Jeremiah's Bell

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘So, you think she ran away – from what, here?’ Daley asked.

  ‘She was a selfish wee bitch, aye, and too keen on getting her hole. Nae respect for God or man. I was glad tae see the back of her, and that’s the truth.’

  ‘Well, regardless of how you feel, Mrs Doig, it’s my duty to tell you that she’s returned to the area. Temporarily, at least. To put your mind at ease after all this time,’ replied Daley doubtfully.

  Her face remained almost inscrutable, though for a moment her mouth opened slightly, something she hastily corrected. ‘Well, tell her not tae bother coming here!’ Her croaky voice was raised.

  ‘What aboot your husband – her brothers?’ said Scott. He was looking at his notebook. ‘I believe you have three other children.’

  ‘Aye. They’re oot at the creels. If you care tae take a walk roon the back o’ the place you’ll see them in the bay.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  ‘He’s oot for his walk. He goes this time every day, rain, hail or snow. He’ll no’ be back for a couple of hours, I would say,’ she said, looking at an old grandmother clock against the wall.

  ‘And he does this every day?’ said Daley.

  ‘Like I says, in rain, hail or snow.’

  ‘Will he no’ be interested to hear that his daughter is safe and well?’ Scott asked.

  She stared at him balefully. ‘You’ll have tae ask him that yourself, officer.’ She folded her arms. ‘Noo, if that’s what you came tae say, I thank you for your time, but I’ve things tae be getting on with – so if yous don’t mind.’ Mrs Doig looked pointedly at the door.

  ‘And you’ll be sure to tell the rest of the family that your daughter has returned?’ said Daley.

  ‘Of that you can be sure. But I say again, she’s no’ welcome back here, and none of my family will feel any different. Feel free tae pass on that message tae her.’

  Scott walked over to the window. ‘What’s the bell for?’ He was examining the name Jeremiah boldly stamped on its side.

  ‘My voice isn’t whoot it was. It’s for getting the boys in oot the fields or the boat when I’ve a meal on the table. I’m no’ answering any mair questions. As I say, I’ve things tae get done, so if you please.’ This time she walked to the door and pulled it open.

  ‘And you’ve no other message for your daughter?’ said Daley.

  ‘Jeest tae stay away from us, that’s all that needs tae be said.’

  Daley handed her a card from the pocket of his jacket. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d be grateful if your husband could phone me on this number. It doesn’t matter when, just as long as he does. I’d like to speak to him, please.’

  ‘How many phones can you see?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘We don’t have such a thing – no, nor any modern gadget.’

  ‘Well in that case, I’d like him to report to DS Scott at Kinloch police office at his earliest convenience.’

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘Just to have a chat about Alison, that’s all.’

  ‘If you want him tae come tae your polis station in Kinloch you’ll have tae come and arrest him.’ One corner of her mouth tilted up, giving her a sly look. ‘But I’m guessing that you’ve no lawful reason tae do so, in which case you know what to do.’ She opened the door further.

  ‘That’s fine, Mrs Doig,’ said Daley. ‘I made that request to preserve your privacy. But I’ll be back soon – I take it evenings are best? I’d like to speak with the rest of your family then.’

  Scott followed Daley out of the door, being careful to avoid whatever it was he’d trodden in before as they made their way across the yard back to the car. ‘She gives me the shivers, Jimmy,’ he said as they took their seats in the vehicle.

  ‘Not the most welcoming of folk, it has to be said,’ Daley agreed.

  ‘Look, she’s still staring,’ said Potts.

  ‘And what aboot that hoose, eh? I’ve been in museums that don’t have stuff as old as that in them.’

  ‘Brian, how many museums have you been to – outside work, I mean?’ Daley asked.

  ‘Huh. Easy seen you’re feeling better. Let’s leave the Little Hoose on the Prairie and get tae fuck.’

  As they drove off, the diminutive yet malevolent figure of Mrs Doig stood resolutely in her doorway, watching them go.

