The Ossians

by Doug Johnstone

  He dragged his eyes away from the surf. To his left the beach continued on till it was stopped by a stumpy headland. To his right was the tiny harbour and a solitary, flat, wide building with a rusted corrugated-iron roof. Beyond that Connor could make out the ruined remains of a small castle, and far beyond there appeared to be lights on a stubby finger of land way out to sea. Could that be Orkney? You got the ferry from around here somewhere, but Connor had no idea if you could see it from the mainland.

  He made his way over to the harbour. By the rank smell, the building was clearly the fish market. He sheltered in the doorway, lit a fag and let the angry cacophony of the sea fill his ears and his mind.

  ‘Connor?’

  He jumped. The figure had appeared out of nowhere. He was young, short, wiry and seemed edgy. He was fidgeting and twitching, as if a low-level electrical current was see-sawing through his body.

  ‘Gav?’

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘My thoughts exactly.’

  Gav pulled a package about the size of a shoebox out of a Tesco bag. It was wrapped up tight in several layers of thin plastic waterproof sheeting. Connor couldn’t make out anything inside the wrapping. He took the package and handed over the envelope with Gav’s name on it. Gav looked nervously over his shoulder, twitching away.

  ‘Tell Nick I don’t fucking owe him any more,’ he said, almost having to shout over the sound of the waves crashing on the beach.

  ‘Tell him yourself, he’s no fucking mate of mine.’

  ‘Why are you working for him, then?’

  ‘Why are you?’

  ‘Fair point. See ya.’

  ‘Wait.’

  Gav stood there, his foot tapping on the concrete. Connor wanted to ask him what he was taking possession of, what this was all about. This was different from the other two deals, he was taking the bigger parcel and handing over the envelope this time, and he didn’t like it. Not that he liked the other ones, exactly, but at least he’d felt like he knew what he was doing before.

  ‘What?’ said Gav impatiently.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Right.’

  Gav turned and was gone round the corner. Connor bent to put the package in the kitbag.

  ‘Connor.’

  The voice came from behind him, and he nearly shat himself. He was going to have to start wearing fucking nappies at this rate. As he straightened up and turned, his face went pale. A few yards away was a tall, thin figure. He wore a long coat, his dark hair flapping in the breeze, and he had a gaunt look in his pale eyes. Connor recognised him. From his shape and clothes it was clearly the person he’d chased on the beach in Aberdeen. But now that he was up close, Connor recognised more than that. The face looked drawn and tired, but it was definitely the same one he’d seen on television, the one that kept appearing in news stories he kept missing. And more than that, he realised, he’d seen that face in person before. He remembered the first gig of the tour, that initial triumph in Edinburgh, and the face he spotted in the half-darkness of the crowd, the one he thought looked a bit like him. This was the same person, the same boy. He was definitely a boy, now that Connor saw him up close, although he had an effeminate air about him, that androgyny emphasised by perfectly smooth skin and long eyelashes. It was like looking at a younger, more feminine version of himself, right down to the cheekbones and the green eyes. It was unnerving, but also somehow comforting, strange but familiar. He wondered briefly if it was a hallucination, something he’d conjured up from his subconscious, but put the thought out his mind. This boy was real, although there was something unearthly about him, something dangerously angelic. He seemed almost too perfectly good-looking to be real, but Connor realised that was a crazy thought, and also a kind of creepy one. He wondered how old the boy was. He was considerably taller than Connor, but maybe around five years younger. Or maybe not. It was hard to tell.

  They’d been staring at each other for quite a while, the raging rhythm of the sea in the background.

  ‘Who are you?’ Connor asked quietly.

  The figure just shrugged. It was a shy kind of movement of the shoulders, and it made Connor warm to him.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said again.

  Eventually the boy spoke.

  ‘Just someone.’

  ‘What kind of an answer is that?’

  Once more the boy shrugged.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I’ve been following you.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen you. What do you want?’

