Thinking fast, “Well I’m actually here on work and pleasure. I’m an archaeologist,” The Agent laughed, “for my sins.” “Oh really, how awfully interesting,” the new native pulled across his chair, “don’t mind if I join you? By the way, didn’t catch the name.”
The Agent made space, “David,” he replied grudgingly after a second’s thought whilst filling his mouth with steak. Blast that accordion spoiling the meal. It’ll give me indigestion and now this prat beside me. A youngish girl began to sing, the bar fell silent, “What language is that?” enquired The Agent in as mild a voice as he could muster. “Oh that’s Gaelic, I’m trying to learn it. All oks, ochs, I should say, very difficult to get the right sounds you know, Davie.” “I can believe that,” The Agent commented dryly as her song ended to enthusiastic applause.
They chattered about London. Getting busier, not what it used to be, too many foreigners, illegal types, through the Channel Tunnel and all that carry on. Barely drawing breath, The Agent’s companion spoke with a penetrating voice, “Wing a few, that’s what I’d do, stop ‘em in their tracks, you know. Johnnie foreigner, a lot of scroungers, no sooner in good old Blighty than they’re getting more benefits than you and I’ll ever sniff. And this stupid Human Rights that they shelter behind. Human Rights, don’t get me started. Wing ‘em when they come out of the tunnel, that’s what I say.”
He rambled on, obviously pleased to have the company of a fellow Londoner and someone who appeared to listen, “Used to do a bit of shooting when I was down there, sadly not illegal immigrants, ha, ha. No, pheasant mostly, the odd partridge, getting scarce of course, not really much up here in the sporting line. Mostly I go to the mainland, friends’ve got an estate in the Highlands, he used to be a newspaper editor, I drop the odd stag, you know, it’s quite fun. No, I have to content myself, I just wander along the beach below my house when the mood takes me. I have to say migrating curlew make the best sport.”
Between you and me,” The Agent’s new confidante leant closer, spoke a little more quietly, “I pulled off a nice one in The City and here I am. Bought a rundown croft, let the local chappie have a few sheep on it,” and laughing loudly, “saves me cutting the grass, you know.” The Agent struggled to appear interested but on reflection it occurred to him this conceited fool might be the very man to give him information he’d never prise out of these damned evasive locals.
“Strictly between ourselves, I’ve a nice little income, David, stacked up a good pension, indexed of course, saw the stock market crash coming, cashed the chips and bingo! Living’s cheap, here, locals are helpful, if you buy them the odd dram. Mind you I have to say, that’s beginning to change, they’re not so friendly as they were, incomers arriving all the time you see, rather a pity I have to say,” and lowering his voice, “I’m not racist, absolutely not, David, never have been but last week a Pakistani couple came off the ferry, I tell you,” holding up his hands the man from Bow Bells emitted a hollow laugh.
The Agent signalled the bar with a snap of his fingers. It took several attempts before the barman stood at his elbow, “You took your time. Bring two large malts, put them on my room,” and picking up their conversation, “Funny you should mention incomers, I heard of a chap who came up here from London just a month or two back- scientist bloke, I wonder”
His voluble new friend cut in, “Oh yes, I heard about him,” he put a finger to the side of his nose, “the good old grapevine never fails in these parts you know, they’re a nosy lot really. Yes, he’s over on that island south of here, Sandray they call it, desolate place, full of Viking ruins, graves and such like, of course the locals don’t care about them as you’d expect, too busy counting sheep droppings, but you’d find it absolutly fascinating.” Their glasses emptied rapidly.
The London crofter put his hand on The Agent’s arm, “I must tell you, I happen to have a speed boat, just a little fun thing, do a spot of fishing you know, don’t catch much, but it’s amusing you know. I’d be happy to run you over anytime, tomorrow if you like, here’s my mobile number. Don’t ring before ten, ha, ha. I say would you care for another snifter?” He waved to the bar, held up his glass and pointed to it. They waited. Had the barman noticed? “This happens quite a lot you know, especially when I’m here with my friends. I often think that fellow’s blind, the service here can be gharstly and he owns the place, always talking to those fishermen at the counter. It’s so rude.” Trevor stood up and waved. MacLeod nodded and after an interval another round arrived.
