by Ian Todd
“Blackie, leave the cat alone,” Grizzly Chops shouted, as the cat chased efter the dug towards the shed, scratching fuck oot ae its arse as it went. “So, where’s An Dubh Majestik? I can’t see any crow,” Flintlock asked, shading his eyes fae the sun and looking up at the shed roof.
“Ach, he wis there earlier, bit he fucked aff as soon as Senga heided doon the track tae her work, so he did. Look, come in,” Johnboy said, staunin aside.
“A typewriter? I heard that you wrote books. What kind of books?”
“Ach, Cowboys and Indians,” he replied. “Grab a seat. Ur ye wanting a cup ae tea or coffee?”
“I’ll have a dram, if there’s one going, laddie.”
“Sure,” Johnboy said, nipping through tae the kitchen tae grab a glass, as Grizzly looked aboot the room.
“You’ve got the place looking cosy,” he said, accepting the dram.
“Aye, well, we gied it a wee lick ae paint and put up a few frames.”
“It must be nice to have a wife…some of the time,” Flintlock added, as Johnboy laughed.
“So, how ur ye daeing, Flintlock? The last time Ah spoke tae ye, ye sounded a wee bit doon in the dumps.”
“That’s why I’m here. Are you still looking for work, laddie?”
“No really, bit if ye’re needing a haun, Ah’m yer man. Why?”
“Read this,” he said, taking a letter oot ae the pocket ae his bib overalls, and haunin it across tae him.
“The tax man?” Johnboy said, sounding genuinely surprised, looking across at the happy grizzly bear, sitting there, a changed man fae the last time he’d spoken tae him.
Johnboy read the letter, impressed by Donna The Prima Donna’s HM Tax letterheid at the tap ae the page.
‘Dear Mr McBean,
It has come to our attention that you have overpaid taxes relating to HAPPY HORIZONS HOLIDAY PARK LTD, pertaining to the end of tax return years 1969/70, 1970/71, 1971/72, 1972/1973 to the sum of TWO HUNDRED POUNDS STERLING.
In order to rectify any outstanding anomaly associated with the said tax years, I have the pleasure of enclosing the sum highlighted above.
May I take this opportunity on behalf of HM INSPECTOR OF TAXES to unreservedly apologise for any inconvenience or distress that this oversight may have had on the continued successful operation of HAPPY HORIZONS HOLIDAY PARK LTD.
Yours sincerely,
Edwin Bonkers
HM INSPECTOR OF TAXES.’
“Buggers!” Grizzly Chops scowled happily. “Now, what if I had gone under, eh? They’re all out to get you, these people…”
“Wow. That means ye’ll be able tae square up the cooncil debt…and probably invest in a bit ae work oan the site,” Johnboy said, nipping his rant in the bud.
“I was chust about to light the fire, using the loan letters that were piled up bedside the stove, this one included,” Grizzly said, taking a sip ae the whisky, savouring the moment and taking the letter back fae Johnboy, before stuffing it back in his bib. “Then, for some strange reason, I decided to open it. Out of them all, apart from the council summons, this was the only letter that had to be signed for. Imagine my surprise when me and Blackie saw this. It was a close call, I can tell ye, laddie. Anyway. I’ve been across to Lairg. I’ve got a delivery coming tomorrow, first thing in the morning. Wood for the floors and paint for the vans. If you’ve got time between writing about Roy Rodgers and Sitting Bull, there’s a job waiting for you across at the site,” he declared, staunin up.
“Of course, Ah’ll be across tae gie ye a haun, Flintlock. It’ll gie me a break fae in here, so it will,” he said, following him oot tae the front door, where Mr Hopkins wis staunin guard oan the threshold as Blackie the collie dug lay at a safe distance.
“Do you know what day it is?” he asked Johnboy, ootside.
“Tuesday?” he said, as Grizzly laughed.
“High tide, laddie.”
“So?”
“So, our friends will probably be out and about tonight,” he said, nodding towards the track that disappeared doon oan tae Vestey’s Bay.
“Really…the night?”
“That’s what I said, laddie.”
“Flintlock, ye widnae know anywan wae a digger wid ye?”
“Not a digger as such, but Ewan MacLeod, your neighbour, chust up the road there, has a tractor with a set of buckets. Why?”
“Dae ye think we could borrow it fur a wee while?”
“We?”
