by Ron Elliott
‘Shut up,’ said Campbell pulling back his jacket to reveal the gun Dave had always suspected he had.
‘How about this. You keep everything and I’ll chalk it up to experience.’
‘Get in the back.’
***
They drove. They didn’t talk. Campbell put on the radio. ABBA. Dave’s luck was turning from very bad to worse. Karushi changed the station. Bono. Cruel and unusual. Campbell turned the radio off. They passed a sign. Birnam Wood.
‘Like in Macbeth?’ asked Dave.
‘No idea,’ said Karushi.
They turned down a narrow road and passed four quaint houses before it ended at a walking track leading into the wood. Ancient trees and leaf-covered ground sloped down towards the railway track.
Campell and Karushi got out. Campbell pushed forward the driver’s seat so Dave could squeeze past.
‘I’ll stay here.’
‘Act like a man.’
‘As opposed to acting like a body you mean?’
‘Ah wahnt tae talk tae ye, man. Dewar wis clear. Find oot aboot t’woman in Amsterdam before ye pay this wee dick. But if ye like, ah can drag ye oot and shoot ye.’
Dave didn’t like the way that oot and shoot rhymed so well.
Campbell signalled with the gun and Dave climbed out. They skittered down the slope towards the railway tracks.
‘The woman in Amsterdam. Convince me ye wirnae working on this taegither.’
‘I think I’ve pretty much established I’m a poor judge of character. And impulsive – compulsively.’
The leaves crunched as they walked. Perhaps there was too much crunching for three sets of feet. Moss covered the rocks and fallen branches.
Dave tried to think of something that might delay his death so that he could buy some time to think of something that might save his life.
‘This’ll dae,’ said Campbell.
‘Wait,’ said Dave. He reached for his own arse, hoping to save it. ‘I think I’ve still got another package.’
Campbell looked to Karushi, who shrugged.
‘Ye dinae count them?’ accused Campbell.
‘No, I didn’t watch them come out. I didn’t count them and I didn’t wash them. I forgot my scales too and I didn’t weigh them.’
‘I didn’t count them either,’ said Dave.
Karushi produced a knife.
‘Don’t move. Police,’ called a familiar male Australian voice.
Dave turned to see two backpackers walking towards them through the trees; a pretty young woman and a tall young man with a familiar tanned face.
‘Yes, you, Bruce, but I didn’t know that then.’
‘But you’ve known it since the airport in Perth.’
‘Nope.’
‘I told you,’ said Mal. ‘No idea, not from the start.’
‘Gentlemen, nearly there. Ken, please.’
‘Certainly, Inspector.’
The girl backpacker said, ‘Come along then. Put your weapons down.’ She was blonde with slender long pale legs. She pulled a wallet from her pocket and flashed a badge. ‘PC Rowntree.’
The male backpacker grinned at the forest like a new party guest.
‘The Bill?’ said Karushi.
‘Fook,’ said Campbell.
They both dropped their weapons.
The police kept coming forward, trying not to slip on the loose leaves as they edged down the slope.
PC Rowntree said, ‘Graeme Campbell and Rafi Karushi, you’re under arrest.’
‘Graeme?’
‘Oi, whit’s wrong wi’ it?’
‘I just didn’t know your name, like.’ Karushi smiled and bent to pick up his knife.
Dave looked back toward the police, noticing the same thing Karushi must have.
Karushi said, ‘They don’t have guns, Graeme.’
As Campbell bent for his gun, Dave moved behind the nearest tree.
Campbell said, ‘Ye doon’t have guns, ye bloody idiots.’
‘I’m giving you a chance here, Campbell,’ said Rowntree.
‘And ah’m taking that chance.’ Campbell took aim.
The Aussie cop stepped in front of Rowntree protectively. Rowntree said, ‘Hey,’ and slapped at his back.
Dave came around the other side of the tree and screamed, ‘Ahhhhhhh!’
Campbell turned as Dave whacked down on his arm with the lump of tree branch he’d found. He dropped the gun and Karushi bent for it, but the Aussie policeman leapt into the Indian’s back and Dave brought the branch down again on Campbell’s arm.
‘Nice work, Ken,’ said that familiar voice.