“I’m so glad we met, David you said, didn’t you? I have to tell you, Strictly entre nous of course, I get a mite tired of these locals, always talking sheep and cattle, that’s all right in its place, but there’s absolulty no depth to them, know what I mean?” the ex-pat rattled on. “Their music’s worse, no tune, so repetitive, once you’ve heard one you’ve heard the lot. Sometimes a bloke comes in with bagpipes. Well, I must say when that squealing starts I have to leave, how’s that for business. Used to play the piano myself, just for friends of course,” and pointing to the piano at the other side of the bar, “that old instrumen’ts well past its sell by date, wouldn’t dream of touching it with a barge pole. Do you play anything David?” and without waiting for a reply, “I’m a bit of an opera buff myself, never missed a new production at Covent Garden. You’ve been there of course.”
The Agent groaned inwardly, he’d dealt with this type before. If they’re going to be any use, you have to string them along and this buffoon could certainly be put to use.
From behind the bar Angus MacLeod watched them thoughtfully. He was a shrewd judge of his fellow man. All sorts of characters, shades and persuasions passed through the swing doors. It clicked, Williams was the man with a London voice enquiring on the phone for Hector MacKenzie.
Two o’ clock, closing time, “Drink up please.” MacLeod took a few more orders and the bar slowly emptied.
The Londoners shook hands and parted firm friends, “Davie, old pal, phone me in the morning,” and slapping The Agent on the back, “not before ten, absolutely not, ha, ha.”
“Be delighted, Trev.”
The steadying hand of the hotelier guided The Agent to his bedroom.
David Williams is not quite what he claims to be thought MacLeod, closing the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Morning coffee
After a midday snack of oat cake and cheese I sat on the stone by the door writing out my scribbled words of the previous evening. Sounds carry far over calm water and my attention drifted from the note pad to the high pitched whine of a powerful outboard engine. Occasionally a fishing boat steamed past the island homeward bound from the Atlantic. Riding low in the water with a heavy catch on board, they’d be pushing a hefty bow wave and if the day was still I’d even feel the throb of their engines.
This was different. I looked up and listened. Seconds later a twin engine speed boat banked in from behind the headland and planed across the bay with a curve of flying spray. It stopped suddenly just yards of the jetty. A mound of wake rolled onto the beach, panicking the seals and sending gulls squawking to the hill. A peaked cap bobbed over the Perspex shield and taxied the craft alongside the jetty. After some heaving a man managed to get himself onto the landing.
Shouting voices reached me. “I’ll be a least couple of hours, Trev, I’ve got your mobile punched in. If it’s O.K. I’ll bell you when I’m finished.” The reply from a man at the throttle floated across, “Alright by me, David, absolutely no problem. I’ll maybe throw out the odd hook, smack the water for a shark, you know.” I heard laughs. “Won’t come over till you bell. It’ll only take minutes to nip across for you.”
Outboards screamed to full throttle. Reverberations echoed round the bay. A couple of revs and with a flourish which left a wide arc of curling water, the nose of the craft lifted and it planed round the headland with blue smoke pouring from the stern. Before a succession of waves swept onto the beach, operator and speed boat had vanishe
d. The man who’d come ashore stood looking carefully at Eilidh’s boat before walking the length of the jetty, deliberately studying all around him.
A vicious feeling of possession overcame me. Furious at the intrusion and especially the manner of arrival, it took much restraint to stop my walking smartly down to challenge this uninvited visitor. A fortnight here and already the island was mine. I hadn’t missed a telephone, definitely not the T,V, surely I wasn’t becoming a recluse? The rearrangement of my priorities had been startling; the change in a sense of values, dramatic. It took a moment or two before I steadied enough to realise that this sense of ownership, compelling as it felt, had no basis except in emotion. Deciding the man couldn’t have spotted me, I stepped into the house, closed the door and sat down to calm myself. From the window I could see him staring down at the dingy. His behaviour struck me as odd. What was he weighing up? Inner rage gradually turned to a palpable unease.
