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by Ron Elliott

  ‘You speak Dutch,’ Dave said.

  ‘I shouldn’t come along here at night,’ she said, indicating the departing man. ‘Nice jacket.’

  ‘I’m trying to blend in, like a native.’

  ‘I’m never going to get rid of you, am I?’

  ‘Can’t fight good luck.’

  She raised an eyebrow, but then took in the commotion down the street. ‘Actually, if you wouldn’t mind, you can escort me out of here. I’m getting sick of the attention.’

  ‘Okay. Can we eat?’

  They went away from the police action, Margaret switching into tour guide mode. She’d explained on the plane that as part of her travel agency she regularly saw the sights so she could tell her clients firsthand where to go. She’d already told Dave where to go a few times by that stage. As they walked Margaret pointed out historic areas, listed the seafaring history of the Dutch and explained why the cyclists might be getting angry with him – because he kept blundering across the dedicated cycle lanes.

  And then they were back by another canal and standing in the middle of a high stone bridge looking at the yellow lights flickering in the dark water. She pointed across the canal. ‘There’s a wonderful restaurant up there next to Amstel Diamonds.’

  The sign looked familiar. Dave looked to the other side of the canal. ‘You’re not going to believe this, but I live up that way.’

  ‘You’re kidding! You don’t. In one of those gorgeous houses?’

  ‘A little closer to the waterline.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’m in a houseboat.’

  ‘How wonderful. That’s not a bad idea for tours. You know. Fly to Amsterdam and stay on a canal.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think they’d be keen staying on mine. More your hovel boat.’

  ‘Oh? Why are you staying there?’

  ‘Ah, that’s a long story.

  ‘You seem to be good at those.’ She stood smiling at him, some lamplights gleaming from her eyes.

  ‘Enough about me. Let’s talk about you and me.’

  ‘Is this hovel boat one of your compulsions?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘On the plane. You said you were the impulsive type. Compulsive impulsive I think you said.’

  ‘And you remembered. Told you I’d wear you down.’

  ‘I think it was somewhere after Singapore. Not that you wore me down. But I must have been listening at some point.’

  ‘Ah, good, I think.’ There was a small boat coming along the canal with its lights on. Dave looked towards the Amstel Diamonds sign and where he supposed food was cooking. Margaret didn’t seem in any hurry to leave the bridge.

  He said, ‘I was listening to everything you said. I believe you told me you were married.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘But there’s no ring.’

  ‘Maybe I’m simply not wearing it.’

  ‘And maybe you were lying.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’ She smiled. She was enjoying herself.

  ‘Maybe you thought it would put me off.’

  ‘Whereas it made no difference whatsoever.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘You are right. I am a liar.’ She was flirting and she was good at it. ‘Are you?’

  ‘What?’

  She studied him a moment, then looked towards the Diamonds sign. ‘It looks too busy.’ There were some Volvos and a dark van all manoeuvring for parking spots nearby.

  She suddenly squeezed Dave’s arm and said, ‘Let’s go to your houseboat.’

  Dave could not quite believe his luck. He managed to gasp, ‘Yes.’

  She took back her hand and looked down, a little shy, but then she looked up and said, ‘See, I can be impulsive too.’

  Dave leant to kiss her, but she stepped past and he missed.

  ***

  He lit the lamp and turned it down. Margaret stood examining the inside of the houseboat.

  ‘So you reckon it might not make your tour list, huh?’

  ‘It did look better before you lit the lamp. Authentic would be the real estate word.’ She went to the window and looked out on the water. ‘Must be a policeman’s birthday.’

  Dave went to the window and looked out. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘At the restaurant.’ She looked at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The police Volvos. The vans with tinted windows.’

  Dave looked across the water. ‘Are they?’

  She drew the curtains and they both straightened together and she kissed him. It was gentle and she tasted like white wine, but as he tried to kiss her more fully she stepped back, crinkling her nose.

  ‘Hold that thought, lover. I believe you smell.’

  ‘Testosterone?’

  ‘Possibly. Or twenty hours on a plane with a hint of three different kinds of very cheap Middle Eastern perfume.’

  ‘Ah. I stink huh?’

  She nodded, still smiling. ‘Nothing a shower and shave and clean teeth and nakedness won’t fix.’