Before Dave could ask him who the hell he was, Rowntree stepped forward and said, ‘You three are under arrest.’
‘Me too?’ said Dave.
***
Dave was led into an interview room, already full of a number of familiar if unnamed faces. A short woman with fierce eyes and an important police uniform seemed to be in charge. ‘Ken,’ she said in a soft Scottish accent. ‘It is grand to finally meet you.’ She indicated the only chair on the door side of the table. ‘I am Inspector Colley.’
Dave sat, beaming at them. ‘And nice to see everybody too. Can I save you some time? I confess. I’m an illegal alien and I accept I will be deported.’
‘Ha, yes. I believe you know Detective Sergeant Malcolm Kemp.’
She pointed to the big red-faced bloke from Perth who’d also appeared in the brothel. He had a black eye and didn’t smile.
‘Detective Sergeant Roberts.’ She indicated the tanned Aussie who’d winked at him in Perth airport and who’d recently rescued him dressed as a hiker in the woods.
‘You’re a legend, Ken,’ he said. ‘Dead set. Call me Bruce.’
‘And this is our PC Rowntree, seconded from Nottingham.’
She had changed from her hiking clothes into a police uniform. She nodded, rosy-cheeked and clear-eyed.
‘Hang on,’ said Dave, recalling recent events, ‘Why have I been arrested? I saved their lives.’
‘Well,’ said Bruce, ‘I’d like to think the saving was mutual.’
‘Yes. Each other’s lives, as things evolved,’ said Rowntree.
‘I understand, Ken, that you have been working with Sergeants Kemp and Roberts since Australia.’
There was a cough. It was from the tall thin man that Dave had seen in Schiphol airport. He was wearing a different, but beautifully fitted, suit.
‘And this is our Dutch friend, Brigadier Van Shooten, who, in the spirit of a united Europe, is also along for the ride it appears.’
Van Shooten grimaced, but stood and offered his hand. ‘Amsterdam,’ he said.
‘Ah, of course,’ said Dave, wise yet circumspect. He felt like he’d stumbled into the official surrender ceremony at the end of a war. What was most confusing was that he seemed to be the victor.
Van Shooten said, ‘Any Serbians yet? Montenegro mentioned?’
‘And now you’re in Scotland, Ken, and I inherit ye,’ interrupted Colley with a glare.
‘And like I said, I surrender. You can toss me, like an old caber, out of your very fine country.’
Colley smiled again. It was a polite smile, acknowledging but not enjoying an attempted joke. ‘No, we have some more work for ye.’ She was still smiling, still without humour.
‘You’re still on the team, Ken,’ said Bruce.
‘The pay’s nonexistent, the working conditions are lousy, and I’m absolutely unsuited to it. I’m going to retire.’
‘You’re being modest,’ said Van Shooten. ‘I have seen you operate. Very good.’ The Dutchman gave a precise little nod.
Colley cut across him again. ‘The original charge against ye is still pending, I believe.’
‘It’s still that same deal, Ken,’ said Mal, still studying Dave.
‘Original charge?’
‘The diamond theft from Argyle.’
‘Ah ha. It’s probably time I cleared up a few things. I’m not Ken.’
Dave looked around at the room full of police. Colley was smiling her waiting smile. They were all waiting it seemed for a punchline.
‘I found these stones in the middle of the desert in Australia. Your Ken was dead. A car accident. There was a little tree. I’m a telecom worker. Dave Kelly. Innocent victim of mistaken identity. Um, well ... the rest has kind of just happened, really.’
There was a moment’s silence, then Bruce leant forward. ‘But Ken, your slick moves at Perth airport, the quick change in the brothel.’
‘Your evasions of two separate surveillance teams!’ It was Shooten.
‘Scone Castle. The woods?’ Rowntree.
It appeared to Dave that they thought he was a master spy of Bourne proportions instead of an alternately very lucky and unlucky son of a bitch.
All except Mal, perhaps. He leaned back and said, ‘How about a few corroborating details then, old son.’ He’d lost a tooth in the tumble down the brothel stairs.
Colley leaned forward, ‘Please, from the beginning, Ken.’
‘Dave. Dave Kelly.’
