‘You know what I did?’ Davy said. ‘I went down to the DWP. Skinny prick from Inverness writes down everything I say, what’d I do at school, at university, my entire life story. I happened to mention VSO – Voluntary Service Overseas, you know? “Here’s something you could try,” he says. “Teaching agriculture in East Timor. Ten grand a year. That’s if you last a year. A lot of dengue fever and malaria about.” That’s enough of that. Then I meet Calum. He’s doin’ all right, though. Wouldn’t be surprised if he buys Uist Builders or something in a couple of weeks or so.’
‘Uh uh,’ Duncan said, ‘it’ll take him to next New Year to get two thousand pounds for venison. Oh, right enough, he’s got a promising career ahead of him –as a homicidal maniac.’
‘Maybe,’ Davy said, ‘but he’ll make it sometime. Me, I’ll be sprawled in a chair looking at dots through clouded eyes. For the love of God, why don’t you tell me what it is you’ve got in mind?’
‘Ostriches,’ Duncan said.
‘Ostriches?’ Davy said.
‘This is the new thing that’s arrived in the islands,’ Duncan said. ‘Ostrich rearing. Huge demand for ostrich steaks in all the restaurants down in London.’
‘Really?’ Davy said.
‘Yeah,’ Duncan said, ‘they take about twenty years before they’re ready for slaughtering but they’re worth real money then.’
‘For some reason,’ Davy said, ‘that information doesn’t make me feel ecstatic, you know, Duncan?’
‘Come here, till you see the plans I’ve made for the croft in North Uist,’ Duncan said. He reached for a roll of paper on a shelf and smoothed it out on the table.
‘I don’t know if I’d fancy ostrich steak, Duncan,’ Davy said. ‘On top of that, I don’t know how to go about feeding these beasts. What do they eat? Nails?’
‘Forget the fuckin’ ostriches for the minute,’ Duncan said. ‘Look at this. This is where the jacuzzi will be, in the original house as it were, you know? These are the benches all around the walls where the folk can relax. Upstairs, you have the gallery that runs right round the entire room where the spectators’ll be . . .’
‘Hold it,’ Davy said. ‘What do you mean? What spectators?’
‘. . . and in the extension over here,’ Duncan continued, ‘that’s where the bedrooms will be . . . video, PCs with DVD and MP3 files, en suite toilet . . . Oh, they’ll never want to leave once they see where they’re goin’ to be working.’
‘Who?’ Davy said.
‘The girls,’ Duncan said.
‘What girls?’ Davy said.
‘The Russian girls from Novosibirsk,’ Duncan said.
‘I know I’m goin’ to regret this, but what have I got to do with the Russian girls?’
‘You’re goin’ to get married to one of them,’ Duncan said.
‘I am?’ Davy said.
‘And that wild man, if he’s the one you want, is goin’ to marry the other one,’ Duncan said.
‘You’re not goin’ to come in?’ Davy said.
‘How the fuck,’ Duncan said, ‘am I goin’ to marry a Russian chick when I’m married to Isa already? I don’t want to get married again. I got married once. Once’s enough for any guy who hasn’t lost his marbles. Quentin and Soraya, they’d get confused with another mother too. Well, more confused than they are. They’d have to go for counselling. Fuck that.’
‘What do we get?’ Davy said.
‘I told you already,’ Duncan said. ‘There’s four thousand in it, if Tanya and Tamara arrive in Uist with papers that prove they’re married to UK passport holders.’
‘Right,’ Davy said. ‘I’ll do it. With Calum. How much time do we have?’
‘The girls are already in Glasgow,’ Duncan said. ‘They’re doing lap-dancing in a pub down there. You guys’ll have to go down there a week today. I’ll give you the name and address of the man who’s looking after them until they get all their papers. I’ll start on the crofthouse on Monday, permits’ll be through sometime next week. You’ll stay in Glasgow for, say, a month . . . in the bosom of Mother Russia.’
Davy spoke in a slow drawl, ‘Talking about Russian bosoms . . . you think a guy could . . . you know?’
‘You could, kid,’ Duncan said, ‘if they let you. But don’t think you’re goin’ to get near them when they come to Uist. They’ll be far too busy in Strumore . . . looking after ostriches . . . and stuff like that, know what I mean?’