  There was a long silence. Connor felt like shaking him, but was worried that if he reached out and tried to grab him, maybe this vision would evaporate into the ether.

  ‘I’ve been following you.’

  ‘You’ve said that. Why?’

  ‘I’ve been looking out for you.’

  ‘You think I need looking out for?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Well, I don’t.’

  ‘I’ve seen everything.’

  Connor thought back. He felt strangely vindicated. All the times he’d thought he was being followed, but had doubted his own mind, yet here was his stalker, right in front of him, flesh and bone. He remembered having sex with Hannah in their flat in front of the open curtains, then looking out the window afterwards. He remembered the drug deals in Dundee, Aberdeen and now here. He remembered the gulls on the pier. He suddenly remembered the couple having sex in the toilets at Drummonds, and realised it was Danny and Kate. Why hadn’t he pieced that together sooner? He’d heard them at it in Dundee as well, through the wall – it had been Danny after all. With his sister. What an idiot he was. Secrets, secrets. And here was this stranger claiming to know everything about him, all his secrets.

  ‘What have you seen?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I saw you at St Andrew’s Cathedral. I saw you meeting someone at the Discovery. I saw you having a snowball fight in Arbroath. I saw you kill those gulls. I saw you steal pills from that girl in Raigmore Hospital. I saw you in the Market Bar. I’ve seen all your gigs, all your fights. I saw you just now, taking a package from that guy. I’ve seen everything.’

  This was more, much more than Connor had suspected. The hospital? How the hell was this guy in the hospital when he’d lifted those pills? Arbroath? He’d been watching them in fucking Arbroath? He tried to stay calm.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘What are you going to do about everything you’ve seen?’

  The boy looked confused.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I told you, I’m looking out for you.’

  ‘I don’t need looking out for. Why are you doing all this anyway?’

  The boy did his shrugging thing again.

  ‘Are you a fan of the band?’

  The boy was silent.

  ‘Why do I keep seeing your face on television?’

  The boy’s pale face looked heartbroken, and his eyes were a little watery. The sound of the surf was still raging all around them, but it felt as if they were in a bubble, protected from the outside world.

  ‘I have to go,’ said the boy, backing off.

  ‘Wait.’ Connor reached out a hand, but then let it drop as the boy moved away.

  ‘You’re late for soundcheck,’ said the boy as he disappeared round the corner of the fish market.

  ‘What?’ Connor looked at his watch. ‘Fuck.’

  ‘There’s a great metal scene up here!’

  Hannah and Connor were having their ears bent by the guitarist in Maelstrom, local support for the evening. The place was stowed and everyone was already steaming. The Newmarket was a jumbled clutter of a pub, every inch of wall space covered by some piece of branded, booze-related tat. Behind the bar hung a Miller Genuine Draft mirror and posters for Smirnoff, Gordon’s and a handful of alcopops. The walls were pink, plastered with copies of the Racing Post, and the low red ceil
ing was broken up by thick black wooden beams with bar towels pinned to them. A scattering of chalkboards advertised the bar’s promo offers as well as tonight’s entertainment. A string of weak, red fairy lights round the black wood bar was the only sign of festive cheer.

  Connor tuned out as the guitarist slavered away. He scanned the crowd, looking for that familiar face, but couldn’t see it. There seemed to be two main kinds of people mingling in the place. Half the punters were typical nu-metal, goth or emo types, all baggy black jeans, pocket chains, Muse or Slipknot hoodies, most of them well underage. When he’d come in, two girls were propping up a boy outside as he puked violently against the wall. Connor was impressed that the boy was back in the bar now with a pint of snakebite and black in his hand. Mixed in with the nu-metallers were a crowd of neddy types, the boys in checked shirts and baseball caps, the girls wearing as little as possible, showing as much pasty flesh as they could. Connor reckoned that pretty much all of them must still be at school. As soon as anyone turned eighteen they were surely out of here to somewhere less remote. But then what the fuck did he know about this place? It reminded him of where he grew up, but so what? Not all towns were the same, were they? Looking around at the pished-up mayhem, Connor suspected they were. He felt strangely straight compared to those around him. It’s not that he wasn’t drunk already – he’d been sneaking swigs of gin from a refilled water bottle since he got out of bed. But at twenty-four he was much more capable of controlling and hiding his drunkenness than a bunch of fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds. Plus there was the handful of joints he’d smoked with Danny, which always helped him chill out, the umpteen speed hits he’d taken to anchor proceedings, and the pill he’d just popped five minutes ago. Now he came to think of it, he was a fucking state. But to outward appearances he seemed pretty together, and he felt a kind of pride in that. He was dragged back from his thoughts by the incessant prattle of the guy next to him.