***
Deidre gave another little yelp and shuddered. Dave sighed long. He rolled from her, groaning as his injured elbow pushed into the mattress.
‘Ye’re a noisy lover, Angus,’ said Deidre in a pleasingly dreamy voice.
‘Likewise.’
They both snuggled naked under the thick doona in the morning chill. Deidre’s bed was in the corner of Deidre’s one-room stone hut on the edge of a lake on one of the islands of the Outer Hebrides. There was a kitchen table and a sink and a wood stove. Everything except the big flat-screen television seemed from 1830 or thereabouts.
‘How are yir aches and pains?’ she asked.
Dave felt his face. There were swellings, cuts and abrasions; mementos from Deidre’s two suitors, as Dave suddenly recalled.
‘So, who’s winning then?’ said Dave. ‘Harris from Lewis, or Lewis from Harris?’
She thought about this before she said, ‘It’s no’ so much them winnin’, as me gettin’ tired and startin’ tae lose. Maybe ah jus’ wan’ a bit o’ fun before men and life happen tae me. It’s grey country oot there,’ she said, pointing sadly at the tiny window over the sink. ‘When ta sun shines, stand in it.’
‘Ah, where I come from, we say it’s a brown land. When it rains, drink it.’
‘Ye’re full o’ it, Angus.’
‘I’m not. I’m a truth teller. Cross my heart.’
‘How the hell did ye manage to talk yir way intae ma bed?’
***
Dave met Deidre on a hilltop in the drizzling rain on a road on the Isle of Lewis off the west coast of Scotland.
He had left Ullapool on the car ferry at twilight. Ullapool was a picture postcard of white terraces overlooking the harbour. There were lochs amidst mountains. Fishing boats bobbed. Tourists wandered. Daytripping couples stood about in romantic fug.
Dave had managed to get a little sleep on the ferry but still had a nagging twinge some way along his intestines.
The ferry reached Stornoway at dawn. Stornoway was not cute like Ullapool. It was a working port with industry and bigger shops and lots of businesses all owned by the MacLeods. Even the castle looked pragmatic.
Dave went into an eatery called the Coffee Pot.
A cook was pushing plates of breakfast to a dockworker. When the cook looked up, Dave said, ‘Toasted bacon and egg sandwich?’
The cook stepped back, eyeing Dave suspiciously.
The cook said, ‘We don’t dae toasted sandwiches.’
‘Oh. Bacon and eggs with toast thanks.’
‘No.’
Dave looked bewildered. He was bewildered. He looked up at the bacon and eggs on the menu and back to the cook, who held her ground.
Dave said, ‘You’ve run out?’
‘We don’t dae toast.’
Dave missed Amsterdam. He hadn’t asked for toast there, but he thought they’d offer it. In fact, was pretty sure they’d offer to toast just about anything.
‘It’s a custom.’
‘Well, I guessed that.’
‘Ye were in Amsterdam?’
‘That’s another story.’
Dave looked around the cafe to see if there was any evidence of toast on other plates. About half the patrons held their hands away from their plates so he could see they had no toast. But the others crouched forward, holding their hands in front, hiding their eating business. Clearly the patrons were listening to every word.
Dave was still trying to work out why they wouldn’t do toast. Whether it was religious, or perhaps a political act of defiance against the English, or whether the toaster was broken.
Finally he asked, ‘What would you eat with bacon and eggs?’
‘A bap ye sumph.’ She flicked a smile over Dave’s shoulder at the other customers.
‘Sounds good to me. Bacon, eggs and a bap ye sumph, thanks.’
‘A bap is a breakfast roll.’
‘Yes. I found one on my plate.’
‘A sumph is a dunderhead.’
‘Ah, I thought it might be something like that. I understood the tone.’
Dave made no new friends while he ate breakfast. He made no new friends as he wandered Stornoway. He found MacLeod’s Tote Betting Shop and watched stocky horses finish a steeplechase.
‘What do you fancy in the next?’ Dave said to the only man in the place.
‘Not mine to do that,’ he said, skittling back behind the counter.
‘What’s your favourite number?’ asked Dave.
‘Doon’t have one,’ he said.