4
On the ferry
Davy and Calum walked into the bar of the Lord of the Isles ferry. They sat at a corner bench fronted by a little round table a good distance from the three or four other passengers in the place.
‘She looked gorgeous,’ Calum said, ‘absolutely gorgeous. Long blonde hair . . . and you should’ve seen the size of her tits . . . Fancy a dram? Good job I asked that tight bastard for expenses, eh?’
‘A hundred pounds each,’ Davy said. ‘Not bad.’
Calum looked up as a waiter delivered a plate of eggs, black pudding and ham to the table. ‘Good on you, lad,’ he said, and immediately began to eat greedily.
‘Think I’ll have a glass of brandy,’ Davy said, getting to his feet.
‘Vodka for you, boy, from now on,’ Calum said, speaking with his mouth full. He cleared his plate and lit a cigarette and slowly inhaled the smoke. He started to sing softly. He had placed his feet on a stool beside the table when Davy returned carrying two bottles of beer and two glasses of vodka.
‘There you go,’ Davy said, placing the drinks on the table. He raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers,’ Calum said.
Davy inclined his head. ‘Right, man,’ he whispered, ‘tell me about the French chick.’
‘You still haven’t pulled, have you?’ Calum said.
‘No,’ Davy said, ‘but I’ll have . . .’ He took a piece of paper out of his wallet and glanced quickly at it. ‘I’ll get . . . Tamara tomorrow night.’
Calum sighed. ‘What a dumb shit you are! I’ll have to ask your mother some questions. She let you fall out of the pram when you were a baby. Maybe she threw you out of the pram. You’re so simple you embarrass me, you know?’
‘How?’ Davy said.
Calum grasped Davy’s hand and squeezed it tightly. ‘Listen. When you had the motorbike, did you have the helmet to go with it?’
‘Yes,’ Davy said.
Calum released his friend’s hand and raised his index finger as though about to deliver a sermon. He spoke in a deep voice. ‘You should have kept the helmet, and worn it . . . every time you went out the door. You’ve scrambled your brains with all the blows to the head you took. Do you really think you’re going to spend the night with one of these Russian girls?’
‘Sure,’ Davy replied innocently. ‘Why not?’
Calum shook his head. ‘This business isn’t about sex,’ he said with a snort of derision. ‘We marry them, they get the papers they need and they’ll go off to stay . . . they’ll live with folk they know for a week or two. Then, the Godfather’ll get word to us and the four of us’ll go home to Uist and we get two thousand pounds each.’
‘Oh, right,’ Davy said. ‘Right.’ His expression changed; he smiled. ‘Well, I know what I’m goin’ to do with the money.’
‘Tell me,’ Calum said.
Davy became excited and began to speak rapidly, spluttering slightly. ‘First thing I’m goin’ to get, a caravan – my own place, know what I mean? The odd time I’ve got lucky and nipped some slack-jawed bird at the disco. But, God, it’s hard to be romantic when you take a bird home to a house with a mob of kids. The last one, she looked at me like I was a retard when she saw the Lego pieces scattered about the floor. Had to pretend it was my hobby.’
‘Well,’ Calum said, ‘one month from now I’ll have a refrigerated van and that’s me off to Germany. I pick up the big money there, maybe I’ll visit Amsterdam on the way back . . . and buy something there.’
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ Da
vy said. ‘I’ll get a motorbike too, an old wreck that I’ll do up myself, some new clothes, and then I’m goin’ to get myself a girlfriend.’
Calum drank from the bottle and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘That French chick I was with?’ he said with a wry grin. ‘I’ve never seen anything like her in bed. But she’s dangerous.’
‘Tell me where she lives,’ Davy said quickly. ‘Don’t go back to her. Don’t want you getting involved with a dangerous woman. I’ll visit her and I’ll read the New Testament to her or something.’
‘I didn’t say I wasn’t goin’ to go back,’ Calum said, trying not to reveal his impatience. ‘I said she was dangerous.’
Davy pretended not to hear. ‘I don’t think you should go back,’ he said. ‘Why bring trouble on yourself? Business-type like yourself? Turn her over. I’ll look after her.’
‘Davy,’ Calum said, ‘the French bird, she’s only fifteen.’
Davy’s eyes widened and he waited a couple of seconds before opening his mouth. ‘Uh-uh, that puts another complexion on it, then . . .’ he stuttered. ‘I can see the peasants from my village coming after me, everyone armed with a pitchfork like in those old films about Dracula.’
