The Ossians

by Doug Johnstone

  ‘Absolutely, and not just modern authors. I’ve always been a fan of Scottish literature, ever since I fired through a copy of Kidnapped I picked up from the local library as a kid. From there I read other Stevenson stuff, which led me on to loads of other writers – everyone from Hogg to Kelman. At one point I thought about studying literature at uni, but a dickhead English teacher in my fifth year put me right off the subject for a while. Stupid really. Nowadays Scottish literature seems healthier than ever, with plenty of great writers emerging in the wake of the whole Trainspotting thing. But it’s not as simple as “It’s shite being Scottish”. The truth is, it’s both shite and great being Scottish, often simultaneously. I suspect anyone with a fucking brain thinks that about wherever they’re from, don’t they?’

  ‘So what’s next for The Ossians?’ asked Andy. ‘I hear there’s plenty of record-company interest down south. Do you see yourself signing to a major London label?’

  ‘Only if the terms are right,’ said Connor, finishing his pint. ‘There’s no point in prostituting ourselves to some bunch of fuckwit record company execs who have no idea what we’re about. We have to be allowed to do exactly what we want, where we want. And that definitely does not mean moving to London to be where the supposed action is. That can get to fuck.’

  Connor put his empty pint to his lips and realised there was nothing left.

  Andy looked like he was about to ask Kate something when a short, squat man of around twenty lumbered in carrying several bags of camera equipment.

  ‘There you are,’ he said, panting. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘Connor, Kate, this is Dominic, our esteemed photographer for the day,’ said Andy.

  The man nodded briefly and stood there with a bead of sweat running down his forehead.

  ‘Maybe we should find the others and get our picture taken,’ said Connor, leaping out his chair. ‘Fading light and all that. Isn’t that right, Dominic? If you’ve got enough for the piece, Andy?’

  Before the journalist had time to reply Connor was heading for the door and out into the blustery, salty air.

  Hannah and Danny had been walking along the front for a couple of minutes before Hannah noticed the big smile on Danny’s face.

  ‘What are you grinning about?’ she asked.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, you look like the Cheshire Cat sitting in front of a bucket of bloody cream. Tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Like hell you don’t. I know you, Danny McIntyre, and I know when you’re sitting on something. Come on, tell your Auntie Hannah.’

  Hannah linked arms with him and leant into his bulk as they strolled along the prom, blown about by the swirling breeze.

  ‘OK, but promise not to say anything just yet.’

  ‘Of course, what do you take me for? My lips are sealed.’

  ‘Me and Kate kind of… snogged last night.’

  Hannah stopped in her tracks, pulling Danny to a halt in the process.

  ‘What do you mean? What kind of snog? When? Where? How? Answers, please.’

  Danny laughed. ‘When I walked her home.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Come on, I need more information. Was it just a mistaken drunken fumble kind of thing, or a could-be-going-somewhere kind of thing, or what?’

  ‘Well, we were both drunk, obviously. And there was some fumbling going on. But I don’t think it was a mistake. It might be going somewhere, I suppose.’

  ‘And what does Kate think?’

  ‘Don’t know. Hopefully the same thing. We didn’t really discuss it before I left this morning…’

  ‘Woah, woah. Stop the bus. This morning? You stayed over?’

  Hannah was smiling widely and Danny was shuffling about a little awkwardly, looking at the pavement, then out to the water.

  ‘Yeah, but not like that. I mean, we didn’t… we just…’

  ‘OK, spare me. This is fucking huge, Danny. You and Kate? This is totally massive. Is it completely out the blue?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Danny, starting to walk again, as Hannah caught up. ‘We’ve kind of been hanging out a bit, outside the band. Just mates to begin with, but things have been different between us recently, and last night, well…’

  ‘You and Kate,’ said Hannah, shaking her head. ‘I can’t get over it.’

  ‘What do you think?’ said Danny.

