by Rikki Sharp
“Get on with it!” heckled Handy Andy, only for Mrs. Baxter to catch him a clout around the back of the head with a rolled up newspaper.
“My first decision has been not to sign the deal he nearly charmed Aunt Bea into taking. I’ve got to be honest, no matter what we all think of the man, he has put together a tempting portfolio. There are some genuinely good ideas to breath new life into Butterfly Island. Just because of where they have come from shouldn’t make us reject them out of hand.”
“You’re not thinking of signing, are you?” Donald butted in.
“Pass me that newspaper, Biddy,” sighed China. “You’re not listening, are you?, you great huggable man you. I will not sign this deal. But pulled apart and cherry-picked for the most beneficial schemes to the islanders rather than McKriven’s empire, there are a few damn good ideas hidden in there.”
“So where to next?” Irene asked, snuggling against her Jackie.
“Douglas here is going to bring the full power of the law to stop McKriven hassling me to sign. Also, we’ll tie the first will up in probate to give us a bit of breathing space. I propose we set up a holding company, Butterfly Island Enterprises, to buy out any farmers in financial trouble before they are bullied into selling to the enemy. To bail out people who were already conned into his financial help schemes—”
“Like me.” Irene held up one reticent finger.
“Like our gullible schoolteacher here, and buy up their debt to stop McKriven piling on the interest. In short, we counter the enemy at every turn and claim this island back for its rightful owners; the islanders!”
As she got another rousing cheer, her mobile went off, making everyone jump. Holding up one hand for silence, China took the call.
“Shush! This will be our exclusive agent in Manchester. How’s the hair, Anthony?” She let her best friend waffle on for a while until the pub crowd began to get restless. “Anthony. Pause for breath. Did we get the loan?” There was a moment’s complete silence as she listened to the answer, hoping the reception wouldn’t pack in like it usually did.
Her fist suddenly shot into the air. “We have got the initial loan from my old firm! Butterfly Island Enterprises is officially a go!”
There were ecstatic hugs all round as China tried to say goodbye to her Manchester friend. “You have just got to get yourself up here, Anthony . . . Well, wear a hat if you’re afraid the salt air will wreck your follicles! Think of all these hunky fishermen waiting to meet you!”
When the chaos died down and the meeting broke up for a round of drinks, China perched herself on Donald’s knee and gave him a hug. “Small steps,” she said, grinning from ear-to-ear.
“What do you think is best to tackle first? Continuing the work on the Grange?” he asked.
“No. I’ve got separate plans to fund that. And the new boathouses, and the refurbishment of The Cuckoo.”
“Slow down, woman. You’re on fire!” Donald laughed.
“No, we’re going to build a second pier out past the marshes. It will be the start of a sports centre and marina. The land is useless for farming out there and I’m told the scuba diving is best along those cliffs and the coves. A pier with a real road linked to this jetty. With the proper infrastructure in place we will attract several business ventures that I’ve been courting for the last few days.”
Donald looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. “You really are serious about all this, aren’t you? You used the words, ‘my old firm’ just then. Am I to take it that you’re staying?”
She smiled at his worried frown and kissed away the wrinkles on his forehead. “That is a resounding yes, Donald. I have handed in my official notice taking holidays owed in lieu of notice. My flat is up for sale and I’ve burnt my bridges from my old life. I am staying. Your wee China Stuart has come home.”
As he lifted her in the air and spun her around, she was trying not to think of what might happen to spoil this moment. What angles she may have missed that McKriven might drive a wedge through to wreck their plans.
“Put me down, you big Scottish nut case!” She laughed.
Donald obeyed, all that old aggression noticeable by its absence. He was beginning to rediscover that he had a sense of humour.
“Answer me this. I remember walking hand-in-hand down onto that stone jetty with my mum on that last day. Stupid here thought we were going on our hols. Then you gave me a kiss and asked me something . . . or told me something. I can’t quite remember. It all comes back to me in my dreams, but the words are just out of reach.”
Donald shook his head, determined not to spoil the moment by pushing his luck and telling her what he said. “I can’t really remember. It was probably something juvenile like ’Send me a postcard’, or the like.”
“No it wasn’t. This was really important. Think, damn your sexy grey eyes. Delve back into that seaweed-clogged brain of yours.”
So complete was the crowd’s bubble of happiness that they failed to notice the snake in the grass. Finishing his half a lager, Martin Japes McKriven’s sidekick scuttled out of the pub, hurrying back to the jetty where his master’s boat was moored. The consequences of that oversight would begin to be felt the very next morning.
“Something’s wrong.” China put her mobile down on the bar next to her half-finished breakfast as Mrs. Baxter came out of the kitchen. “That was the Wildlife Conservation Society. They understand we are planning to look into putting a permanent track through the marshlands and would like to kindly point out, before we waste any money or time, that there are at least a dozen protected species of newts and insects that must not be disturbed by law.”
“But, you only told us that idea last evening? How . . .?
“We might have a mole in our midst. Someone has run straight to McKriven with our ideas. Which means he knows about Butterfly Island Enterprises.” Her phone went again, and, biting her bottom lip, China thumbed it on.