The Agent watched the speed boat roaring away, “A bloody fool, but useful,” he muttered, “seemed to think this is where this MacKenzie bastard is holed up.” He stood some time looking down at the wooden dingy moored carefully to the jetty; umm, if this is the man I’m after…. his mind already hunting possibilities for dealing with him. Hope to hell he’s alone. It’s quiet enough, but what a God damn awful place, fucking ghastly, bloody seals and birds and miles of bugger all. No sane creature would come here unless they’d a hell of a lot to hide. That means this bastard could be dangerous.” Checking under his left armpit and still grumbling, he walked deliberately up the track from the jetty to the house.
A sharp rap on the door. I didn’t hurry. It came again, more heavily. I opened the door to a man who stood well to one side. Medium height, thinning hair; a heavy, ill- featured face and indoor pallor. Out of puffy black circles, small hooded eyes, attentive and penetrating, flicked over me. Collar, tie, jacket and slacks, city clothes, casual but expensive, a raincoat over his arm. An official? Instantly he meant London, tube trains, politicians, their duplicity and implied threats.
Having rapped smartly on the door, The Agent stepped deftly out of direct line. Nothing. He knocked again. After several minutes, a tall man opened the door. An obvious look of displeasure, if not arrogance on a bronzed faced. Immediately, before uttering a word The Agent sized him up, young, athletic, this bugger could be quick and strong. Play it easy, “Good morning. Hope you don’t mind me calling. Not intruding, am I?” and with a sweep of his arm, “It’s such a beautiful island, lucky you.” He followed with a gracious smile, “D’you live here?”
The ‘toffish’ accent at once struck me as false, however I relaxed a little, “Good morning, yes, it’s a bonnie place on a good day.” Ignoring his question, I awaited his next comment.
The Agent considered carefully…. I need to get into the house… and reaching out his hand. “My name’s David Williams, do hope this isn’t being a bother to you, but perhaps you might be able to help me? I’m an archaeologist, for my sins. You local by any chance? I’ve got a map here,” and looking pointedly into the house, “I wondered perhaps if you might give me some directions?”
Out of good manners I shook hands to find he had a remarkable grip. Archaeologist? I wondered. He didn’t strike me as a man involved in digging. The chap began struggling to open a map he’d taken from his raincoat pocket. Perhaps out of curiosity, I invited him into the kitchen. “I’m just about to have a coffee, would you care for a cup?”
“Why not, don’t mind if I do. O.K. if I use your table for the map.” No point in waiting for an answer from this surly bugger and spreading his map on the table, The Agent sat himself down. “What a fine little place you’ve got here, nice and quiet. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, not another MacKenzie by any chance?”
I busied myself at the Calor gas stove, fending off his direct question with a laugh, “Oh, well, Mr. Williams there’s as many MacKenzies in these islands as I’m sure there’s Williams in Wales,” and washing the cups with my back to the visitor, “Sorry I’ve only powdered milk.”
Bastard isn’t going to tell me his name, same as that evasive clown I spoke to on the phone. The Agent’s eyes swivelled round the room. What a shitty little hell hole. Bare boards and an old stone sink. Galvanised pails, wooden shelves, who the hell? Only a wanted murderer would shack up here. He stared through the open bedroom door. God save the Prince of Wales. His heart bounded. A briefcase against the wall, cut straps and battered looking, dark stains.
That’s it, that’s it! Oh you beauty, this is the man, that’s the briefcase. By Christ there’s something special in it when it landed in this crazy joint. No wonder that bloody politician seemed so keen. ‘Get the case,’ he told me, ‘the man is your own affair.’ Torture or elimination, I never knew one of these top political sidewinders that ever took the risk or the rap, always just a nod, do what’s needed. The creeping louse will pay for this little trip. This is going to be the real thing.
I turned to put the coffee cups on the table, “I’m afraid there’s only oatcake.” I stopped in mid sentence. The man’s eyes sparkled, tiny dots, glittering out of the flush of bright scarlet which covered his face. Intense and cunning, I thought of a stalking fox. The look lasted only seconds before he glanced down to the map, pointing with a thick finger, “Forgive me, I’ve just made a brilliant discovery. You see this headland? It’s possible, according to my information, that this may well be the site of a Viking ship grave. By the way here’s my card.”
