‘Anyone else got a bad feeling?’ laughed Danny.
‘Know what you mean,’ said Kate, looking at one of the booths of Russians as they heard the tinkle of smashing glass.
‘And that promoter,’ said Hannah. ‘What a wank. The sooner we get through this one the better.’
Outside, the snow was falling in sleepy fashion, taking its time to reach the ground. The mountainous sides of Loch Broom loomed in the distance. The rippling water in the harbour was black and slick as slate. The snow was piling up on the road outside, sickly orange in the streetlight, and they saw some Russians start a snowball fight which looked dangerously aggressive. Just then the hulking presence of the Stornoway ferry slunk into view. Only thirty feet out from shore, it crept along, high in the water, lights sparkling against the blackness.
The presence of the sea so close calmed Connor. Despite some rank music channel like TMF blasting from the four televisions in the corners of the room, he imagined he could hear the gentle lapping of the waves against the pebbled shoreline, the greasy bladderwrack lifting and falling in time with the waves, as if it were a softly breathing lung. Why did such natural beauty always have to be spoilt by the arseholes who inhabited such places? He was appalled at the snobbishness of the idea, and felt ashamed. And why had no one bought him a drink? He sprang out his seat towards the bar. After downing a sly double whisky, he returned to the booth to see Paul coming in with a face like fizz.
‘Fucking fuck,’ Paul snapped, exasperated as he slumped into the booth. ‘The place has shut down. The Ferry Boat Inn, just about the only pub in town with rooms. There’s a sign saying they’re closed. I collared some guy going past and apparently there was a massive fight two nights ago, all this bunch.’ He flicked a thumb towards a booth of submariners. ‘Most of the windows are boarded up, and the place is a tip. So I went to the tourist office – shut, obviously. Then the two backpacker hostels. Shut. Tried a handful of B&Bs down the road, and either everyone’s left town or they’re too scared to answer the fucking door cos of these cunts.’
‘What are you saying?’ said Hannah. ‘We’re sleeping on the street?’
‘Well, it looks like the van at the moment unless we persuade some locals to put us up. That’s if any locals turn up tonight. I’ve got a feeling that people have battened down the hatches and are riding out the storm of Russian pissheads.’
‘Superb,’ said Kate, shaking her head. ‘This is a new high, a gig in front of pished foreign sailors, and nowhere to sleep.’
‘Excuse me, I could not help overhearing your conversation.’
A tall, stringy teenager with a black, stubbly head and wearing a scruffy dark uniform was standing at their table, addressing Kate. The Russians from the next booth were nudging each other and smiling.
‘My name is Vladimir. First of all, we are not sailors, we are submariners,’ he said, slurring through a thick accent. ‘It is a very different thing.’ He waggled his finger first at Kate then around the table, as they all tried to suppress smiles. ‘I can see you are not taking me seriously, but we hate those sailors, they are fucking cunts, as you Scottish say.’
Connor was impressed he’d picked up the local lingo so fast, but more impressed at the effortless way he waved a glass of vodka about without spilling a drop, while also pulling up a barstool and sitting down at the end of their booth.
‘So, Vladdy boy, how are you enjoying sunny Scotland?’ said Connor. The rest of them gave him funny looks for encouraging the lad, but he reckoned the Russian could only be about eighteen years old and his friendly face and thin build didn’t suggest a dangerous killing machine. And anyway, maybe it made sense to get chatting to some of these bastards if they were going to be their crowd for the night.
‘It is beautiful here, very beautiful,’ said Vladimir. ‘I come from industrial area in Russia, lots of factories and dirt. Ullapool is very clean. Scotland is all like this?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Connor. He thought about the little chocolate-box houses sitting on the lochside, the whitewashed walls and the snow falling like something out of a Hollywood Christmas schmaltz-fest. He thought of the picturesque view from the Scott Monument back in Edinburgh and how the city attracted swarms of tourists, even in winter, so that it didn’t seem to have any character of its own any more. He also thought of the shitty, schemie parts of the city – Craigmillar, Wester Hailes, Sighthill – and decided that he really had no idea whether Scotland was a beautiful place or not.