  14

  Nathaniel Doig stood at the edge of the hill. He’d been coming here every day for most of his life; the place drew him like a magnet. Though he wasn’t a man prone to bouts of boundless enthusiasm – far from it – today he felt a particular melancholy.

  He looked down at the sheer drop on to the rocks below as he had done hundreds of times before. It was strange, he thought, how people were drawn to the edge of the abyss in so many ways. Was it some ancient self-destruct button located deep in the mysteries of DNA, or merely a human tic akin to a typing error in a sentence? He didn’t know the answer, but he could still feel the pull of the void.

  Despite his best efforts to stay away from Kinloch as much as possible, he was sometimes forced to make the short trip to purchase the essentials of life. Had this not been the case, the town that hugged the loch might have been as far distant as the Alps or New York for all he cared. But as it was he was forced to endure the glances from cars and shop windows, the odd cat-call, or – as had been the case the last time he’d gone to the ships’ chandlers to purchase lamp oil – the malicious gossip.

  Above, a flock of gulls rode on the thermals, wings outstretched, soaring or swooping, their cries echoing along the hillside. He’d seen this place in all its moods: the soothing blankets of snow that made the world look soft and forgiving; the bright days like this one when he could easily have been standing on a Mediterranean coast; or the last couple of days, when it looked as though the wrath of God could be visited upon it at any moment. Broiling, dark seas flinging massive waves against the cliffs and hills like clenched fists battering an unprotected face.

  As he considered this, he remembered the stories his father had told him, with that glint of madness in his eyes. He recalled the craggy, unyielding stare of the man who was happy to take a belt to his son whenever the fancy took him, before his strength was sapped by the cancer that feasted on his frail body: a punishment he richly deserved.

  And what of him – what of Nathaniel Doig? The boy who dreamed of escaping this place, but had been pulled back in the same way he was drawn now to the edge of the cliff. He’d done what he thought was right – thought was right then. But ever since, his conscience had eaten away at his soul. He wrote every day, a long, unending missive of mitigation, a plea to God to forgive him for what he’d done. A meandering story, one he would never have the nerve to speak, but one that would see his soul burn in hell once others came upon it. And they would – he’d made sure of that. It was his eternal struggle between damnation and redemption. A struggle he could never win.

  But he knew now that time was short. At least he could make some meagre amends for his sins.

  He thought of his three sons. He could see them distantly across that dark sea, labouring mindlessly at their tasks. And he could see his home; he pictured his wife within, her withering looks, her sharpness, her ill temper. But there was more.

  Perhaps it was the chill of the wind, perhaps some elevated primeval sense, that made him turn round; he didn’t know. But turn he did.

  Though in reality, with his failing eyesight and the distance involved, he couldn’t recognise the figure climbing the slow green slope towards him, he knew exactly who it was.

  He turned back to face the sea, the jutting point, the ragged finger of rocks to his left that had so shaped his life, and would now, in its own way, shape what was left of it. When he turned back from the vista of rocks and sea, the figure was growing larger as it approached, each stride bringing Nathaniel, too, closer to the destiny he knew he could never escape.

  ‘Ach, it’s jeest a terrible thing,’ said Hamish, before taking another
sip of his tea from the takeaway cup. He was sitting in the unmarked police car with three detectives, two of whom were demolishing bacon rolls, the third nibbling at a salad from a clear plastic container. ‘I suppose it’ll be the Douglas Arms for me, though wae a’ those young folk aboot there and the racing on the TV non-stop, no’ tae mention the racket they fruit machines make, well, it doesna make for a happy prospect at all.’ He paused to reflect on the horror of the closure of the County Hotel. ‘Thanks for the tea, Brian. At least that was a happy coincidence, me bumping into your young assistant here in Michael Kerr’s.’

  ‘Aye, the highest paid message boy in Scotland, that’s me,’ said Potts under his breath.

  ‘Huh. When I was your age I was on points duty in Glasgow in the pissing rain,’ said Scott.

  ‘No you weren’t. You were off having a fly pint with me. You were well in the CID by the time you were his age,’ Daley pointed out.