  ‘I think it’s bloody brilliant, is what I think. It’s just a bit of a shock, that’s all. I didn’t see it coming. Wow.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I’m probably jinxing the whole thing by telling you. God knows what Kate thinks.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be well into it,’ said Hannah.

  ‘You think?’

  ‘She doesn’t do or say anything she doesn’t mean.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘So even if you were both totally steaming, I’m sure she knew exactly what she was doing.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Danny. ‘You can’t tell Con, though. Not yet.’

  ‘Come on, he’ll be well chuffed.’

  ‘You reckon?’

  The truth was, Hannah didn’t know how Connor would react to the news. He had no reason not to be cool about his best friend and his sister getting it on, but you never knew what he was going to do at the moment.

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘But I won’t mention it if you don’t want me to.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Danny. ‘You know how he likes to wind Kate up all the time. If he finds out and starts on her, that could kibosh the whole thing before it gets going.’

  Hannah patted Danny’s arm. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘You keep me posted, all right?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Jesus, you and Kate, eh? I can’t get over it.’

  They walked further along the esplanade, Hannah shaking her head, both of them with big smiles on their faces.

  Forty minutes of rough sailing on the Maid of the Forth took them to Inchcolm Island, the ‘Iona of the East’ according to the leaflet in Connor’s hand. He’d insisted on their photos being done on the small, rocky outcrop in the Forth. It was stunning. A twelfth-century abbey occupied the centre of the small kidney-shaped island, with a tiny sandy bay alongside. Raised hummocks lay at the two extremes of the island, decaying Second World War battlements perched at one end and a host of nesting gulls at the other. Behind the gulls’ home of thick grass was a breathtaking view of both bridges, the low sun hanging anaemically behind.

  The four band members stood on the beach throwing stones into the sea and pretending to look disinterested as the photographer snapped away, taking a handful of shots at a time before changing lenses. An old, deflated football lay on the sand, and Connor and Danny started kicking it about as Connor produced a hip flask and offered it round.

  The pant of the water as it lapped on the shore was drowned by the frantic squawks of seagulls hanging in the wind, then diving for fish. A few tourists, dressed as if going on an Arctic expedition, traipsed dutifully around the abbey then back to the meagre little gift shop at the jetty.

  The photographer gave the band vague instructions, which they ignored, so he just kept taking pictures of them as they walked along the beach. Driftwood, plastic bottles, tyres and other tidal junk were scattered along the sand and a black mongrel dog barked at the gulls.

  Connor was amazed at the quiet beauty of the place, and felt a sense of disgust that he hadn’t even known Inchcolm existed until recently, and yet you could see Edinburgh from this very spot. If there was beauty like this only a few miles from where he’d lived for five years, and he never knew about it, how much more was there to discover in a whole country? He was struck by how sheltered his life had been. In the interview he’d surely come across like a spoilt, pseudo-intellectual, middle-class kid, playing at rock ’n’ roll. He had much more to say to the journalist now, and wished he’d explained things better
back in the pub. He probably was a spoilt, pseudo-intellectual, middle-class kid, playing at rock ’n’ roll. But what was wrong with that? Was he supposed to work down the fucking mines or something, just to have some credibility?

  He had another hit of single malt and took a few quick dabs of speed from the bag in his pocket. It made his brain fizz and he wanted to go over and make the journalist turn on his tape recorder. But he knew better than to act in the initial rush, so instead started playing keepy-uppy with the football, singing a melody that he was working on.

  Ahead of him, two gulls were taking it in turns to swoop down at the barking dog, shrieking as they came. The dog ducked and cowered, but started barking again as soon as the gulls’ dives were over. The rhythm of squawking and barking continued, and Connor thought it sounded like a needle stuck on a record. He wondered if there was a mathematical relationship between the dog and the gulls, a set of simultaneous equations to be solved. Once you found the solution you could release the animals from their eternal loop, their forever-repeating purgatory.