“Ye don’t fancy asking him if he widnae mind digging a deep trench across the road, doon the track a wee bit, dae ye?” Johnboy asked him, as a puzzled frown appeared on the grizzly face, before he burst oot laughing.
“Really?” he roared.
“Why no? It’ll show the basturts that they’re no the only wans that kin play that kind ae game.”
“Ha! Ha! Brilliant! You’ll need to watch out, laddie. They’ll head straight for your front door.”
“Ach, fuck them. They hivnae met ma other hauf,” he snorted, as the baith ae them laughed again.
“Right, leave it with me, laddie. I’ll be back soon. Blackie? Let’s go, boy,” Grizzly Chops shouted, as the dug bounded efter him and Johnboy and the cat stood watching him stride alang the dusty track towards The Road Tae Nowhere, humming the tune tae The Skye Boat Song.
Chapter Forty One
“What the…?” Heckie MacLeod exclaimed, slamming oan the brakes, as the tail lights in front ae him lit up.
He looked at the clock oan the dash. Wan thirty. He sat waiting fur another minute, before opening his side ae the Landy. He could see movement at the driver’s side in front ae him.
“What’s holding us up, Peter?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. There’s something on the track,” Peter shouted back, leaning intae the cab and switching aff the engine, as MacLeod squeezed past him and ducked doon under the open door tae get past.
“Charlie, what’s going on? Angus will be wondering what’s happening,” he shouted.
“Look,” Charlie replied, shining the torch doon intae the ten fit long by two and a hauf fit wide trench that wis gaping across the path in front ae the truck.
“What the bloody…?” he gasped, looking doon intae it.
“That must be at least four to five feet deep. Look, they’ve dumped what they’ve taken out over the side, Mr MacLeod,” he said, shining the torch doon the steep side ae the hill. “What are we to do?”
“Fucking bastard!” Heckie screamed across the wee bay towards Achmelvich Beach, the twinkling light ootside Flintlock McBean’s cottage jist visible above the heidland, separating baith beaches.
He looked doon intae the bay. The Pride Ae Assynt, Angus MacKenzie’s fishing skiff, wis waiting, gently bobbing up and doon. He could jist make oot Angus in the wheelhoose, using the engine tae keep the stern steady, as the other two oan-board stood at the bow, looking up at them. Even fur a skiff, it wis low in the water.
“Right, lads, grab the shovels from the trucks. Charlie, get down there and explain the situation. Tell John and Bobby tae get their arses up here to lend a hand. Make sure they bring a spade or shovels with them.”
“This is impossible, Mr MacLeod. The track is solid. There’s no way we’ll be able to fill the hole in two places to allow the wheels to cross,” Charlie panted. “The stones on the hill at the side of the track are too big as well.”
He knew Charlie wis right. They wur goosed. He looked at his watch. Quarter tae three. They couldnae stay there much longer. They should’ve been oan their way, back oan tae the A837, heading south by noo.
“Bobby, John…we’ll have to call it a night. Get back down and tell Angus. There’s nothing we can do tonight.”
“But the load?” he asked, as everywan turned and looked doon at the stacked boxes oan the boat.
Silence.
He rubbed baith hauns o’er his face. He tried tae speak, bit nothing came oot. He slipped his haun roond tae his back pocket and withdrew the silver hip flask.
He hesitated, before glugging doon a few swallies worth in the wan go.
“Tell him to dump them…but make sure he’s a good few miles oot in The Minch,” he croaked tae the shocked fishermen.
“Are…are you sure, Mr MacLeod?” Bobby asked, looking between MacLeod and the fishing boat. “Angus won’t be very pleased.”
“You tell Angus that I’m the boss about here. I’m the one that makes the decisions. You mind and tell Angus those fish are to be dumped overboard. Customs and Excise are pretty active chust now, laddie,” he growled, stomping past them.
It took them a full three quarters ae an hour ae cursing and swearing tae reverse up the winding track, hivving tae stoap and move forward every noo and again, before continuing wae the reversing. The trucks wur finally able tae turn up at the tap. Before they disappeared towards The Road Tae Nowhere, he stood looking at the silent crofthoose. He knew he should’ve jist goat back intae the Landy, bit he couldnae contain his anger. Whit wis he supposed tae tell The Laird? He didnae hiv a bloody clue. He’d go ape-shit.
Chapter Forty Two
“They’re back,” Senga said tae him, leaning up oan her elbow, as he lay still, looking up at the ceiling.