‘Cheer up, kid,’ Calum said as he got up to get another drink, ‘let’s see what happens at the wedding a fortnight tomorrow, first. Lights! Camera! Action!’ He began to sing: ‘ “You’re surely getting married to her, she loves you . . .” ’
5
Accident at a wedding
At two o’clock in the afternoon in an elegant room in a building in Park Circus, Glasgow, a group of people, male and female, were seated comfortably in leather chairs. They talked quietly, some in Russian, and from time to time would cast nervous glances at the odd couple who stood with their backs to the congregation.
Standing beside Tamara, a big, blonde Russian girl wearing black trousers and a white singlet, which displayed broad shoulders and sinewy arms, Davy MacIsaac, who was at least half a foot shorter than his bride-to-be, looked like an adolescent schoolboy.
All conversation stopped when an old man, completely bald, got up and teetered towards a kind of lectern and faced everybody. He wore a cheap suit that was far too tight on him and carried a bible. He started to recite the marriage vows. Finally, he said, ‘And by the powers invested in me . . . I pronounce you, David, and you, Tamara . . . husband and wife.’
The boy’s eyes bulged. He seemed to faint. Tamara put an arm round his waist and Davy raised a hand feebly to keep her back. He emitted a series of squeaks and hit the floor with a loud thump. A woman screamed.
The fat little registrar spoke. ‘You may now . . . well, pick your husband up off the floor.’
‘Give him air,’ Calum kept screaming. ‘Give him air.’ He held the hand of Tanya, his new wife in a grip of iron. They had undergone the marriage ceremony some time before.
‘Nyet,’ Tamara said as she knelt and tried to loosen the collar of his shirt. ‘Wodka, Wodka.’
‘Good thinking, Tamara,’ Calum said. ‘I’ll have a large one.’ He looked around him. ‘Somebody give me a hand here? Any able-bodied volunteers to carry my friend over to the dressing room?’
‘No need,’ Tamara said in a deep, husky voice. ‘I carry my husband.’ She thrust her arms under her husband’s armpits and, grunting and snorting, dragged him across the wooden floor, the heels of his shoes bouncing.
‘Holy Mother,’ Calum said as he followed them with his mouth wide open, ‘what a peat-cutting crew this dame would make!’
A lock clicked as the dressing-room door was closed. Outside in the main wedding chamber muffled shouts and people moving around could be heard.
‘Davy,’ Calum whispered, ‘Davy, wake up, man.’
Tamara bent and proceeded to administer a series of slaps to Davy’s cheeks.
Davy started to moan as he slowly regained consciousness. ‘Mmmmmm. What happened? Where am I?’ Two seconds went by. ‘Aaaaaargh! Aaaaaargh!’
‘What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ Calum said.
‘That’s her, that’s her! Fuckin’ whore!’ he screamed at Tamara. ‘Get her out of here! Out! I’ll suffer the dengue before I look at her ugly face. Get rid of her, Calum. I’m begging you.’
‘Take it easy, kid,’ Calum said. ‘There, there. You’ll be fine, Davy.’
‘I go now,’ Tamara said. ‘Sign documents.’
The sound of high-heeled shoes moving away was heard.
‘Last time I saw an arse like that,’ Calum said, looking at her, ‘was from the back of Jimmy MacKinnon’s cart with Rosie the Clydesdale pulling it.’
‘Haven’t you seen her face?’ Davy said. ‘Jesus, that’s Don’t Watch Alone stuff!’
‘What’d scare me is how strong she is,’ Calum said. ‘Wouldn’t she be a good hand at putting the shot at the South Uist games in Askernish?’
‘God save me,’ Davy said, ‘she’s got hair on the back of her hands.’
‘Never mind just now how hellish she looks,’ Calum said. ‘She’s your wife and we’ve got to get her . . . we’ve got to get them both home to Uist.’
‘The sooner the better,’ Davy said.
‘Now, my man,’ Calum said, ‘you’ve got to go into the Registrar next door and sign the papers he has for you.’
‘No fuckin’ way,’ Davy said, ‘I don’t ever want to see that . . . ugly big hulk of a woman again.’
‘Two thousand pounds, Davy,’ Calum said.
The connecting door was opened, and then closed. High heels approached then came to an abrupt halt.