  He knew he was thinking this way because of the speed and the whisky, beer and gin in his bloodstream. He could feel the synapses snapping and the neurons murmuring. All that complex biology to create a bunch of idiotic thoughts in the pathetic little mind of a human, standing on a tiny rock in a small estuary of a poxy country at the arse end of nowhere. The stuff of life, indeed.

  Connor could hear a mobile ringtone cutting through the barking and squawking, and after a few moments realised the sound was coming from his pocket. A tinny version of the opening chords to ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’. He grimaced, pulled out the phone and looked at the display. Nick. He answered it, moving away from the others.

  ‘Hey, how’s my favourite messenger boy?’

  ‘“Smells Like Teen Spirit”? Is that the best you could do?’

  ‘I thought you’d like it.’

  ‘What do you want, Nick?’

  ‘Just checking up on you, like I said I would. Wanted to make sure you managed to get the bag home OK last night. You didn’t accidentally throw it at a copper or something.’

  ‘I’m not happy about this.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to be happy about it, just fucking do it.’

  Connor sighed. This was going to be a long fucking fortnight. ‘So, these guys will ring me, yeah? And I just meet up with them, swap packages, and that’s it?’

  ‘Pretty much. Easy, isn’t it?’

  ‘What about the police?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘What if they’ve worked this out and are following me.’

  ‘Trust me, they haven’t worked anything out. This is the fucking pigs we’re talking about here. Thick as shit in a bottle.’

  ‘What if they do?’

  ‘Look, just keep an eye out, that’s all. The only way the police will bother you is if you act like a suspicious twat. So don’t.’

  ‘Christ.’

  ‘Christ doesn’t come into it, Connor. Just keep a cool head, do what you’re told, and everything will work out fine.’

  Nick sounded confident, but Connor was a long way from sharing that confidence. He thought of the kitbag full of fuck knows what sitting underneath the sofa back at the flat and felt like chucking the mobile into the sea in front of him.

  ‘Is that it? Can I go now?’

  ‘Sure. You’ll get a call from Jim in the next day or so about the Dundee thing. Just stay cool, OK?’

  Connor ended the call without replying.

  ‘You got a mobile?’ said Danny from behind him, making him jump.

  ‘Jesus, Danny, I nearly shat myself. Don’t creep up on folk, eh?’

  ‘Just asking. Thought you didn’t like them. Aren’t you always on about not wanting to be contactable the whole time?’

  ‘Yeah, but I thought it would be useful on tour, just in case we get into any trouble on the road.’

  ‘You planning on getting into trouble?’

  ‘I’m not planning to.’

  ‘So who was that?’

  ‘Just Paul checking up on us.’

  ‘He’s got your number?’

  ‘I gave it to him this morning.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’

  ‘He wants to meet us in the Earl later for a pint.’

  ‘He already told us that last night, didn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah, right. I think he’d forgotten, though, steaming and everything.’

  Danny looked at Connor closely.

  ‘You OK?’

  ‘Just needing a drink, is all. Warm us up. It’s a bit parky, isn’t it?’

  The journalist caught up with them. ‘I think Dominic’s had enough,’ he said. ‘His poor little fingers are getting cold, and besides, the light’s about gone.’

  Connor looked at the darkening sky behind the bridges. Andy followed his gaze.

  ‘You know that thing about them forever painting the rail bridge?’said Connor.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Andy. ‘By the time they finish they have to go back to the beginning and start painting again.’

  ‘Apparently, that’s a load of bollocks. Just another stupid myth about this country. I suppose it makes a better story that way. And everyone loves a good story. So does it matter what the truth is?’

  They stood looking at the bridge as the sun gave up the struggle and died, and clouds took over the sky, bringing in the night. Of course it fucking matters, thought Connor in reply to his own question, but he said nothing.

  They stumbled out the Earl of Marchmont at closing, giggling like schoolkids. Danny offered to walk Kate home through the Meadows, avoiding looking at Hannah, who was watching the pair of them and smiling.

  Connor and Hannah walked the short distance to their flat arm in arm, stopping to snog twice on the way. After the second embrace against Scotmid’s doorway they separated.