‘Russia, of course, is very big,’ said Vladimir, knocking back some more from his tumbler. ‘We have many very different parts, and of course, everyone wants their own little country, it is the way.’
Connor thought about devolved Scotland. If Scots had no deep-rooted connection with other Scots, who the fuck were they supposed to connect with?
Vladimir waved his glass at Kate and Hannah.
‘Here you have very beautiful ladies, yes?’ He nodded in a courteous gesture to the girls. It seemed an innocent teenage compliment, so Hannah and Kate raised their glasses in his direction and took a drink.
‘I’ll drink to that, Vlad,’ said Connor, slapping the boy on the back a little too hard so that he choked on his vodka. ‘Shit, sorry,’ he said, but Vladimir waved away his apologies, downing what was left in his glass.
‘I must go pee,’ he said. ‘Please excuse me. I’m sure we will speak again soon.’
As he watched the Russian get up, Connor realised he needed to pish as well, plus it had been a while since he’d had a decent hit of speed, and maybe he could try another of those mystery pills, see what sort of mess might keep him from caring when tonight’s gig went tits up. He followed him to the Gents.
Hannah watched him go, then turned back to the booth. Paul was fiddling with his mobile while Kate and Danny sat flirting, oblivious to her. She watched them for a while. It had been like that with her and Connor at the start. The first flush of sexual excitement, the thrill of undiscovered secrets in someone else’s body. She still loved Connor, but it was a different kind of love. What replaced that initial buzz? Had anything replaced it? He was making it bloody difficult to love him these days, always out of it, talking rubbish about angels and some missing boy. She couldn’t remember a time since the start of this ridiculous trek when he hadn’t been shit-faced. He needed to straighten out, so they could have a proper conversation. She still hadn’t had her period, and she’d pretty much given up hope that she would. She’d either skipped it completely or was pregnant. Kate was right, she had to find out. If it turned out she was, she had to talk it over with Connor. But that wasn’t a conversation to have now, with Connor off his face, in a pub full of drunken Russians, before a potentially disastrous gig. And anyway, she had to find out for sure first.
Watching Kate and Danny, she was envious of them. She wondered what they had in store over the next few years, if it would be anything like her and Connor. She didn’t know if she wished that on them. But she was being unfair – most of the last five years with Connor had been a riot. It just didn’t feel like that right now. Maybe Connor would straighten out, maybe he would stop acting weird and doing stupid things and they could get back to how they were. Maybe.
In the toilets, Connor stood next to Vladimir pissing in the trough. The Russian looked around theatrically, before stage-whispering, ‘Do you have any money?’
Connor realised what a mistake this was. He was alone in a toilet with a skint, drunk member of the Russian armed services and unprepared to fight, what with having his pissing cock in his hands.
‘How do you mean?’
Connor was suddenly ultra-aware of his surroundings. The orange wall seemed to vibrate before his eyes and the acidic smell of urine burnt his nostrils. Vladimir pulled a gun out his pocket.
‘Jesus,’ said Connor, trying not to piss down his leg as he finished and zipped up. ‘You’re mugging me? Is that it?’
Vladimir put his finger to his lips. ‘Shhhh,’ he said, shaking his hea
d. ‘No, no. I sell you gun. You like?’
Connor looked at the swaying Russian, who held a small, black handgun in the palm of his hand, offering it up for inspection. It wouldn’t hurt to have a look at it. Just out of interest. He’d never handled a real gun before, only air rifles and the like.
‘Is it loaded?’ he asked, unable to take his eyes off it.
‘Yes, but it is quite safe,’ said Vladimir. ‘Look, the safety catch is on. It is called a Grach. Very good Russian gun. Would you like to look?’
Vladimir lifted the gun to eye level. It was pitch black and sleek and glowed in the bright strip-light of the toilet. It seemed too small to be anything dangerous. Connor took it. It felt cold and dry, heavy and metallic and beautiful.
‘How much?’
‘Fifty pounds.’
Connor felt the metallic coolness of the gun in his left hand as his right hand rummaged in his coat pocket.
‘I’ll give you twenty quid plus these,’ he said, producing a handful of pills from his pocket. He was careful not to include the ever-diminishing speed bag in the bargain. Vladimir’s eyes widened.
