The Ossians

by Doug Johnstone

  Connor wound down the window and was about to speak when someone beat him to it.

  ‘Martin Gill!’

  It was Hannah. She pulled open the door of the van and jumped out, making straight for Martin, who cringed as she approached. Connor was right behind her.

  ‘Martin, what the hell are you doing out here in the middle of bloody nowhere?’

  Martin stood there, a look of abject horror on his face.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Connor, ‘you know this guy?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Hannah, ‘he’s one of my pupils. How the hell do you know him?’

  Connor stood there not knowing what to say.

  ‘Hang on,’ said Hannah. ‘This is your angel? The boy you said was following us round the country?’

  ‘Em…’

  ‘Christ, Connor, he’s in one of my classes.’ She turned to Martin, who looked as if he was ready to take a hit. ‘Have you run away from home?’ Martin stayed silent but eventually nodded. ‘And you’ve been following us for the whole tour?’ Another slow nod. ‘We need to get you to Fort William, phone your parents and the police. They must be worried sick.’

  ‘Hold on,’ said Connor, as Hannah turned to face him. ‘He’s old enough to do what he wants, isn’t he?’

  ‘How old do you think he is?’

  ‘I don’t know. Seventeen?’

  ‘Fifteen. Big difference. It’s going to look fucking dodgy that he ran away from home, then turned up ten days later in Fort William with his young, female history teacher, isn’t it? I can’t believe this is happening.’

  ‘Sorry, Miss Reid.’ Martin’s voice sounded thin and pathetic.

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, Martin, call me Hannah. We’re not in the bloody classroom.’ She looked at him closely. ‘Do you want to tell me what this is all about?’

  Martin stayed quiet. Looking at him, Connor understood and felt disappointed. All along, he thought he’d been the focus of Martin’s world, he’d been the subject of his stalker’s adoration, the centre of his angel’s universe. But that was bullshit. The truth was Martin was a schoolboy with a crush on his teacher. He hadn’t been looking out for Connor, he’d been following Hannah, and worried about Connor as the romantic competition in some fucked-up way. Was that all it came down to? A schoolboy crush? Connor was amazed at his own self-centred assumptions, and depressed that the truth could be so bland, so boring. A thought flitted across his mind. What if it wasn’t all one-sided? What if Hannah and Martin were having an affair, she’d led him on or something? That’s why he was out here on the other side of the country chasing down his history teacher, having stolen his parents’ car and probably their credit cards. He dismissed it. He couldn’t believe Hannah would do such a thing. It was sick to even think it. But then, she hadn’t been getting much satisfaction from their relationship recently, so why not look elsewhere? But a fifteen-year-old boy? A pupil from school? Insane. Just fucking insane.

  As he watched, Hannah was already ushering Martin into the back of the van.

  The snow turned to sleet as they unloaded the gear at the nicotine-yellow back door of the Ben Nevis Bar and Restaurant. Behind them cars and lorries sloshed up and down the A82 creating an edge of traffic noise that cut right through them. Martin sat on a low wall with a face like fizz, his hands rammed deep into the pockets of a coat which looked remarkably like Connor’s. He hadn’t spoken a word on the drive down, refusing to answer a string of questions from Hannah.

  As soon as the gear was in the pub, Hannah declared she was taking Martin to the local police station, which the bar staff said was at the bottom of the High Street. She asked Connor to tag along. He thought about the gun and the pills and the bag of drugs and drug money. He didn’t say anything and didn’t move. Hannah glared at him, grabbed Martin and headed out the door.

  Once she was gone, Connor announced he was off to get painkillers from a chemist. He felt himself trembling and thrust his hands in his pockets so they wouldn’t see. Immediately the feel of the gun in one pocket and what was left of the speed bag in the other comforted him, and he felt the tremors in his body subside.

  He stormed up the High Street wondering what would happen to Martin, what Hannah would say to the cops. Gradually, he slowed down and let his mind soak up Fort William’s commercial thoroughfare. A handful of gift shops lined either side of the cobbles, with names like The Hebridean Jewellery Shop, The Whisky Shop and, Connor’s favourite, House of Scotland. Pubs and cafés advertised special deals that didn’t sound too special.

  He stopped. Nestled between a bookie’s and a charity shop, right there in front of him, was a small wooden door and a wrought-iron awning overhead with Ossian’s Hotel written on it in a cheesy Gaelic script, shamrock green. He stared for a few minutes. He didn’t believe in signs or any of that superstitious crap, but this was a sign. Around him Christmas shoppers – a mix of bright-eyed tourists and darkly shuffling locals – flitted by in a blur of chatter and clattering feet.