  ‘And look where that got me, eh? Green flamingos an’ haunted hooses in my heid every night – no’ tae mention the wee Mexican at the bottom o’ the bed wae the huge guitar. You should count yoursel’ lucky that you’re sitting in here having a roll and a cup o’ coffee, son.’

  There followed a short silence while the other three occupants of the car processed this information.

  Hamish was the first to break the silence. ‘How come it was specifically a Mexican, Brian?’

  ‘What about the green flamingos?’ added Potts.

  ‘Och, me and Ella went tae this place in Yorkshire when the weans was just wee. I cannae remember the name noo,’ said Scott.

  ‘Flamingo Land, by any chance?’ said Daley.

  ‘Aye, that’s the one. Here, that’s how you’ve got a’ they pips on your shoulders, Jimmy, and the young fella here’s just got a chip on one o’ his.’ Potts tried to retort, but Scott carried on. ‘Of course, in a place called Flamingo Land there was a fair scatter o’ they birds.’

  ‘No’ green yins though, surely?’ said Hamish.

  ‘No, there wisnae any green ones. But then again there were no three-feet-tall Mexican guitarists neither. Though they had one o’ they Mexican bands. What are they called again? You always remember, Jimmy.’

  ‘Mariachi.’

  ‘Aye, that mob. How come I can never remember that? Anyhow, there was one o’ they bands playing in the wee nightclub when I used tae go doon for a drink. Och, it took Ella ages trying tae get the kids off tae sleep.’

  ‘So that was her job, then?’ asked Potts.

  ‘You’re no’ kidding. What, after them knocking back fizzy drinks, sweets and candyfloss a’ day, they was hyper. I’d tae get oot tae preserve my sanity.’

  ‘I’m glad to know that there’s still one unreconstructed male on the planet,’ said Daley.

  ‘See, there you go wae they things I don’t understand again. I’m sure in a’ the conversations we’ve had o’er the years, I’ve only understood maybe half o’ them.’

  ‘Tell me what you know about this black croft, Hamish?’ Daley was anxious that Scott’s tales of his struggle with the DTs should go no further.

  ‘I telt Brian aboot them, but I maybe forgot something.’

  ‘Like what? Don’t tell me, they howl at the moon every Thursday,’ said Scott rather unhelpfully.

  ‘They might well do something akin tae that, Brian. I wouldna put anything past them.’

  ‘No, me neither, especially having been doon at the place.’

  Daley gave Scott a look and continued. ‘So, Hamish, what did you forget to tell Brian?’

  ‘The rumour is that they’re as rich as Croesus.’

  ‘You would think they’d spend something on the hoose, then,’ said Scott. ‘Like buying another one.’

  ‘Carry on, Hamish,’ said Daley with a sigh.

  ‘Maybees jeest old wives’ tales. But you know how I telt you they was wreckers. Och, jeest the lowest o’ the low.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, so the story goes, a long time ago they wrecked one o’ the Spanish Armada ships. Laden wae gold it was. Somewhere the place is full o’ Spanish doubloons, or the like. They’ve been hoarding it a’ these years.’

  ‘How on earth did they get a hauld o’ the Spanish Armada up here, when it was in the English Channel? Plus they’re still living in a place like that. I think we can put that doon tae local pish,’ remarked Scott.

  ‘Well, now, you see, it’s easy to say that – jeest being fair dismissive. It’s well known that some o’ the Armada escaped up the east coast, then came roon the top o’ Scotland. Och, they were in hellish form by the time they got tae the North Channel. Many perished long before, the great galleons hitting rocks and that. I’m sure maist o’ the folk on Mull are descended fae they sailors washed ashore in one way or t’other. A right sallow bunch they are up there – swarthy, you know. Some o’ the tales that you hear are true, Brian Scott. And as I always say, there’s nae smoke withoot fire.’

  Scott remembered something. ‘Here, have you ever heard of a boat called the Jeremiah?’ he asked.

  ‘Now, that rings a bell, right enough.’

  ‘Funny you should say that, Hamish.’