‘What are they?’
Connor shrugged. ‘Uppers, downers. Does it matter?’
Vladimir considered the offer thoughtfully, then a wide grin spread across his face and he slapped Connor on the back, laughing as he did so.
‘No, it does not matter. It is a deal.’
Connor tipped the pills into the Russian’s hands, then handed him the money. He bounced the gun up and down in his hand as if trying to guess its weight.
‘You want me to show you how to use it?’ said Vladimir.
‘I’m sure I can work it out,’ said Connor, not at all sure, but unwilling to show ignorance. Vladimir pointed to a sliding switch near the top of the handle on the left-hand side. ‘This is the safety. Leave it like this unless you want to shoot. It is fully loaded.’
He smiled again, then examined the handful of pills in his hand. Connor slipped the gun into his coat pocket.
‘One thing,’ said Connor. ‘This is our little secret, OK? Don’t mention it to them out there. Understand?’
Vladimir grinned that grin again, a smile Connor was really warming to.
‘Our little secret,’ he said. ‘I understand.’
Of course the gig went badly. A handful of local kids turned up half an hour before the band were due to go on, the guys in buttoned-down collars, Hilfiger gear and baseball caps, the girls in micro-skirts that they kept tugging on, skimpy spangly tops and too much make-up. They made for the pool table. The guys, only just eighteen, eyed up the booths full of submariners, who were laughing and slapping each other on the back, singing songs and smashing glasses. Some of the Russians were admiring the girls’ show of flesh.
When The Ossians started, no one paid them any attention – the Russians too drunk and the locals concentrating on the pool game in front of the stage. Not for the first time, Connor wondered why they bothered, and if they could cut the set short.
One of the submariners approached the pool table, putting money down to book a game. He began chatting to one of the girls, a petite lass with a plain face, bony, bruised knees and wearing a tiny mini-kilt. The Ossians filled the air with waves of jagged guitars and pounding drums, and Connor watched events unfold as he went through the motions of singing the words. It was like watching an old silent film, he half-expected dialogue to appear in front of his eyes between the action sequences. The Russian kept talking to the girl, who was playing with her hair and swinging her hips from side to side. One of the guys she was with came over looking like someone had pissed in his pint. He and the Russian had words. There was a shove to the chest, a shove back, a smack in the face and a pool cue was brandished.
Then everyone was in. Punches flying everywhere. Bar stools careened over people’s heads and the sound of smashing glass could be heard over the music. The girls were screaming, the guys grunting and swearing in English and Russian, the pool table was upturned and the band stopped playing. It seemed almost comical, at least it would have, except a maul of wrestling bodies tumbled onstage, knocking over an amp and two cymbal stands as the band leapt out the way.
‘Come on,’ Paul shouted over the escalating levels of fight noise. ‘Let’s get the gear out of here before it’s totally fucked.’
‘Listen to that,’ said Hannah. ‘Unbelievable.’
The five of them sat in the van. They were parked on the lochside promenade at the other end of town from the Seaforth, where they thought they’d be safe from any trouble. They were wrong. They could hear gunshots and laughter outside, Russian swearing, drunken singing, then more gunshots. Every time a loud pop went off they all jumped. Danny was skinning up fast, only blow could make this bearable. Hannah was restless, wide-eyed and fidgeting, talking constantly, giving a running commentary of their situation.
‘I can’t believe we’re sitting in a van in the Highlands, with nowhere to sleep, having just not been paid for a gig that ended in a brawl anyway, surrounded by insane Russian sailors who appear to be carrying out target practice on the whole fucking town.’
Another pop made her jump, then another. They heard some congratulatory whooping and singing.
‘Could we not go and park somewhere else?’ said Hannah. ‘Somewhere miles away from these nutters?’
‘They’re at both ends of the street now,’ said Paul peering out the steamed-up windscreen. ‘I don’t want to drive past any of them in case they take a shot at us. This is a fucking nightmare. We’ll just need to wait for it to die down.’