“Calm down, Anthony! Deep breaths, that’s it. Now begin at the beginning.”
Five minutes later, China’s already pale complexion went two shades whiter.
“Oooo, he’s good, I’ll give him that. Someone registered the name Butterfly Island Enterprises first thing this morning at Companies House before Anthony could get his act together. Plus, the bank has come back to my old boss to say there is a problem with my credit rating. It seems I owe money on lots of goods I’ve never seen or heard of, so naturally they are a little concerned about lending me any money.”
“James McKriven. I should have tanned that little brat’s backside all those years ago . . .” Mrs. Baxter tailed off as the pub door swung open.
In his expensive, spotless green coat, the very devil stood framed in the doorway enjoying the dramatic entrance.
“James. You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” China smiled grimly, running her fingers through her curly hair. From out of nowhere, Morgan appeared and sat next to his mistress, leaning against her for physical support.
“Seen off any wannabe opposition? Too right I have, wee China Stuart. I’ve more people in more pockets than you could ever imagine.” He sat on the bar stool next to China and smiled at the livid Mrs. Baxter. “And I could always outpace you when I was a bairn, Biddy. You were never built for running.”
“Why you cheeky—” Mrs. Baxter began, but China’s raised hand stopped her in mid-flow.
“Could you make us a coffee please, Biddy? Seems like it’s time for a serious business talk.”
With Mrs. Baxter reluctantly out of earshot, China finished off her last piece of sausage, drained her coffee cup with a fresh one imminent, and stared James McKriven out.
“It was all going so swimmingly before you returned from the dead, or at least the invisible. Do you know how much I’ve spent over the years keeping your identity a secret? All those screwed-up tax bills? The misdirected mail? Your name erased from as many databases as I could hack into? And you never had a clue why.”
“I’m the
last of the Stuart line. If I hadn’t existed, you’d have been home and free. Either the original will or your business proposal, it didn’t matter. Butterfly Island was nearly yours.”
“Then that stupid old woman had second thoughts and went and died.”
“After making a new will.”
“Which doesn’t exist.”
“Oh, yes, it does.”
“Prove it.”
They sat in silence as Mrs. Baxter brought in the coffees, pausing only long enough to give James a really hard stare and went back into the kitchen.
“I was going to look into the protected species angle before we put in any plans for the marsh track. How . . .?”
James slipped a thin document across the table for her to see. A report about the indigenous wildlife of the island, independently commissioned of course.
“There before you again. I was just going to make the road, say ‘oops’ when another few useless insect sub-species went extinct, and pay the fine. So much more cheaper. And what is it with this insanity about protecting newts? Horrible slimy little things!”
“It starts with newts, James, then it ends with islanders. But you don’t differentiate between the two, do you? They’re all in the way of James McKriven’s progress.”
He smiled and nodded gently. “You so ‘get me’, don’t you? What a fabulous mind you’ve got inside that delightful little body. Both are wasted on that dullard, Donald. If you ever fancy coming over to the Dark Side, think of the team we would make.”
“Not a chance.”
The man drank his coffee, as Morgan decided it was time for him to go. The dog’s hackles raised in a line down his back and that familiar low growl beginning to sound from the back of his throat.
“I’ll be off then, to throw more penniless crofters out of their hovels. That offer of a partnership won’t be open forever. Until you say yes, or you limp back to Manchester with your tail between your legs, I’ll be on your back every step of the way.”
China watched McGriven leave, with Morgan two steps behind him. Part of her wished the dog would give him a little nip, just the one. But then James would have taken great pleasure in reporting a savage dog attack and demanding that the beast was put down. He was taking no prisoners in this game. The man obviously had a fortune riding of whatever shady deals he had planned for this wonderful island.
She would just have to stop him, that was all.
Chapter 12
“Some things have been easily rectified. We’ve already registered the new company as Butterfly Island Sanctuary, using the wildlife angle. James kindly forgot the report he had paid for on the bar when he left, so I’ve had a long useful chat with the Wildlife Society and they are sending people to verify his findings in the next few weeks. That way, we work in tandem with them when we get to the planning stage of things. To be honest, that had always been my intention, anyway. Mr. McKriven has kindly sped that process up for us.”
This council of war included only China, Douglas McGregor the solicitor, Donald, and Mrs. Baxter, locked in the pub kitchen with the curtains drawn.
“Good. I’ve started trying to untangle your financial affairs, China, but, as you can guess, making a mess of something is far quicker than tidying it up,” said McGregor, fiddling nervously with his glasses. “I had a word with your old boss, Mr. Marsh. He’s a very understanding man. Out of his own pocket, he’s willing to fund the provisional part of your plan, seeing as the banks won’t play, but he wants a 20% stake of the new company.”
“That’s pretty fair under the circumstances . . . Donald, what’s wrong?”
Since the emergency meeting was called, Donald had shuffled and paced about, totally distracted. “Sorry, it’s me. I feel so out of my depth with all this business lark. When you two get going, you’re like a different person, China. I know we’ve talked about my temper and all my, what was it? Ah, anger management issues. But in a case like this what I really need to do is find James McKriven and give him a damn good thumping!”
