Powerstone

by Malcolm Archibald

  ‘What fellow?’ Drummond

  ‘That fellow on the television,’ Meigle said.

  ‘Kendrick Dontell,’ the announcer said, ‘who won The Neophyte last year, has been sensationally sacked. Ms Rhondda Manning of the Manning Corporation refused to give details, but has revealed that the runner up, Irene Armstrong, is to take Kendrick’s place. That means that Armstrong will fall heir to the power and wealth of Ms Manning, who has a reputed 20 billion dollar fortune.’

  ‘That’s the girl that your Andrew was running around with,’ Meigle said. ‘Twenty billion dollars, eh? That’s nice money.’

  ‘Nice enough, but he dumped her.’ Drummond glanced at the clock above the bar and stood up. ‘Time for another round, I think?’

  ‘Why not indeed.’ Meigle reached for his clubs. He followed Drummond outside the clubhouse and took a deep breath of the East Lothian air. There was a haar creeping in from the Forth, hazing the white cliffs of the Bass Rock.

  ‘So we’ve got the Clach-bhuai back and all is right with the world.’ Meigle dropped the ball at his feet and addressed it, hardly glancing up the length of the fairway that he knew so well.

  ‘It’s only a pity that we can’t put the sceptre where it belongs,’ Drummond looked out to sea. ‘Spoils the set without it.’

  ‘Can’t be helped.’ Meigle took a practise shot, then cracked the ball a full three hundred yards. ‘That beats your average, Sandy.’ He watched Drummond tee up. ‘Bit of a near run thing, though, with you switching the thing when Kenny was diverting the Armstrong woman.’

  ‘She damned near killed him too.’ Drummond sent his ball in the wake of Meigle’s, grunting when it bounced a yard short, and then rolled past. ‘We’ll let the Manning people bask in their triumph for a few years yet, and then sensationally find the genuine article hidden in the castle of some old Border reiver.’ He gave an ironic smile. ‘Maybe Hollows Tower, Johnnie Armstrong’s keep. That would be fitting.’

  Meigle nodded. ‘Did that woman really think that we would let the Clach-bhuai go so easily? We’ve been guarding it for near three thousand years.’

  Drummond laughed as he strode beside Meigle. ‘How many copies of the Honours have the Mossman family made since the sixteenth century? About eight? Well, now that Andrew is back on this side of the Pond, we’ll soon bring him into the fold again. All he needs is a good woman.’

  Meigle smiled. ‘Maybe so, but that last shot of yours has rolled into the rough.’

  ‘Damn it,’ Drummond said. ‘I never did understand this game.’