  There were no lights on in Ossian’s Hotel. Connor went up to the doors, looked around, then rattled the handles. Nothing. He spotted a small sign which said the place was shut for winter, giving contact details and summer opening hours. He thought about breaking in, but passers-by were watching him suspiciously.

  Ossian’s Hotel. He couldn’t unscramble what it meant. There seemed nothing to do but walk on. Two doors down was an offy. Maybe cooking whisky would help. He went in, bought a bottle and started necking it in a disused doorway. Shoppers watched him cautiously as he began sauntering down the street. He spotted the tourist office and decided on a whim to step inside.

  It was roasting. He felt sweat bead up on his forehead and his armpits get warm. The place was bustling with visitors, and five middle-aged women stood behind the counter in matching sweatshirts and slacks. Connor slunk over to the large display wall, feeling dizzy and disorientated by the heat and noise. His gaze fell on a wall-mounted map. He felt a tightening in his stomach, and glanced around. No one was looking at him. He turned back and stared at the map.

  It was a map of the area around Fort William. A few feet to his left sat the town, nestled at the top of Loch Linnhe, with the Nevis and Leanachan forests leaching out from it like blots of spilt green ink. Closer to him, fawn contours tightened over the peak of Ben Nevis, before spreading again to follow Glen Nevis. At the eastern end of the valley sat Loch Treig, which met the railway line as it headed south. Connor’s eyes followed the railway line down until he was staring straight ahead at the thing he’d seen first of all. Loch Ossian.

  He gazed at its small, oblong form for a long time. The blue shape was peppered with tiny dots of green at its western end. A small red triangle sat at the loch head and a double dotted black line led to a similar-sized red dot sitting on the railway line, with Corrour Sta and the number 408 printed beside it. He looked for a key to the symbols, but couldn’t find one. He had no idea what scale the map was, but it didn’t look far from Fort William to Loch Ossian. If this wasn’t a fucking sign he didn’t know what was. It was beautiful and teasing.

  It was getting hotter and he felt sweat drip down his cheek. He walked over to the rack of maps and rifled through them, his fingers slippy. He couldn’t read the numbers as sweat stung his eyes, but eventually he found the correct one. As he held it, it seemed to give off an ill, orange glow. He slipped it into his pocket, looking at anything except what his hands were doing.

  The map seemed to give his body strength, and he powered towards the door, bumping into a postcard stand, then stumbling against a large woman who eyed him warily. The door was just a few steps away. Connor imagined that alarms would ring and security gates would come crashing down any second.

  But then he was out, and nothing happened. He stood in falling sleet and streetlight glare. He took a deep breath, filled his body with shocking cold air, and headed back to the gig.

  A chalkboard at the Ben Nevis announced the live entertainment. This week they had al
ready missed Johnny Rebel, Powerhouse and the Ski Vixens. Jesus, how many covers of DJ Ötzi had been played within these four walls, thought Connor. Well, they wouldn’t get singalong crap tonight. It used to be that Connor revelled in gigs like this – The Ossians against the world and all that shite. Nothing to lose, you could just get up there and go for it, and if ninety-nine per cent of the bastards hated you, who cared? As long as the other one per cent decided you were the best band that ever walked the fucking planet.

  But the last two weeks had ground him down. He could feel his skin merge with the motes of dust that swirled around. He felt himself disintegrating into his constituent molecules, like an inverted big bang. The big suck. He laughed. That was his life, the band, this tour. A big suck. Whatever it was he’d been hoping to find out here, whatever the big idea was at the beginning, it hadn’t happened. They’d drifted like phantoms round the edge of a country, barely interacting with the places and the people they’d encountered. They’d haunted Scotland for two weeks, and now Connor felt as immaterial as a ghost. He imagined going onstage tonight, an apparition barely even noticed by the poor souls in the place. A semi-solid presence, trying to entertain.

  Entertainment? Was that what The Ossians did? Not here it wasn’t. They wanted ‘Mustang Sally’ and a bunch of Oasis songs, stuff they knew and could sing along to. That’s why karaoke was so popular, people didn’t want to be sung to, they wanted to do the singing themselves. Why not? Maybe that could bring a community together. That’s what used to bring communities together – that’s what folk music was. If it happened to be songs that Connor couldn’t stand, that was just his tough fucking luck. The Ossians were elitist. He only realised it now. They were musical snobs. Maybe not the rest of the band, but him, his songs and his attitude, it was all about snobbery. He was sickened by it.