  The guitarist made the mistake of asking Hannah about guitar effects and playing techniques. Connor smiled to himself. If there was one thing in the world he and Hannah hated, it was guitar wanks. In fact, muso wanks of any kind. All four of The Ossians hated going into music shops and only ever did so reluctantly when they had to, because they were full of know-it-all arseholes trying to impress you with tedious patter about this set of machine heads or that bridge action or some new crappy innovation that would make your guitar-playing sound more like Steve Vai or your drumming more like you were sitting in with fucking Van Halen. Who fucking needs it?

  ‘Sorry, what was your name again?’ said Hannah, interrupting the guy in full flow.

  ‘Gordon.’

  ‘Well, Gordon, I couldn’t give a flying shit about the difference between digital and analogue delay pedals or any of that bollocks. I wouldn’t be caught dead using a delay pedal for that matter. I just get on stage and play guitar, got it?’

  Gordon appeared not to hear and kept talking about guitars and guitarists he rated. When Hannah turned her back on him and walked away without a word he focused his attention on Connor, who interrupted him mid-sentence.

  ‘Is it always this busy?’

  ‘Aye, Sunday’s a heavy drinking night,’ said Gordon. ‘Part of the weekend, isn’t it? This time of year there’s not much happening at school, so hangovers are fine. It’s not always this busy, mind, a band from Edinburgh’s a big draw up here, you know. The good thing is, normally everyone would fuck off to Skinandi’s later on, it’s the town cattle market. But it’s shut at the minute getting done up so everyone’ll stay here until closing.’

  ‘What kind of a name is Skinandi’s?’

  Gordon shrugged. ‘Some Viking pish, don’t really know. Anyway, the place is a fucking dump and there’s always loads of fights there, so I’m pretty happy it’s closed. Although it’s normally open till three. But if we play our cards right we might get a lock-in here.’

  Connor looked out the window. He could’ve sworn he was seeing the same cars passing again and again. A parade of tacky, souped-up nedmobiles, Fiestas or XRis, all with alloys, spoilers and go-faster stripes. He asked Gordon about it.

  ‘They’re doing the circuit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They drive down Traill Street then back up Princes Street, round and round all night.’

  ‘Who does?’

  ‘The neds that dinnae drink. They’re showing off their motors. The girls around here fucking lap it up. They stand giggling to each other, eyeing up the twats in the cars, looking for a ride, if you know what I mean. You should see it in the summer, it’s ridiculous. This time of year it’s not too bad, but it’s still fucking sad.’

  Connor shook his head. What a place. A ‘great metal scene’, a primitive courting ritual involving showing off your shite car, and a hostel that’s a chippie. He noticed that one of the cars he kept seeing was more expensive than the others, a Merc or BMW or something similar. ‘How do they afford the cars?’

  ‘Some of them work at Dounreay, maybe. That usually pays pretty well.’

  ‘Is Dounreay near here?’

  Gordon laughed. ‘Aye, ten miles down the road. Just about everyone in town works there, it’s the biggest employer in the area by far. It sits there polluting the whole fucking coastline with nuclear waste, and no cunt ever says anything because if the place shut down everyone would be out of a job and Thurso would turn into a ghost town.’