“And I’ll hold your coat, love,” agreed Mrs. Baxter.
“That’s why he appears like Dracula out of the mist when you’re not here. He’s a back-stabber, not a fighter. We resort to those kind of tactics and the law will get dragged into it. I suspect inside one of those many pockets James was alluding to, he’s got at least one mid-ranking policemen on the McKriven payroll.”
Donald, obviously not satisfied with that answer, was about to say something else when the pub door suddenly flew open. Jackie Kolodziejski, with blood over his face and hands.
“There’s been a bad accident up at the Grange. Andy’s got a broken leg at the very least and Daniel’s twisted his ankle,” he said, gasping for breath.
“What happened, man?” Donald grasped his friend’s shoulder, concern etched all over his face.
“It was the scaffolding . . . it just collapsed like a load of drinking straws! I think someone went up there last night and was messing with it.”
By the terrible look on Donald’s face, they all knew who that would be. Things were getting deadly serious.
As Jackie ran back to the school to get Irene, who was the island’s official first-aid contact, Mrs. Baxter rang through to the mainland to summon a real doctor.
“It’s all going wrong. This is my fault. I didn’t treat James as a serious threat,” China said. She felt cold and scared at the thought that Donald could have been up on that roof when the scaffolding fell apart. But when she turned and looked for her man for some comfort, he was suddenly gone.
The chilled wind whipped at her flimsy top as she ran outside and looked frantically around. Frank Bellamy had already come out of his store, as had a few customers, and a scattering of islanders could be seen climbing as fast as they physically could up the hill to the Grange. But there was no sign of her love amongst them.
“Donald! Donald!!” she cried, the wind whipping her words away. Then faintly she heard the sound of a diesel engine coughing itself to life. John Dart was already out at sea, working that morning in the family-owned vessel, Brunhild, but there was a familiar figure in the cabin of the Daisy-Jane. Donald.
Racing down the cinder path in her flip-flops, China nearly lost her footing more than once. But she was too late. The Daisy-Jane was pulling away from the stone jetty into a choppy sea, her blunt nose pointing towards the island of Benbecula. He must have been heading towards Balivanich village where James’s company headquarters lay.
“Donald . . .” she whispered hopelessly towards the storm-tossed boat, as the skies around Butterfly Island began to take on a darker hue. There was only one thing she could do to stop this, no matter what the consequences would be between her and her love. She had to warn James McKriven.
They brought not-so-Handy Andy down on an old shed door torn from one of the Grange’s derelict outbuildings. Irene reckoned the break was pretty clean, but the wire-haired handyman was milking the situation for all it was worth. As they took him into The Cuckoo, he was muttering about industrial injury and massive compensation, just as the rain began to fall in large freezing drops.
“You can cut that out for starters,” Mrs. Baxter snapped, holding a medicinal whiskey just out of the little man’s reach. “You know China will see you right. Should have landed on your fool head and then you’d have been fine!” Finally, she relinquished her grip on the drink, just as Andy’s wife appeared, wailing like a banshee.
Whereas he was small and wiry, she was a Valkyrie of a woman. Some years younger than her husband, she had long, flaxen hair braided in a ponytail and a fine athletic figure.
“She’s Mrs. Andy?” China couldn’t help herself.
“Either you’ve got it, or you haven’t,” said the little man, being smothered in his wife’s bosom, then he gave China his usual saucy wink, which told everyone he was on the mend.
“Biddy, a word,” China whispered, tugging at Mrs. Baxter’s sleeve. “Donald’s stormed off to sort James out.”
“Not before time,” Mrs. Baxter sniffed, not being very helpful.
“That as it may be, but the great stupid fool is going to get himself arrested. We’ve got to ring ahead and tell someone. You know his temper when it’s on the boil; he might even kill McKriven before anyone can stop him!”
Her landlady paled slightly at that thought. “You’re right, love. I know the police sergeant in Balivanich. I’ll get him to meet Donald when he docks and nip things in the bud.”
China let out a great shuddering sigh of relief. At least it wasn’t her who had to do the deed.
She was sitting at the bar amidst her notes and her silent laptop when the third island boat, the Jolly Roger, docked with the doctor on board. That had been another one of her pie-in-the-sky plans, a regular boat service from the main islands to West Uist, rather than using who ever was free whenever they felt like it, financed by charging non-islanders a small fee as any other ferry would. Another part of her marvelous dream. What had she been thinking of coming up here from the city and playing with everyone’s lives as if it were some simple advertising campaign? She was just a simple PA, not some high-flyer executive.
Selling Butterfly Island by the pound.
The tears of frustration and guilt flowed freely, as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. It was all just too hard. Keeping Donald in check was just too hard. Morgan, faithful to the end, nuzzled her hand in sympathy, his lead held in his mouth.
“Good idea, boy,” she sniffed, trying to stop feeling sorry for herself. “Let’s get some fresh air.” Gabbing her coat, she slipped away unnoticed with her canine friend out of the pub, down the cinder track, and onto the path leading back up the hill towards the Grange. Pulling on her new sou’wester hat, recently purchased at Bellamy’s, against the rain, she let Morgan tow her up the path amongst the swaying heather and grasses.