“So?”
“Ah kin hear voices, so Ah kin,” she whispered.
“Senga, why ur ye whispering?”
“Ssshhhh, they might hear ye,” she squealed, as he laughed loudly.
“Whit’s so funny?” she demanded tae know, tweaking his nipple.
“Ouch! That wis bloody sore, so it wis.”
“Wid you pipe doon!” she squealed again, clamping the palm ae her haun across his mooth, smothering his laughter.
“It sounds as if they’re reversing the lorries up the track fae the beach,” he said, swinging his legs oot ae the bed. “Ah’ll go and see whit the score is.”
“No wait, Johnboy!” she yelped, diving across the bed and grabbing his erm, jist as the thumping oan the front door started up.
“Look, Ah’ll need tae go doon and answer it. It’s obvious that we’re in. Yer car is sitting ootside. Whoever it is will think we’re being anti-social, so they will,” he said, leaning across and grabbing his jeans.
“Well, Ah’m gaun wae ye. Ah don’t want you starting anything,” she whispered, sliding back across tae her side ae the bed, as the front door wis thumped again, only this time louder.
“And while ye’re at it, wid ye stoap aw that bloody whispering? Ye’re making me feel as if Ah’ve done something wrang.”
“Yes, good morning, sir, madam,” Heckie MacLeod said tae them, tipping the front ae that deerstalker hat ae his.
“It’s efter four in the morning,” Johnboy said, looking at his watch, as Senga deliberately nipped him in his ribcage, while peering o’er his right shoulder fae behind him.
“Aye, weel, I’m sorry about that. We had to reverse the trucks back up the track from the beach.”
“Lorries, is that whit aw the noise wis? Whit wur ye daeing doon the track at this time ae the night?”
“It’s public access…the track, that is,” MacLeod reminded him, ignoring the question.
“Sounds awfully suspicious tae me, so it dis,” Johnboy said, peering o’er MacLeod’s shoulder, as Senga gied him another nip, much sorer this time and he flinched wae the pain.
“I was wondering if you saw anyone going down the track today…with a digger or tractor?”
“Naw. Ah’ve been here aw week and Ah never saw anywan. Did you?” he turned and asked Senga, who shook her heid. “Why?”
“Someone’s dug a trench across the track, preventing access to the beach.”
“Whit, again? That’s the second time. The last time wis doon near the entrance tae the road. Ah spent hauf a morning hivving tae fill it in wae a shovel oan ma lonesome, so Ah did. So, is the track totally blocked aff then?”
“It is for vehicles.”
“Why wur two lorries trying tae access the beach at this time ae night?”
“Seaweed.”
“Seaweed?” the baith ae them exclaimed.
“Er, yes…for fertiliser. Assynt Development Holdings have the contract for keeping the beaches clean up and down the north-west coast. We convert it to fertiliser,” the lying fork-tongued basturt said withoot a blush.
“Whit, at high tide?”
“Look, I’m sorry if the noise disturbed you. I’ll be on my way,” MacLeod said, tipping his deerstalker wae his haun again, tae Senga this time, as Johnboy switched the ootside light aff and shut the door before he reached his Landy.
“Ah cannae well believe you, Johnboy Taylor!” Senga bleated at him, following him through tae the kitchen, where he switched oan the kettle. “Dae ye know who that wis?”
“Aye, the dirty lying basturt that sent me oan a wild goose chase up tae Achins, the bookshoap, remember? The prick’s no laughing noo, is he?”
“Did ye know aboot that?”
“Whit?”
“That somewan dug a trench across the track doon near the beach?”
“Me? How the hell wid Ah know?”
“Because, as ye said yersel, ye’ve been here aw week. Ye must’ve heard something.”
“Ur ye wanting a cuppa?” he asked, taking a mug aff ae wan ae the hooks.
“Naw, some ae us hiv goat work tae get up fur in the morning,” she replied, failing tae stifle a yawn, aboot turning and heidin fur the living room door.
“Aye, well. Don’t blame me. Blame Mr Deerstalker Hat fur disturbing that beauty sleep ae yours,” he sang efter her, smiling.