  Dave’s mind went blank, like he’d put everything on the last race and was waiting for the start.

  She was speaking again. ‘What say I meet you in there?’ She pointed to the bunk under the stairs.

  ‘You bet.’

  ***

  Campbell looked from the bunk bed to Margaret to Dave and then down to Dave’s shrunken aspiration. ‘Ye just met her?’ He didn’t look like he believed any of it.

  ‘On the plane,’ said Dave.

  ‘And the brothel?’ asked the Indian.

  ‘Getting a jacket. It was cold. Speaking of which.’ Dave gestured towards the pile of clothes by the bathroom door.

  ‘Well, whatever was going to happen won’t now,’ said Margaret with what Dave was sure was regret. A lot of regret. ‘If you’ll excuse me gentlemen?’ She took a step to get past Campbell, but he grabbed her handbag.

  ‘Hey,’ said Dave.

  ‘Ah doon’t like surprises. Let’s see who we’ve ... Ah. Deary, deary me.’ He pulled a plastic bag full of uncut diamonds out of Margaret’s handbag.

  Dave stood blinking, hurt.

  ‘Sorry, Angus. They looked valuable, and well, I did tell you I was a liar. I suppose I’m also a thief. Nothing personal.’ She fluttered her eyelashes.

  ‘Evidently not,’ said Dave, feeling further diminished.

  ‘Whit ye goot gooin’ here, Angus?’ asked Campbell. ‘A doublecross?’ He looked over to Karushi then to Dave again.

  ‘Why would I travel all this way before I did it, if that’s what I was going to do?’

  Campbell passed the plastic bag of stones to Karushi, who had his briefcase open on the table.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ said Margaret, edging towards the stairs. ‘You’ve said nothing yet that in any way implicates anyone. So, I know nothing and I’d rather not know anything.’

  ‘It’s no’ up to ye to “rather” anything,’ said Campbell, continuing to block her.

  Dave said, magnanimously under the circumstances, ‘Come on. No harm, no foul. You’ve got the stones.’

  ‘We’ll see aboot that.’ Campbell looked towards the table. ‘Karushi?’

  The Indian had an eyeglass to his eye, examining the stones. He scratched one with a metal prod.

  Dave thought he heard a thump outside. Maybe dripping water. Margaret seemed to have heard it too.

  Campbell was watching the Indian. ‘Well?’

  ‘Mostly shit,’ he said in his thick London accent. He flicked a smaller rock away. It shimmered. ‘This one’s gem quality. The rest are industrial. And no pinks as requested.’

  Dave nodded knowingly.

  ‘Speak fookin’ English,’ growled Campbell.

  ‘Geologically, these are them. A lot of fuckin’ fuss for not too much. But it’s what the Gov ordered.’ He shrugged, good soldier.

  Another thump. Then a loud voice outside. It was a woman, yelling in Dutch.

  Campbell looked up.

  In spite of
her rather tight skirt, Margaret launched a sudden but seemingly precise kick, karate style, into Campbell’s knee.

  He fell to the floor, groaning. She picked up her handbag and stepped smoothly up over him onto the steps. He grabbed her ankle before she could go further, but Dave launched himself across the room onto Campbell’s shoulder. Margaret scampered up the steps.

  Dave heard her say, ‘I owe you one, Angus.’ He didn’t have time to reply, because something hit him on the head.

  ***

  Dave woke but didn’t open his eyes. He could hear Campbell talking. ‘Och, naw, Mr Dewar. He was as surprised as anyone. No’ t’first lad to be ripped aff by his dick.’ Dave could feel the slight movement of water under the barge. He was shivering.

  A voice talked through a phone like the echo of an angry bee. Dave opened one eye. Campbell was on a mobile. ‘Ye wahnt ah tae dae ’im and bring t’stones?’

  Dave tried to see if there was anything he might use as a weapon.

  ‘Oh aye.’ Campbell clicked off the phone and turned to Karushi. ‘Change of plans. We’re tae bring ’im tae Glasgow. Have ye got t’condoms?’

  Dave sat up. ‘Whoa there. Now I know this is Amsterdam, but...’

  ‘Doon’t flatter yirself, Angus. Get dressed. What did ye think ye were goonae dae wi’ that wee thing?’

  ‘It’s cold.’

