He left me on a dockside in the dark with only a battered suitcase for company.
I looked both ways along the dock. The Clyde has more than its fair share of disused dockyards. At one time the cream of the seas was built along these shores; ocean liners, high-masted frigates, battleships and submarines. You name it… they’d all been launched along this stretch of water at one time or another.
Now all we have left is skeletons and ghosts, rusting cranes jutting skywards on empty piers, and rotting docks sinking slowly into ever-growing mud banks.
This far down river you got a slightly better class of dock, a place where yacht builders to the gentry rubbed shoulders with high-end fishing boats. But even that was now a bygone era, and all I had for company was gently lapping water and soft moonlight.
Well Derek, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.
“Derek Adams?” a voice called from below me.
I walked to the side of the dock and looked down onto a small powerboat.
“That’s me,” I said.
A wizened old man looked up at me. He looked like Popeye… if Popeye lived to be eighty and gone to seed.
I moved to lower myself down to the boat.
“Hold yer horses youngster,” he said. “What’s the password?”
“There is no fucking password,” I replied.
“Aye. That’s what I was told as well,” he said and smiled. “Come on down son. There’s some coffee on the stove and a bottle of malt in the cupboard.”
“Home sweet home,” I replied.
I passed down the suitcase and climbed down beside him.
He looked me up and down.
“A wee birdie told me you need to get out of Dodge fast?”
“Aye. Yesterday if possible.”
“So, it’s Dublin is it?” he said.
I nodded.
He sucked at his teeth.
“It’s not going to be a quick trip. Twenty hours or thereabouts.”
“That’s OK,” I said. “I brought spare fags.”
“Fags aren’t the problem.”
He lifted a hatch at our feet. The hold of the boat was packed to the brim with packets of cigarettes.
“And here I was thinking it was porn that George was peddling,” I said.
“That was last year,” the old man said. “I miss it. Those Danish women kept me warm on many a cold trip on the water.”
He rubbed at his groin suggestively, and suddenly the thought of twenty hours on the boat wasn’t so appealing.
“Shouldn’t you be casting off, or whatever it is you do?” I said.
“Aye, aye Cap’n,” he replied, and gave me a mock salute. “You can stow your stuff in the small hold in the bow. That’s the sharp end.”
He laughed, and did a disgusting thing with his false teeth that made it look like his jaw had come loose. I was so busy looking at him that I almost didn’t hear the whistle from the end of the dock, and the answering one from far off to the south.
“Best get going then,” the old man said. “It looks like we’ve got uninvited company.”
“Polis?”
“Naw son,” he said. “When was the last time you heard a copper use a whistle? This is somebody else. George told me to stay away fae big dogs. I thought he meant the women in the pub doon at the harbor. But unless it’s a bloody well-trained dog, I think that whistle came from a man. And I’m not waiting about to see them.”
He did the thing with his teeth again. Then, belying his age, he scampered around the boat, undoing knots and tying up ropes. In less than a minute we floated, ten yards offshore, the dock already receding into the darkness. He turned on the engine, and we started to move swiftly downstream.
Darker shadows gathered on the dock, three of them. They stood, silent, watching us, until the night swallowed them.
“Friends of yours?” the old man asked.
“I doubt it,” I replied. “Friends are in short supply tonight. I think George is the only one I’ve got left.”
“Maybe you’ll change your mind on that after this,” the old man said. He leaned below the boat’s cockpit and came up with a jug of coffee and two cups. He handed them to me, then went back, to return with a bottle of Highland Park.
“George said this was your favorite?” he said.
“And, as usual, George would be right.”
I help the cups as he poured two-thirds coffee to a third whisky. As it went down, it felt about the right mix.
I passed him a cigarette and we cruised in silence, the lights of the town falling behind us.
And that was when it hit me… the thing that had tickled at the back of my mind when Itchy and Sam were talking.
“I kent his faither,” Itchy said. “Jock Fraser fae Clarkston.
The Elf’s father was a Fraser…and I’d seen that name already in this case. I took the book from my pocket and read the spine again.
“The Campaign Journal of Captain John Fraser, May, 1755.”
I don’t believe in coincidence.
I was starting to get an idea of why the Elf wanted the belt. Not that it would do me any good. I was now officially a wanted man. All I could do for the moment was run, and hope it was fast enough.
The old man proved to be good company. As we motored down the Firth of Clyde he kept up a stream of stories about sailing these waters; bawdy anecdotes about sailors and nuns, tall tales about sea monsters, and instructions as to how to keep the coastguard from finding you.
“You’ve got to be canny,” he said. “The coastguards are sneaky buggers. There’s things you need to know.”
“What, like sailing by night, without lights, close to shore you mean?”
He looked at me, then looked around and laughed.
“Guess I’ve taught you that bit already then,” he said. “But have I told you about Reckless Eddie, the Earl of Ecclefechan? He was some man.”