  Something was nagging at the back of Connor’s mind, something he’d seen on the news.

  ‘Isn’t there a radioactive beach around here? They found particles in the sand or something?’

  Gordon nodded as he gulped down more lager.

  ‘Sandside,’ he said. ‘It’s just the other side of the plant. Lovely little place, but you cannae go on the beach now. Where are you headed tomorrow?’

  ‘Durness, I think.’

  ‘You’ll go right past Dounreay and the turn-off for Sandside. Take a look at it, it’s a fucking disgrace.’

  A spotty, gangly kid with black eyeliner and incongruous rosy cheeks came up to them, staggering slightly and slopping his pint.

  ‘Gord, we’re on,’ he said.

  ‘Right,’ said Gordon, then to Connor, ‘see you on the other side.’

  Connor watched as the pair stumbled onstage joined by two similar-looking kids, all four drunk as fuck. The mobile went off in his pocket. It was Nick checking up on how the drop had gone. He kept it monosyllabic as he supped his pint, watching Maelstrom shambolically try to get a sound out their gear. He wanted this conversation over, and so did Nick, it seemed, because he was off the other end in under two minutes, having ascertained that Connor had been successful. Connor didn’t want to tell him about the guardian angel, the stalker, whatever he was. It was his little secret for now. And no one would believe him anyway. Least of all Nick. He finished his pint and headed towards the bar, thinking about angels.

  ‘Another gig, another punch in the puss,’ said Danny. He tilted Connor’s head back, trying to stem the flow of watery blood from his nose. Connor blinked away tears from his eyes and pressed the scrunched-up ball of bog roll to his upper lip.

  ‘I can manage, cheers, Danny. I’ve had the practice.’

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ said Danny. ‘You always manage to rile someone. Indie kids, students, metalheads, goths, neds or just a random bunch of people, you can say exactly the right thing to ensure a smack in the face. You could start a scrap in an old folks’ home. Make some sarky comment about arthritis or colostomy bags and you’d get a Zimmer frame wrapped around your head in no time.’

  Connor laughed and a small bubble of blood and snot escaped the bog roll.

  ‘You do realise you’re doing it, don’t you?’ Danny continued. ‘What kind of a twat deliberately says things that guarantee a kicking? You got some kind of victim thing going on? Does getting knocked about give you the moral high ground? You realise Hannah and Kate have just about had enough of it all. This was supposed to be an
adventure, getting ourselves geared up for the Glasgow show. In case you’d forgotten, that’s the gig where we’re meant to get signed? And what’s happened? We’ve played a handful of crappy wee shows to a bunch of indifferent bastards, Hannah’s not well, you’ve taken several kickings and then there was that whole thing on the pier in Aberdeen.’

  Connor let the lecture soak in. He deserved it. What the fuck was he thinking, that this was going to be some journey of self-discovery, as they mapped out modern Scotland and their place in it through a bunch of triumphant rock gigs? Pathetic. And Hannah – why the hell were they even still on the road, when she’d had a serious medical incident? Fuck, he couldn’t think straight, and the pulsing pain across his face wasn’t helping. He took the bog roll away from his nose. It seemed to have stopped bleeding for now. He couldn’t even remember what happened. What was happening to his memory?

  The gig had gone well, they’d gotten over their hangovers and were raring to go after a day without playing. Songs like ‘Justified Sinner’ and ‘Alcohol’ had never sounded better, Kate and Danny, especially, nailing them down ruthlessly. He’d done his usual bit of banter between songs, nothing too insulting or dangerous, but then he seemed to be misjudging that line more and more often. As soon as they finished and walked to the side of the tiny raised area that passed for a stage, a guy in a Burberry baseball cap strode up and lamped him, catching him square in the face. The punch was so unexpected that Connor just stood there looking at the guy. He was only about eighteen with a sallow, grey face, the outline of thin, spindly arms underneath his pale yellow polo shirt, but by Christ that punch had hurt.