  As Dave got dressed, Karushi funnelled batches of the tiny stones into each condom.

  ‘Hope ye’ve an appetite,’ said Campbell pulling a bottle of scotch from the briefcase. He filled a tumbler and pushed it across the table towards Dave.

  ‘Good news, Angus,’ said Karushi. ‘We thought we’d have to do this.’

  Dave took a gulp of the whisky. ‘So how much money, again?’

  ‘Twenty thousand.’

  Dave eyed the growing pile of condoms.

  ‘And we won’t kill you.’

  ***

  Dave stood uneasily near the departure gate in Schiphol. His legs were rubbery, partly from all the whisky he’d drunk, but also from the strange sensations the lumps in his stomach were causing.

  Karushi pushed a cheap backpack under his arm. ‘The hotel address is in the bag.’

  Campbell patted him on the shoulder. ‘Ye wait there until we come. Naw wee love affairs.’

  Dave nodded. He was pushed towards the departure gate. He walked very carefully.

  He sat very still on the plane. He didn’t try to make new friends.

  He asked the taxi driver in Edinburgh to go round corners as slowly as he could.

  He stood against the wall of the charmless white and magenta room of the Jurys Inn trying to work with rather than against the movements inside his body. There was a faint smell of vinegar somewhere in the room. The condoms of rough diamonds continued their slow progress like obese worms heading south. The whisky had worn off.

  The battered telephone shrilled centimetres from his ear.

  The vigorous Australian voice at the other end said, ‘Ken, it’s Bruce. A quick call while you’re alone. Mal’s still in hospital in the Netherlands, but he’ll be here soon. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dave.

  ‘I’m still with you, mate.’

  ‘Mate.’

  ‘Here they come.’

  Bruce rang off. Dave had no idea who Bruce was or why he had called or who Mal was, but he’d sounded Australian and that was comforting so many kilometres from home.

  The hotel room door opened and the Glaswegian Campbell and London-Indian Karushi walked in to find Dave holding the phone.

  ‘For fook’s sake, whit’s going on noo?’

  ‘Room service. I ... more whisky?’

  Campbell studied him, but Dave closed his eyes, still standing.

  ‘Naw, ye already have a full toommy. It’s time to retrieve oor packages.’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of bad news about that. I’m not ready.’

  There was a pause. Dave heard the telephone dialling.

  ‘We’re here, but we have a wee hold-up. The stupid bastard’s constipated.’

  Dave could hear the other side of the conversation. Another Scottish voice. ‘Noo matter. T’woman in Holland bothers me. Bring him tae Perth. Ah’ll meet ye at Scone Castle.’

  ‘Scone Castle!’ exclaimed Campbell.

  ‘Aye. I want ye tae take t’train up. Look tae see if ye’re being followed. There’s something no’ right here.’

  ***

  Karushi fed Dave Indian takeaway on the train up to Perth. There were lots of lentils. ‘To get things moving, like.’

  An ancient castle crouched atop an outcrop above Stirling. It had clung there for centuries, a piece of historic tenacity that Dave found alarming. Each bump and roll of the train brought aftertastes of the Indian food. Dave sweated. Dave winced. Dave tried not to think about anything, especially when the train entered tunnels.

  On another day Dave might have been quite interested to discover that there was another place called Perth in the world. He might have relished the ancient stone wall the taxi drove through and the ivy-covered battlements and lush grounds of Scone Castle. But today he had more immediate concerns. There were tourist buses in the car park and a line of old people winding towards four portable loos not quite hidden behind a screen of bushes. They were frail people easily pushed aside by a driven younger man.

  ‘I gotta go,’ said Dave.

  ‘No’ yet,’ said Campbell.

  They led Dave, who walked with a stoop, towards a small church on a small hill in front of the castle.

  A ruddy man in his mid-fifties sat on a worn sandstone block. ‘Angus, or should ah say Ken,’ he said in the thick Scottish accent Dave had heard on random telephones across the globe. The man stood and raised his arms to encompass all that they could see. ‘Welcome tae centre of Scotland, laddie. Home tae oor true government for at least thirteen hundred years.’

  ‘Uh, huh.’

  ‘Ah’m James Dewar and this hill is Boot Hill because t’lords of every kingdom would regularly arrive here and empty their boots of dirt. Dirt from their own dear lands tae swear fealty tae their king. And over centuries they made this hill.’