  ‘I canna jeest bring it tae mind – ach, it’s a bugger getting old. I go into the scullery for something, and by the time I’m in there I’ve no clue why I went. But let me think on this Jeremiah, Brian. I’ll get back tae you.’

  ‘Once you’ve remembered what you wanted fae the scullery.’

  ‘This salad’s crap,’ said Daley with a grimace.

  15

  ‘Hello, Faither.’ The voice was almost lost on the wind. Even Alice Wenger was struck by the way it sounded as the words whirled back at her. It was as though the intervening years had never happened and she was back, standing here as the teenager she’d once been.

  Nathaniel Doig looked at her, his face showing no emotion. ‘Alison, it’s good to see you.’

  ‘The name’s Alice now.’

  ‘Yes, so I hear.’

  She was momentarily taken aback. ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I see you’ve forgotten the place from which you sprang. In Kinloch there are few secrets.’

  ‘Apart from ours.’

  He didn’t reply, but turned back to face the sea, the breeze tugging at wisps of his grey hair.

  Alice had forgotten what his voice sounded like. Not the casual burr of the locals, of the place where he had been brought up. No, it was the accent he’d acquired at university: refined, well spoken. She was astonished that she hadn’t remembered that. The people she’d met since coming home had all sounded as she remembered them, apart from the man standing on the edge of this hillside – her father. ‘Well, have you nothing to say?’

  He looked over his shoulder at her. ‘What do you want to hear?’

  ‘Anything. Shout at me, cry – do something! Shit, we’ve not seen each other for decades!’ Her raised voice sent the wheeling gulls high above into a frenzy of calls.

  ‘Why have you come back?’ He was facing her now.

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘If I knew I wouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘There are too many things left unsaid – undone. You know that’s true, Faither.’

  ‘Please don’t call me that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve never liked the way you’ve said it.’

  ‘Am I too folksy, Daddy?’ she replied coquettishly in her adopted southern drawl.

  ‘So you’ve been in America. That’s what I heard – the accent.’

  ‘What the hell do you care where I was?’

  ‘I’ve always cared.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Well, I wish to fuck you’d told me that when I was here!’

  ‘Please, no profanity. You sound like your mother.’

  ‘That old witch.’ She stepped towards him and instinctively he backed away. ‘What, you running scared of your little daughter?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I knew you’d be up here. I
’d bet my last cent you’ve been coming here every day since I left.’

  ‘No. I was ill for a few months, but it passed. Otherwise, yes, you’re right.’

  ‘The scene of the crime; don’t they say criminals always return to the scene of the crime?’

  ‘I committed no crime here.’

  ‘You asshole!’

  ‘I’m glad to have seen you again, Alison.’

  ‘Alice, you prick! Just ignore everything. It doesn’t matter to you, does it? You’ve absolved yourself of any blame.’

  ‘Sorry, Alice. I do beg your pardon.’

  ‘You should have begged me a long time ago – and not just for pardon.’

  ‘Maybe that’s true. But have you ever thought about blame and how it should be apportioned?’

  ‘You’re still the same sanctimonious hypocrite you always were!’ Alice spat on the ground.

  ‘They tell me you’re rich now.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m wealthy. So what?’

  ‘Enjoy it while you can, daughter.’

  As Alice opened her mouth to speak, her father backed further away from her. Arms outstretched, he closed his eyes. Slowly, almost like a tall building being demolished, he toppled backwards into oblivion.

  Alice rushed to the edge of the precipice. Already the broken body of her father was lying on the rocks far below, his face staring back up at her, pale and bloodied in death.

  His daughter’s screams echoed round the green hills of what once had been her home.

  Liz Daley had begun to feel better – or so she thought. As she struggled to get her son to put on his clothes, though, she felt a tightening of her chest.

  ‘I don’t want to go!’ The little boy stamped his feet. ‘It hurts!’ he wailed, tears now spilling down his chubby cheeks.

  ‘Well, toothache hurts a lot more. Ask Daddy. He’s always hated dentists.’ As she spoke she felt herself gasping for air, and had to lean her head against her son’s tiny chest as she kneeled before him in order to stop the room from spinning.