The story he told was bawdy, crude, and funny. He was a natural storyteller, knowing all the points to hit for maximum effect, and he had me genuinely interested. For that short while I forgot about Collins, Mark Turner and the polis, lost in a world of a 1960’s drug running Earl with a penchant for mini-skirts and makeup.
After that the old man started to sing, his voice a rich and deep baritone that wouldn’t have been out of place in a choir.
Once more we sail with a northerly gale
Through the ice and sleet and rain.
And them coconut fronds in them tropic lands
We soon shall see again.
Six hellish months we've passed away
Sailing the Greenland seas,
And now we're bound from the Arctic ground,
Rolling down to old Maui.
I sat in the passenger’s seat and smoked a succession of Camels. The level of whisky in the bottle got lower, and I got steadily more tired.
At some point I slept.
I dreamed.
The beast lies, trembling, on the floor, mewling like a whipped pup.
“Finish it off,” someone calls.
But nobody moves.
“Help me Derek,” George says finally.
He takes the beast by the shoulders and drags it over towards the trapdoor. As I bend to help him, the beast whimpers and licks my hand, its tongue hot and rasping.
The skin on the back of my hand slides off like a glove, revealing muscle and bone below.
Salivating, the beast begins to chew as I feed it my hand.
I woke with a start.
“Guilty conscience son?” the old man asked, but there was kindness in his eyes.
“You don’t know the half of it,” I replied.
He studied me closely.
“Looks like I’m not the only one with stories to tell.”
“Not before breakfast,” I said.
It was only then that I noticed we were in open water in broad daylight.
“What about that travel stealthily in the dark shite you were s
pouting?” I asked.
The old man did the thing with his teeth again.
“George has it sorted,” he said, and rubbed his thumb against his fingers.
One day I was going to have to find out how far George’s web stretched, but for now I was just happy he had my back.
“There’s a mouthful of whisky left?” the old man said, but I declined, and settled for another black coffee and a Camel.
“We’re making good time,” he said. “I’ll have you in Dublin in early afternoon. What happens then is up to you.”
I nodded.
“I’m on a flight to Canada.”
“Canada eh? I knew a lassie fae Toronto once. She…”
And off he went on a story that took nearly an hour in the telling. At the end of it we were both laughing hard.
He made me some toast, and I watched the sea go by.
It was the most relaxing morning I’ve had in years, and I nearly managed to forget that I was a fugitive.
Nearly.
He was as good as his word. We pulled in to Dun Laoghaire harbor at two in the afternoon. Nobody paid any attention to us as we docked beside a fishing boat.
“You never asked me why I was running,” I said as I retrieved my suitcase.”
“I figured you’d tell me when you were ready,” the old man replied. “I guess you never got ready. Judging by yon nightmare you had, it might be a while before you're ready.”
I agreed with him on that one.
“Maybe I’ll see you again. On the way back.”
“Just make sure you come back son.” He said. This time it was concern I saw in his eyes. “I’ve seen many boys with the same look in their eyes as you have. And many of them ended up in places you never get back from.”
He helped me up onto the quay and handed me up the suitcase.
“You’ll get a taxi at the end of the dock,” the old man said. “And good luck to you.”
I shook his hand and he did the thing with his teeth. As I left a van pulled up above the boat and they unloaded the cigarettes from the hold. Nobody batted an eyelid.
And nobody stopped me as I walked off the quay. A cab sat just up the road, its light on indicating it was free. I waved at the cabbie and he drove down to where I stood.
“Where to sir,” he said as I got in.
“The airport,” I said.
“Harbor and airport in the same day?” he said. He tapped the side of his nose. “A man on a mission eh?”
“Aye,” I replied. “A mission from God.”
The belt chose that moment to squirm in my pocket. I grabbed it, hard.
“I hope you’re not having a wank back there sir,” the driver said, laughing. “My wife cleaned the seats yesterday.”
I didn’t reply at first, but that doesn’t stop cabbies. They’re the same the world over; they spend so much time in the same little bubble that they have to constantly keep trying to break out of it. They do this by making contact with their fares, even if it’s only to the extent of passing on some tit-bit of information or remarking on the weather. Or talking about sex. It seemed to be this one’s specialist subject.
In the course of the short trip he told me about the sexual habits of young Dubliners; about the fare who only wore a fur coat, about the fornicating Bishop of Cork, and a very funny story about the politician and the young rent boy. I just sat there and nodded politely.
When we pulled up at the airport car park I got out some of the Euros to pay.
“No need sir,” he said and tapped his nose. “George has it covered.”
It was early holiday season for the people who take cheap holidays in the Med. The place buzzed with people in T-shirts, shorts and open-toed sandals. Luggage lay strewn everywhere unattended. Kids squealed, pensioners complained and hefty overweight men who were dressed like teenagers shepherded their flocks in long snaking checkout queues. Most of the queue looked stressed already, and their holiday hadn’t even begun.
I made my way to the cross-Atlantic desks. The queues were smaller here, the people in them dressed more for business than holiday, but looking no less stressed.
The board told me what I already knew. I was far too early for my flight. I had hours to wait before I could even check in.