‘We’re being held hostage here,’ said Kate, as Danny passed a joint to her. She took a toke and deliberately missed out Hannah, passing it to Connor. ‘Who’s fucking idea was this tour, little brother?’
‘Yeah, like I could’ve predicted a broken submarine full of lunatic Russians gone stir-crazy,’ he said, inhaling deeply. ‘Cos that’s always happening to fucking Coldplay on tour.’
‘This is pretty ridiculous,’ said Danny, starting to chuckle. The sound of his deep, rumbling laughter made Hannah relax a little, and she pointedly took the joint from Connor and inhaled, looking at Kate. There were a few more pops from outside, sharp little noises, but she didn’t jump. When the door of the van banged, however, her heart thumped like crazy.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Paul, wiping his hands on his trouser legs in nervous circles. ‘Fucking hell.’
A muffled voice spoke from outside, the sound given a strange metallic ring from the acoustics of the van.
‘It is me, Vladimir.’
Connor felt a tightening across his chest. What did he want?
Paul wound the window down and there was the Russian, his stubbled head covered in a snowy hood, his grin spread from ear to ear.
‘I must apologise for my comrades’ high spirits,’ he said, and Connor sensed he was clicking his heels together, although they couldn’t see below his chest. ‘Things are a little out of control, but no one is in any real danger, I do not think.’
‘What are you shooting at?’ said Hannah, passing the joint to Paul.
‘I do not have a gun,’ said Vladimir, and Connor thought his heart was going to burst out his chest. He stared directly at the Russian, who was smiling but not even looking at him. ‘Some of my shipmates think they see seals in the harbour, and are rather foolishly shooting into the water. I do not think the seals will still be there, if they ever were, but they keep shooting all the same. It is a waste of ammunition.’
‘Jesus,’ said Danny, as Connor regained his composure a little. Paul passed the joint out the window to the Russian, who eagerly accepted it and took a couple of deep tokes.
‘I overheard earlier that you had nowhere to sleep tonight,’ he said, passing the joint back into the van. ‘I was wondering if you would like to sleep onboard? It may seem a bit rowdy at first, but really it is fine. The beds are comfortable and I can assure you that you will be safe and warm.’
They all l
ooked at each other and it was clear from their faces they were all thinking the same thing. Connor spoke. ‘That’s very kind, Vlad, but we’ll be all right here. It’s warm enough, and we wouldn’t want to leave the van and the gear for the night, considering everything that’s going on.’
Vladimir kept smiling that implacable smile.
‘I completely understand,’ he said, looking away as more gunfire echoed down the street. ‘Now I must go and make sure my comrades do not get into too much trouble. Also, I have recently acquired some substances which may make our stay here more interesting.’ Connor felt his face fill with blood. Vladimir looked around the inside of the van and seemed to do that heel-clicking thing again. ‘It has been a pleasure to meet you all. Maybe one day we will meet again. I hope so. Goodbye.’
Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked briskly but with a slight wobble down the promenade towards the sound of gunfire. Snow filled his footprints as he went.
‘Nice lad,’ laughed Connor. ‘I take it nobody was up for a night on a Russian sub?’
‘Thanks but no thanks,’ said Hannah.
‘What a loon,’ said Kate.
‘He’s probably the sanest of the lot of them,’ said Hannah. ‘At least he said he didn’t have a gun, which is something. Although what the hell was he on about, “substances”? Reckon he’s drugged up?’
Connor shrugged and turned to Paul. ‘Think we’re going to be able to track down that promoter twat for the money?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Paul. ‘I can’t see him sticking his head above the trenches tonight or tomorrow, and we’ve got to be in Kyle of Lochalsh by tomorrow afternoon, so it looks like today’s been another fucking write-off.’
‘This tour gets better and better,’ said Danny.
‘Yeah, something to tell the grandkids,’ said Hannah, and felt Kate’s gaze fall on her.
Weak laughter spread for a few seconds in the van before petering out, each of them shaking their head at the situation. There was the occasional pop of gunfire. The windows were steamed up and snow fell outside, as the dark, lonely water of the loch absorbed bullets like they were stones thrown by little kids. In three days’ time they would be back home, but that seemed impossible to imagine.
The Ossians Page 22