‘Dah-vee?’ Tamara said.
‘Mmm, mmm, mmm,’ Davy said, a hint of tears in the whimper.
‘Come,’ said the Russian hulk. ‘Come with Tamara.’
Davy sighed and said, ‘Okay.’ He rose unsteadily to his feet and followed Tamara, Calum trailing behind them.
6
Dalliance or business?
On Friday night, 29 October 2010, at half past eleven, Margaret MacCorquodale, leaning against the gate that led to her father’s house in Grenitote in North Uist, watched the approaching lights of a Land-Rover. She was thirty years old and of medium height. She weighed eight and a half stones. She had red hair, cut short. Over tight, just-right trousers and black boots with stacked heels she wore a thick white sweater.
The Land-Rover halted.
‘About time too, Harris boy,’ Margaret said.
A window was wound down.
‘Margaret?’ the driver said. ‘Margaret MacCorquodale?’
This was MacAskill. He was short, forty years of age, around five feet six, thin –he weighed about nine stone. Not much was left of his brown hair, and what there was was grey.
‘Who else would it be at this time of night?’ Margaret said. ‘Shania Twain? I’m the Factor’s daughter.’
The passenger door was opened. ‘Jump in.’
‘You’re late,’ Margaret said. ‘It’s almost midnight.’
‘Sorry, Ms MacCorquodale,’ MacAskill said. ‘Phone rang just as I was leaving home.’
‘That’s okay,’ Margaret said. ‘I won’t charge you for my time . . . on this occasion.’
‘And what do you charge as a rule?’ MacAskill said.
‘Twenty-five pounds an hour,’ Margaret said.
‘Is that right?’ MacAskill said. ‘Twenty-five pounds?’
‘That’s the rate,’ Margaret said. ‘Fellows uglier than you, they had to pay sixty.’ She paused for a second and looked him straight in the face. ‘Just kidding.’
‘Oh, you’re just . . . right,’ MacAskill stuttered. ‘Are you engaged? Married?’
‘God help me, no,’ Margaret said. ‘What about you? Married? Kids?’
‘No, unfortunately,’ MacAskill said. ‘I mean . . . I’m married, but Mary was never blessed with kids.’
‘How old are you?’ Margaret said.
‘Forty,’ MacAskill said. ‘And you?’
‘Younger,’ Margaret said.
‘Oh, my!’ Margaret said, pretending to be impressed by the information. ‘Margaret, daughter of Alasdair son of Donald.’
‘There’s something funny,’ MacAskill said, ‘there’s a weird carry-on taking place in Strumore.’
‘I heard that,’ Margaret said. ‘Ostriches and Russian women, something of that order, eh?’
‘Well,’ MacAskill said, ‘it’s the women . . . their behaviour, know what I mean? They’re the ones that’re causing the man himself the most worry.’
Margaret said, ‘The girls are running a . . . How to put this delicately? These are naughty girls, the ones that are working in this house, right?’
‘Right,’ MacAskill said. ‘And they’re up to their . . . they’re up to their necks in work. As soon as it gets dark, cars and buses packed with men and boys are constantly shuttling up and down.’
‘This is happening every night?’ Margaret said.
‘Well,’ MacAskill said, ‘that’s what was happening last night when I was there.’
‘What were you doing there?’ Margaret said.
‘Oh,’ MacAskill said, ‘you know, one thing and another. The man himself had heard rumours that this kind of thing was happening, he told me he was worried, and, yeah, I thought, I’ll go there myself.’
‘You enjoy it?’ Margaret said.
‘Ye– well, no,’ MacAskill said. ‘The place is too cramped. It was full of Lewis and Skye men. And they never left a drop of drink for us. They drank the lot.’
‘Of course,’ Margaret said, ‘strong drink isn’t what attracted you to the place.’
‘Well,’ MacAskill said, ‘they played videos and CDs there too.’
‘What did you watch?’ Margaret said.
‘It was kind of funny, actually,’ MacAskill said. ‘They were supposed to be showing a film with an English actress, Mary Poppins?’
‘I doubt very much,’ Margaret said, ‘it was Mary Poppins you saw.’
‘Must have been somebody else, then,’ MacAskill said. ‘Like I say, I forget the name. Titanic? Launching the Titanic?’
Dearest Dacha Page 2