I found a quiet corner and tried to look inconspicuous.
That didn’t last long. I jumped at shadows; everyone in a uniform looked like a cop, everyone that looked towards me looked like a cop…hell, even the kids looked like cops. I gave in to the inevitable and went in search of a bar.
Airports are like hospitals; too many people, too many corridors, too much neon. And airport bars are sterile, soulless halls where people that need some Dutch courage mix with tourists starting the two-week drunk early. To add insult to injury, the whole place was a smoke free zone.
I bought a beer that only cost double what I would have paid at home, headed for a corner, and tried to relax. I got out the old Journal, and read the last page again.
There is little left to tell.
I found myself back at the stockade later that day, but there was naught left but a smoking ruin. I found Bald Tom’s pack, and the materials to write this memoir, but that was all that was left to show for our time there.
Now I mean to head for Fort William Henry, and thence back to you dearest Jennie.
But, God help me, the hair belt squirms in my pocket even now.
I feel the call of the wild.
At some point I would need to find out what happened next. Did he make it home? How did the Journal get into Lord Collins’possession? What was the link across the years between the Fraser family members?
Too many questions… and not enough beer.
I bought another pint and flicked backwards through the Journal, looking for clues. The first page didn’t tell me much, but it did bring a lump to my throat at the thought of home.
We had no thought of winter when we left home port. Do you remember? It was a bright Scottish summer’s day. You cried as we parted, and the sun made rainbows of your tears. I can still see you now, standing on the dock, waving us off. How I wish I could look at you, just one more time, one more time to warm my heart against the cold that has gripped us all.
After the auspices of its beginning, our voyage soon reminded us that the sea is not always benign. After four months at sea the men expected some ease from the biting winds and cold autumnal spray, some shelter from the elements that had assailed them so assiduously. And some were expecting something more, having heard tell of the harbor taverns of our destination, and the warm doxies who waited there.
A cold fort was all they found.
I flicked forward a few pages.
I am ashamed to admit it, but I took to the grog, swilling it down as if the morrow did not matter, as if I had no responsibilities in the world. I know I promised you dearest, but my solemn vow was not enough to keep me from it. I can only say in my own mitigation that I was far from hearth and home, and sore taken with the damp and the cold. And if it is any consolation to you sweetest, I have no memory of the act, and I suffered the most fearful of headaches on awakening.
Fraser was beginning to sound more and more like my kind of man. But there were still no clues, and after a while I could take no more of a long dead man’s lovesick endearments to a far off wife. I closed the Journal, put it away, and went back to watching the hustle and bustle in the airport bar.
Although it was now late in the evening, the bar was getting busier.
A small group of pensioners drank coffee and shared a packet of biscuits; three small children screamed red-faced while their parents threw down some pre-flight vodka, and a pair of teenage girls tried to pretend they weren’t interested in the attention they were getting from a group of lads.
The lads, none more than twenty-two years old, were clad in T-shirts and shorts, and they had laid siege to the bar itself, downing doubles like they were going out of fashion. They had their T-shirts made for the occasion… p
roclaiming themselves The Alicante Fuck Brigade.
Fuckhead brigade would be closer to the mark.
As the liquor went down, they got noisier. One of them got his face slapped by a girl at the bar, but that only increased the laughter and testosterone levels. People started to move away from them, and several security guards had taken position around the edges of the bar area.
I left them to it and went in search of a place where I could have a smoke.
I soon discovered that the only option was to leave the airport building completely. I took my suitcase out to join the other poor addicted bastards near the bus stop outside the terminus.
“Is this not just a terrible way to be treating folk,” an elderly woman said to me. She was a large, too colorful tourist with aquamarine tracksuit bottoms and a pink sweatshirt that hung voluminously over a figure a hippo might have been proud of on a bad day. She carried a sheepskin bag over her shoulder, big enough to hold my luggage for a two-week holiday. A pair of red tortoiseshell glasses hung from a gold chain round her neck, and her hair had been dyed a shade of blue only ever seen on the head of ladies of a certain age. She had that puffy, red-faced look that heavy people get after exercise. My guess was her idea of strenuous activity was climbing off a bus.
She hadn’t waited for an answer.
“Would it kill people to let us have a smoke inside?”
A young girl at the bus stop chipped in.
“Well, actually it would. Statistics show…”
I sidled off. My eyes glazed over when statistics come into conversations at the best of times, and when smoking is involved I just don’t want to know.
I’m with the ostriches on that one.
I was halfway down my second Camel when my spidey-sense started tingling.
You know that feeling you get? You know you’re alone in the room… but at the same time, you know there’s someone, just behind you, watching you? Well I got it then, in spades. I did a slow three-sixty turn, trying not to look anyone in the eye.
The first one stood only twenty yards from me. He’d made no attempt to blend in with the crowd. His long black coat and heavy biker’s boots already marked him apart from the sports-shirted tourists. The long greased-up hair and the straggly beard only accentuated the point.
The Midnight Eye Files: Volume 1 (Midnight Eye Collections) Page 52