  ‘You’re gorgeous, you know that?’ said Connor.

  ‘Yeah, course I do. You’re not so bad yourself,’ said Hannah, pressing up against him.

  Connor thought he saw something out the corner of his eye. He turned and seemed to sense movement at the shop’s bins, but wasn’t sure. It didn’t help that he was half-cut again, as per.

  ‘Did you see that?’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought I saw something. Over by those bins.’

  ‘Probably just rats.’

  Connor looked for a few more seconds, but didn’t see anything. He toyed with the idea of heading back towards the bins, but Hannah pulled at his arm.

  ‘Come on,’ she said, ‘let’s get home. I fancy shagging your brains out.’

  They were soon at the front door, then stumbling down the hallway and into the living room without putting the light on, simultaneously trying to walk, snog and undress each other. Connor had his hands underneath Hannah’s short denim skirt, stroking her arse with one hand, pushing her pants aside and slipping a finger inside her with the other. She was already wet and let out a little gasp. She tugged at his belt to get his trousers off, then pulled his T-shirt over his head, Connor kissing her breasts all the while. She unhooked her bra and he started sucking her nipples. They were naked now, apart from Hannah’s skirt pushed up to her waist and her knee-length leather boots. She couldn’t be bothered trying to take them off, and besides, she knew they turned him on. He lifted her up on to the dining table in the corner of the room and slipped easily inside her while still standing. After some slow movements they speeded up, rocking in unison for a few minutes, her knees raised and his buttocks clenching, her hands stroking the tight muscles of his stomach, until she felt Connor go rigid and come inside her, then felt the shiver of her own orgasm as he collapsed on top of her.

  They lay like that smiling at each other for a couple of minutes, not speaking, just kissing occasionally, before Connor climbed off her awkwardly, and she got down from the table. It was dark except for light spilling in from the hall, and in the half-light Connor watched as Hannah pulle
d her skirt down and put her T-shirt back on.

  ‘You fancy skinning up?’ she said as Connor put his clothes back on.

  ‘Sure. Get us a drink?’ he replied as she headed towards the kitchen.

  He went over to the window, only now realising that the curtains were open. Oh well, he thought, give somebody a wee show, if they could see anything in this darkness. He began to draw the curtains but stopped. He thought he saw movement outside, in one of the doorways down the street. He peered hard out the window for a few minutes. Nothing. The only motion now was a tree swaying a little in the breeze. There was no one out there. He was sure he’d seen something, and earlier, over at the bins. But was he sure? He was fucking drunk, and speeding and stoned, so maybe he was letting his imagination get ahead of him. He thought of the kitbag under the sofa. He thought about the police. How could they know what he was up to? They couldn’t. Could they? Fuck, he was losing it with the paranoia already, and they weren’t even on the road yet. He had to try and chill the fuck out.

  ‘Get anywhere with that joint yet?’ said Hannah, coming into the room with two large whiskies, and switching a lamp on.

  Connor took one last look out the window, but all he could see now was his own reflection. He closed the curtains.

  3

  St Andrews

  ‘Give me a sky full of stars and a telescope

  And I’ll be a happy man

  Give me a woman to love and a hand to hold

  And I will throw it away’

  The Ossians, ‘Stargazing’

  The atmosphere at the rehearsal room was oddly schizophrenic, their childish excitement at hitting the road tempered by the suppressing weight of their hangovers. Connor stayed quiet while the rest of them nervously prattled and fussed over loading up the gear. As they drove over the Forth, the skittish energy in the van was still palpable, Connor imagining the life being blown back into him by the wind that funnelled down the firth and swirled around Inchcolm before heading out to sea. He tentatively felt his throbbing face. His black eye had turned a browny green colour and his lip had scabbed over. A couple of his lower teeth seemed a little loose and he instinctively flicked his tongue over them. They listened to The Flaming Lips as Paul drove north into the kingdom of Fife.