Dave took out fifty pounds and laid it on the counter. He said, ‘Want to cut cards?’
‘Ye’re no’ fae round here, are ye?’
Dave shook his head. ‘Is there a horse number twenty-two in the next race?’
‘Nae.’
‘Oh. I had a lucky feeling about that. Hmm. Okay. Eleven?’
‘Aye.’
‘Fifty pounds on eleven to win.’
‘To win!’
‘Yes.’
The man wrote out a chit, eyeing Dave.
Dave asked, ‘Do you have a telephone directory?’
The man studied Dave, seeming to try to gauge what unspeakable kind of frivolity Dave might make with it, but finally gave the barest of shrugs before getting the directory from under the counter. It was slim.
Dave looked up Dewar.
‘Dewar!’
‘Yes, Dewar. I told you that when we met.’
‘Ye still haven’t said why?’
‘I’m getting to it.’
‘Going ta long way for fook’s sake.’
‘Will you let me finish?’
There were a few Dewars, but not many. Dewar, James. Ardvourlie Castle, Loch Seaforth, Isle of Harris. Well, as easy as that. Except that Dave was on the Isle of Lewis.
‘Oi, yir race is on.’
Dave looked up at the relevant television and the horses running. He looked back down to his chit and then up to find horse number eleven. It was five back on the outside and looking strong. He looked down at his stomach then his chest. His breathing was relaxed, his heart sleeping. The horse, his horse, was making its move. It was third then even first then maybe second. It would lose by a nose. Dave monitored his internals. No rush. No hit. Nothing.
The teller grinned with three top teeth. ‘Ye knew. Dinae ye?’
Dave shrugged, seeing him count out a couple of hundred pounds.
‘Ye’re the grumpiest winner ah huv seen.’
‘Can I hire a boat to go to Harris Island?’
‘Aye, at MacLeod’s. Be easier tae drive.’
‘From Lewis to Harris?’
‘Aye. Tis only twenty mile by road.’
‘So, because I’m a bit slow on new concepts, I can drive from the island of Lewis to the island of Harris?’
‘Aye. If ye can get a car.’
‘Which ye couldna.’
‘Only
the bike.’
‘Lot of hills.’
‘In my country we have water between islands. It’s what makes them islands.’
‘Ta Isle of Lewis and Harris is surrounded by water and is off ta coast of Scotland. It’s an island.’
‘But not two. Just one, with two names.’
‘Aye, ye sumph.’
The Isle of Lewis, part of the island of Lewis and Harris, contained few obviously particular geophysical features. There were no trees. There were many rolling hills of bog and rock. There was lots of water: lakes and puddles and rain. Sometimes the rain fell hard and blew sideways and hit Dave’s skin like cold, sharp stones. When the rain eased, it stopped falling and just hung in the air, generally rather than specifically wet.
Dave pedalled, his bright red and blue coat sodden and heavy. He had not been able to hire a car and had to buy his bicycle outright for a ridiculous sum from a lounging young MacLeod. The young MacLeod had given Dave a particularly disrespectful grin which made Dave wonder if he actually owned the bike. He now believed the look of ridicule to be about Dave’s intention to ride.
Dave rode into the wind between five modern houses sitting amidst ruined stone crofts, constituting another tiny village. Black-faced sheep wandered the road. He caught sight of distant lochs as the hills grew steeper.
An hour after setting out Dave had to stop pedalling and push the bike to the top of a very steep hill. He turned to see a jeep coming up the hill. A battered jeep. He looked up at the next hill and could see many hills beyond. He stepped out into the middle of the road and waved down the jeep.
‘Who’s this eejit ridin’ in the rain? He’s in ta road aboot to be run doon.’
‘You stopped.’
‘Aye. An’ lucky for ye.’
‘Very lucky indeed.’
The jeep pulled up next to Dave. The window wound down to reveal a tangle-haired beauty. Her hair was red and her eyes green. She had a light sprinkling of tiny freckles on her high cheekbones. Dave had fallen in love.
‘Ye have nae shame.’
‘Are ye lost?’ she asked.
‘No. But I want a lift. It’s wet and cold and I’m knackered.’
‘Ye should be, for all ta sense that’s in yir head.’