The Agent fumbled through the numerous cards in his wallet. I must get the bugger out of the house. Finding the card, thank Christ for that, he smiled and handed it across the table. Sipping the coffee, “Thanks for the unexpected ‘elevenses,’ saved the day. No, I won’t have an oatcake, but thanks. Got to watch the old weight you know.” This is the foulest piss I’ve ever had to drink.
I read the card, ‘Professor David Williams, B.Sc. (Archaeology). Advisor to The Commission for Ancient Monuments. Maybe. I’d seen plenty of professional cards. This one struck me as bogus. Looking up, I became aware that whilst studying the map he was actually watching me closely. The unease which I’d first felt when seeing him land, grew to a tautness.
Outside, the day lost its early brightness, the dullness of a pending change. Flurries of a wind from the east rattled the bedroom window. Getting up from the table I closed the door. The man’s eyes flickered, his face hardened.
Instinct warned me, this visit is not what it seems. Weather’s worsening. I must get him off the island, pronto. The horrifying thought of his being stuck here, perhaps days. No, no. Should I offer to run him back to Halasay? Force the issue? “It‘s slack water about midday, after that I’m afraid the weather will soon make for a dangerous crossing, especially as winds away round to the east. Is your boatman due back shortly? If not, I would run you over the Sound, really, I mean as soon as possible.”
The Agent jumped to his feet. Action, exhilaration, this job will need to be an out-door one, “Yes, yes, I see what you mean. I say, would it be too much trouble if you could possibly show me out to this Viking site. I must report something back to base you know,” he gave a little laugh, “just a quickie, would tell me if it’s significant enough to recommend an exploratory dig.”
Exploratory dig! Rage swept me. If this were true, the sanctity of a thousand years would be uprooted, desecrated by a gang of dilettantes who’d put their ‘finds’ in some museum remote in feelings and location. No matter how remote in time, these graves were my people and my kinship with them a profoundly spiritual matter. Utter distaste, even fury, must have shown on my face.
Getting this man out of here was paramount, “Yes, of course I’ll come down with you to the headland and then, if your man isn’t showing up we can make straight for my boat.” To leave the man in no doubt I added, “Before it gets too stormy.” “Of course, of course,” the man agreed. A peculiar glow shone from his eyes. The atavistic glint of intense hunger? Or premeditation?
A
tingling came over The Agent, prickling the nape of his neck. He shivered as if an electric charge passed into his body, lifting his hair. The sensation thrilled him. He ground his teeth, felt a primitive desire to pounce. His palms sweated a little; a tightness in his head. He moistened his lips. I’ll have this arrogant bastard beg for mercy. Just watching his face, that’ll be lovely, seen it before, better than sex anytime. I’ll make this one last, have him on his knees, crying like a baby.
I walked quickly, very quickly. Ruffled by the wind, small white wave tops crossed the bay. I veered towards the headland, increased my pace. The man didn’t leave my heel. I heard his raincoat flapping but didn’t turn. My back felt desperately unprotected.
This fucker thinks he can tire me out. No way. By God, he’ll find who goes first. What a place, better than I could have arranged. The wind, the wildness, the prospect of fun, it all fuelled The Agent’s intense excitement. He trembled.
Already clouds were becoming leaden streaks, their edges tattered and sailing. Cold gusts winnowed through the brown grass of autumn. Moss on the stones, now grey. Barrenness flowed over headland. “This is all there is to show you,” I stood beside the man amongst the Viking burial stones. My nerves stretched taut. Evil surrounded me, in the wind, the very taste of the air. I became acutely alert, “I think we should hurry, before the tide turns.”
“Don’t worry my friend,” the man’s voice, high pitched and rasping, “you won’t need to hurry where you’re going.”
It pressed into my spine. Hard and boring, twisting, forcing. I knew immediately. “Walk, you clever bastard.” Ten paces. I balanced on the edge of the cliff. The gun moved up my spine. It stopped. Pressed into my neck. “Now isn’t that a bonnie sight, just what a bloody Scotch twat like you would call it, Mr. Hector, cocky, MacKenzie.”
Sun Dance Page 19