  ‘Yup,’ said Dave, when Dewar paused.

  ‘And noo ye’ve brought a little of yir own land here, and ah need ye tae empty yir boots, so tae speak.’

  ‘Gladly.’ Dave looked hopefully towards the tourist line at the toilets down the hill.

  ‘This stone is a copy.’ Dewar was pointing to the sandstone block he’d been sitting on. ‘T’Stone of Scone is where oor kings were made, but fookin’ Edward ripped it off. Held it, and Scotland, tae ransom in fookin’ Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘Ah, about emptying my, ah, boots.’

  ‘Oi. Ah huvnae finished. Ye see t’Scots heard Edward was a coomin’, so ye think they let him get t’real stone?’ Dewar tapped the side of his nose and grinned like an insane person. ‘It’s somewhere, but no’ in Westminster and no’ in Edinburgh.’ He tapped his nose again, leering at Dave. ‘T’Scottish huv nivver given up on oor fight wi’ England.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Dewar looked at Dave with clear disappointment. He looked at Campbell and Karushi and then back at Dave. ‘Ah wis led tae believe Australians are noo friend tae English.’

  ‘Um, well, you know. I think we got a lot of it out of our system when we made Breaker Morant and started winning at the cricket. And we didn’t let them get the real Rolf Harris.’

  Dewar looked confused.

  Dave said, ‘I’m more a mercenary than a revolutionary. Sorry.’

  Dewar threw his hands up in disgust. ‘Aye.’ He said to Karushi, ‘Over t’graveyard.’

  Dave turned and started trotting down the hill, like a hobbled prisoner, towards where Dewar had pointed. On consideration, he’d take the graveyard. Two young hikers who had been taking photographs of the chapel scrambled back away from them.

  Karushi caught up with Dave and directed him under an arch and around into the
old much-breached wall of the cemetery. He handed Dave a plastic shopping bag and pointed to some particularly high moss-covered headstones.

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Hurry up before the tourists come.’

  ‘No peeking.’

  Karushi turned away.

  Dave got behind the largest headstone and took down his pants and felt a surge of relief. But then the relief was replaced by pain, the pain of attempting to squeeze particularly large, non-viscous...

  ‘Aye, thankyou, Ken. You don’t need to explain this part in quite so much detail,’ said Colley.

  ‘We have photographs,’ said Bruce.

  ‘I thought I heard a camera shutter.’

  ‘I had to give the camera to Bruce ... I mean Sergeant Roberts, ma’am. I couldn’t...’

  ‘Focus?’ offered Dave. ‘Have you ever fallen off your push bike and used your knees as the primary means of slowing? Well the inside of my arse felt a bit like that.’

  ‘Internally abraded,’ offered Van Shooten.

  ‘Quite. Move on please, Ken.’

  Dave and Karushi headed back, Karushi holding the plastic bag out in front of him, as far as his arm would allow.

  ‘Did you hear cameras?’ asked Karushi.

  ‘Nothing but.’

  Dewar and Campbell met them on the path near the entrance to the castle. When Karushi handed over the bag Dewar exclaimed, ‘Ye could huv washed it.’

  ‘Where?’ Karushi wiped his hands on the stone block.

  Dave, who felt bruised and abused but otherwise better, said, ‘Well, I’ve done my bit. More stones for Scotland and all that. Go the revolution. Now will that be cheque or cash?’

  Dewar looked around in alarm. ‘No’ here, man. Go wi’ t’lads. There’s a hire car in t’car park.’

  ‘What, I can poop here, but not get paid?’

  ‘Go wi’ Campbell, Ken.’ Dewar turned away, holding the bag out to his side, downwind from his nose.

  ***

  Dave was pushed to a tiny jellybean of a hire car, a bright blue Ford Ka. Campbell looked at the key to the car in disgust.

  Karushi said, ‘Coulda got us a man’s car.’

  ‘Ah hope naw one sees us in this thing,’ said Campbell unlocking the driver’s door. ‘In t’back, Angus.’

  ‘Look, I’m sure you fellas need to get on with things. So, here’s fine. It doesn’t have to be exactly twenty thousand pounds. A tip for your troubles is only fair.’