Chapter Forty Three
He tried tae remember the last time his world hid come crashing doon aboot they ears ae his. Probably at The High Court, back in nineteen seventy three, efter he’d been sentenced tae fourteen years fur supposedly shooting Thompson, the big Toonheid sergeant, in a bank up oan Maryhill Road, he mused tae himsel. It wis a strange feeling that only those who’d experienced it wid fully appreciate. It wis like an ootside ae the body kinda sensation…sizzling in the ears, stomach churning, wanting tae throw yersel doon oan tae the flair, bawling and greeting, while kicking the ground wae the heels ae yer sandshoes. Sandshoes? He wondered whit hid become ae them these days? Ye never really saw them oan the feet ae the weans running aboot. As a snapper, they’d never been aff they feet ae his and his pals, apart fae when he wis slung through tae his bed, last thing at night or they fell apart efter rotting away. Good in the summer, bit a basturt being chased through puddles in the winter. He remembered being sent alang tae the wee draper’s shoap oan Cathedral Street by that ma ae his. Three medium size sanitary towels and a new pair ae sandshoes fur himsel. Three bob the lot. Two and a tanner fur the shoes and tuppence each fur the pads. The place hid been hoaching wae wummin, aw his ma’s cronies. No only hid his ma sent him back wae the sandshoes because they wur white, bit big Jessie Baker, who worked behind the coonter, another pal ae his ma’s, hid gied him the biggest size ae fanny pads that hid ever been invented. They wur even bigger than the massive Kippers that hung up in the windae ae Wilson’s, the fresh fish shoap, at the bottom ae Taylor Street. Aw the wummin hid still been in the shoap, waiting fur him. Big Jessie, behind the coonter, hid made oot tae him that she wis hauf deaf and hid kept asking him tae repeat himsel, only louder, as tae why the fanny pads wurnae any good fur his ma. Aw the wummin hid fallen aboot laughing behind him when he’d shouted at the tap ae his voice that his ma hid said tae tell her that it wis the wans fur humans and no baby hippos that she wis efter…jist before his world hid crumbled roond aboot his ears. That hid been a good wan. He supposed the reason the shock tae his system wis so profound wis that, despite always being oan yer toes, ye wur always caught oot when ye least expected it. The latest wan wis nae different.
“Aye, aye, laddie,” Davey The Post hid sang, letting himsel intae the hoose withoot chapping, before hinging aboot fur a wee dram, or in his case, a big wan. “How is the bestseller coming on, laddie?” he’d asked, the tip ae that tongue ae his darting across
his dry, cracked lips, looking like some auld gunslinger, staunin in the middle ae a dusty street, wondering if he’d met his match at last. “So, what’s it about?”
“Whit?”
“The book.”
“Oh that, the war…it’s a Second World War wan,” he’d replied.
Davey’s glass still hung in the air between them, as he kept pouring the golden amber intae the glass until the thirsty basturt seemed satisfied.
“Och, that’ll be plenty, Johnboy, lad. I’ve still got a while to go before I’m finished my rounds,” he’d sang, chastising him fur his generosity.
He’d been right glad that he hidnae opened the letter in Davey’s presence or he wid’ve probably ended up snatching the glass aff ae the greedy basturt, before glugging it doon the back ae his ain throat. It hid been short and tae the point.
‘To the current sitting tenants of LITTLE VESTEY’S CROFT, Lochinver, Lairg, Sutherland.
Please accept this correspondence as legal notice of termination of any prior lease you may have with a previous owner of the above said property. This seven-day eviction notice will come into force as of the date highlighted above. The new owners. ASSYNT DEVELOPMENT HOLDINGS, have taken immediate ownership and management responsibility of LITTLE VESTEY’S CROFT, including all household contents therein, outbuildings, arable and non-arable land associated with the property thereof. ASSYNT DEVELOPMENT HOLDINGS as legally entitled to will not be liable for any previous tenancy/lease agreement between the current tenants or any other third party.
Yours sincerely,
Mr Hector MacLeod.
Factor.’
“Dirty basturts!” he’d howled, his world coming crashing doon aboot his ears.
“So, whit dae we dae noo?” a bewildered and shocked Senga hid asked, sounding a bit calmer than whit his initial reaction hid been, as she sat at the table, reading the letter fur the second time, still wearing her uniform, efter arriving hame fae her work. “Whit’s the date…?”
“We’ve goat five days left tae find somewhere else,” he’d said, interrupting her. “Ma new best pal, Flintlock, across in the caravan site, said that they’d probably turn it intae a shooting and fishing lodge, the basturts.”
