed, however, for he realized instinctively that she would detest pity.

  ‘Janet! Miss Marshall!’ Like a stupid line in a play, he knew; but it came out involuntarily …

  She took a step nearer. ‘Mr. Grant,’ she said, in tense accusation, ‘you were interested in that picture! And not just because Sorley Hetherington is a Scot!’

  ‘What on earth are you doing in Campbeltown?’ he countered. ‘How did you know I was here?’

  ‘I saw you getting out of your car, with that other man. There at the front door of the hotel. I was in a shop farther down the street. I — I could scarcely believe my eyes. Then I realized why you must have come.’

  There was silence, except for the traffic passing in the street beyond the big bay windows. The atmosphere was warm, with a hothouse smell coming from the plant, and a bead of sweat gathered on Donald’s upper lip. A waitress clicked through from the office to the dining room on the left. She was in a hurry and probably didn’t even notice them.

  He pulled himself together. He said: ‘Can I help you in any way? If there’s anything I can do — ’

  ‘Go back to London!’ she interrupted, her face flushing again. A lock of dark hair had escaped from beneath the tammy on to her forehead. ‘Go back to London! That’s what you can do! You’re a crazy fool, blundering in on something you don’t understand.’

  ‘But Janet — ’

  She pushed aside his offered hand. ‘Don’t try your slick newspaper talk with me! It won’t work. Not here in Kintyre. Can’t you see? They’ll kill you next!’

  ‘What!’

  She calmed down. Her voice became less unsteady, and there was a warmth in it which surprised him. ‘I came to warn you. I know what you’re up against, if you don’t. Go back tonight, please!’

  He was astonished by her passion. She was no longer the quiet girl he had met in the Minotaur but a woman with a hidden force of character which made her infinitely more attractive. But what had caused her passion? Was her anxiety solely for him and Bulldog, as she had said, or for a plan which they might be in danger of upsetting?

  He caught her hand, and this time she allowed it to remain in his. ‘If — if only you’d explain,’ he said, plunging deeper into clichés.

  ‘I can’t explain.’ With the shaking of her head power seemed to go. Her fingers tightened. ‘I wish I could explain,’ she went on, as if with infinite regret. ‘But I can’t. Not until I’m sure.’ She looked up at him, almost pleadingly. ‘Please do as I tell you, you and your friend. Go back to London!’

  ‘But why?’ he said weakly, thinking of the warmth behind her distress. ‘I don’t understand — ’

  She pulled her hand away. Anger came into her eyes, and they flashed like the sea in a winter’s sun. ‘That’s the trouble!’ she exclaimed. ‘You don’t understand. This isn’t a game,’ she told him, fiercely. ‘Something for your sports column. This is real!’

  The hall was still empty, except for themselves, but down in the corridor voices were coming in their direction. Donald tried to think lucidly but failed. Confronted by this girl who might have murder on her conscience, his only reaction was a desire to protect her.

  She composed herself once more, with an effort. ‘I must get away,’ she said, beginning to pull on her white gloves.

  ‘Janet!’ he exclaimed.

  She turned towards the front door. ‘This is no business of yours, Mr. Grant. It never was, and I hope it never will be. Good-bye.’

  He made a move to follow her, questions burning in his mind. What was the purpose of her visit to Kintyre? Where was she staying in Campbeltown? Or was she staying in Campbeltown at all? But then she was through the glass-panelled door and the whiskered farmers were in the hall, grumbling their way from bar to dining-room. He changed his mind, therefore, and stood still, looking after her like the fool she had called him. Next moment the door slammed and she was gone, lost in the bustle of the street outside.

  A small piping voice came from behind. ‘Are you — are you all right, Mr. Grant?’

  He turned to see Nellie gazing up at him, spectacles only partly concealing her friendly curiosity. She had emerged from the corridor on the tail of the farmers.

  ‘Yes, Nellie, I’m all right.’

  She came close and smiled in a maternal way. ‘She looked awful nice in her red tammy. I hope you didn’t have a quarrel?’

  ‘No, we didn’t have a quarrel.’ His voice was less cheerful than she would have liked, and memories of lovers’ tiffs in the Woman’s Friend came vividly to her. Then he grinned, making her hopeful that the affair might be holding together after all. He said: ‘Nice of you to inquire, Nellie. Things will turn out all right, I’m sure. Well, I suppose Mr. MacPhail and I should be thinking of some supper, if we’re going out to see the town.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. You go back and finish your beer and I’ll tell them in the dining-room that you’re ready.’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’

  She gave him a little flutter of her eyes behind the glasses; but she didn’t do it quite so stirringly as Miss Kelly. He found himself thinking nostalgically of London and of the safety and security that lay behind the plate-glass of the Echo building.

  TEN

  After supper Donald and Bulldog sat smoking in the lounge, letting their digestions settle. The place was fairly busy. Country folk were coming in for cups of tea before visiting the cinema. Local businessmen gossiped among rounds of drinks before setting off for bowls or golf. Youngsters in tennis clothes chattered over lemonade. The tall waiter called Jimmy — he happened to be a cousin of barman Jock’s — was kept moving at a fast pace attending to their needs. Soon Nellie came in to help him.

  In a low voice Donald said: ‘D’you think we should write out something now and send it to the Editor? In the circumstances it might be a wise precaution.’

  ‘I see what you mean, boy. A complete account of the case up to date?’

  ‘Yes. We could post it tonight and they’d have it in the office the day after tomorrow at the latest.’

  ‘It’s an idea. Who’s going to do it?’

  ‘You have more authority than I have.’

  ‘H’m. You blasted young ’uns always take the easy way out.’

  ‘Not at all. It’s just that — ’

  ‘All right, all right!’ Bulldog’s rasping voice and fearsome glower caused an innocent fair-haired girl in tennis shorts at a nearby table to swallow her still orange the wrong way. Heedless of her spluttering, he went on: ‘I said all right. What’s the programme afterwards?’

  Donald was unruffled. ‘I thought we might do a round of the other hotels and try to find out if Janet Marshall is staying in one of them.’

  ‘Aye! Years since I did a proper pub-crawl!’ The News Editor’s smile came like sunshine after a thunder shower. ‘What’s more, if we knew what that dame’s doing here we’d be well on the way to solving our problem. Or so I reckon.’

  ‘I don’t know about that, boss. But anyway, I’d like to see her again.’

  ‘Quite. Our main job, however, is to keep on presenting ourselves as bait. To my mind Janet Marshall’s appearance was our first nibble. It may lead anywhere — or nowhere. But if we get no forrader tonight we can spend tomorrow making inquiries — from the local press and police, I suggest — and in the evening have a dekko at the scientists at their weekly ceilidh.’

  ‘What about visiting the atomic station in Southend? And having a look at “The Dancing Horse”?’

  ‘That can wait. “The Dancing Horse” has been there for a million years. It won’t run away now. And according to that barman we haven’t a hope in hell of getting inside the station. In any event, it’s among people we’ll find the clue we’re look
ing for. And the people are here, in Campbeltown.’

  ‘The human angle?’

  ‘Sure. It’s always a winner.’

  Donald stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Meanwhile, I suppose, we remain strictly on guard?’

  ‘Aye. Much healthier. You wait here and keep an eye on this mob. I’ll do a piece up in my room and be back in half an hour.’

  Bulldog rose, to find the fair-haired girl staring at him, fascinated. He glared back at her, and she blushed a deep crimson and choked again. Satisfied, he removed his gaze from his victim and padded off towards the wide, carpeted stairs.

  Donald ordered a glass of stout, lit another cigarette and went on watching the people coming and going. He was glad that his seat was in a comer by the piano. He had a satisfactory field of view, and no one could overlook him from behind. He had noticed the girl’s interest but was satisfied it represented no more than that of a visitor to the zoo in a particularly savage animal and that she had overheard nothing of what they had been saying. Life with Bulldog made such incidents a commonplace.

  Jimmy came with the stout. They exchanged a few words not only about the pleasant weather but also on the subject of the two excellent eighteen-hole golf courses in the vicinity, Dunaverty and Machrihanish. Any show of eagerness or tension in regard to the atomic station had to be camouflaged.

  As the waiter moved off, flicking up a tip from the tray, Donald noticed that a youngish, fresh-faced man had come in and was talking quietly and quickly to Nellie. He wore a green windcheater and carried leather gloves and a crash-helmet. It was possible that he came from the atomic station, for in manner and appearance he was different from the usual run of Kintyre folk. His expression, too, was of considerable anxiety.