  He felt bad about Martin. For a while it seemed Martin would be his saviour, a strange spirit appearing at opportune moments to lift him out of whatever hole he’d dug himself into. But Martin was just a wee boy who fancied his teacher. He tried to think what it was like, being fifteen and so infatuated with Hannah that you’d steal a car and money and travel round the country. He couldn’t imagine it, which depressed the absolute shit out of him.

  ‘Where are the ladies?’ he asked Paul, sitting with Danny.

  ‘Hannah never came back from taking Martin to the police, so Kate went to see what the story was,’ Paul replied.

  ‘Thank fuck this is the last show before Glasgow,’ said Danny. ‘No offence, Con, or Paul, whichever one of you cooked up this bloody tour, but it’s been pretty useless.’

  ‘It’s been an adventure, hasn’t it?’ said Paul hopefully. He looked at Connor, who was thinking about the tourist office. He couldn’t get the image of Loch Ossian out his head. That small blue shape kept swimming in front of his eyes, and he felt the edges of the water throb in anticipation of his arrival.

  ‘Fuck adventure,’ said Danny. ‘Next time, can we do a few shows where there are people who actually like our music?’

  ‘We’ve made a few converts,’ said Paul. ‘The east-coast shows were cool. What about Aberdeen? That was a laugh.’

  Danny looked at Connor at the mention of Aberdeen, but Connor ignored him.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Danny reluctantly.

  ‘You’re overreacting,’ said Paul. He looked at Connor, who still hadn’t spoken.

  A bouncer came over to their table, wheezing with the effort of lugging his body around.

  ‘You lads in the band?’ he said in an Australian accent.

  They nodded.

  ‘On in ten minutes.’ He was huffing and his face was wet with sweat.

  ‘Fuck, where are the girls?’ said Paul, looking around.

  ‘They’ll be here,’ said Danny. ‘I suppose I better get a round in. What’re you after, gents?’

  Connor thought of the whisky he’d drunk before returning from the tourist office. A whole bottle. It struck him that in the past he would have considered someone who drank that much an alkie. Ah. But he wasn’t nearly loaded enough to play yet.

  ‘Gin, cheers,’ he said. ‘Make it a double.’

  As Danny headed to the bar, Kate and Hannah came in the front door.

  ‘How’d it go with the police?’ said Connor.

  ‘What do you care?’ said Hannah. ‘If you were so concerned, why didn’t you come?’

  ‘Don’t be like that. I just needed to clear my head, and I didn’t think a police station was the place to do it.’

  ‘Bully for you. You could’ve helped, you know. You’d seen Martin a few times, you could’ve told the police when and where. I was left trying to explain it all to the cops without really knowing what the hell was going on. They believed me in the end, once they’d got in touch with his folks. But it still looks bloody suspicious that I’m his teacher, and we’re hundreds of miles away from home, and we just happen to be in the same place. They took my details. They wanted to take a longer statement now, but I explained we had a gig to do, and Kate arrived to back me up. At least someone gave a damn.’

  ‘Hannah, I’m sorry. I thought… I thought it would be best if you handled it – you’re better at that kind of shit.’

  ‘That’s just it, isn’t it? I’m the one who always has to handle everything, cos you can’t deal with the real world. You knew that kid had run away from home and was following us, but you did nothing.’

  ‘Did he say why he did it?’

  ‘Only that he was unhappy at home. Which could be said for ninety-nine per cent of fifteen-year-olds. They’re all pissed off over something.’

  ‘But why follow us? Does he have a crush on you?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He never showed any signs of having one in class, and they’re usually pretty obvious to spot. I didn’t ask him directly, of course, he’d die of embarrassment. He and some mates did come to a couple of our gigs. Maybe he just really likes the band.’

  ‘That seems unlikely.’

  ‘Who knows what goes on in a teenager’s head? He liked the band, he hated his parents, he felt like an illegal adventure – maybe that’s all it takes.’

  ‘How was he funding it?’

  ‘Had his dad’s credit card. They knew, of course, but didn’t want to cancel it, since it was his only means of food and shelter. They were following the trail of his charges to the card, always one step behind.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘His folks are driving up to get him. They’ll be here in a few hours. And when he gets home he’ll probably be a bloody hero to his classmates. Either that or have the piss mercilessly ripped out of him for following his teacher around the country. Probably a bit of both.’

  ‘Poor kid.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. You were happy enough keeping him a secret all the way round this stupid tour.’

  ‘But I didn’t know who he was, or how old he was.’

  Hannah fumed as she watched Connor play nervously with a beer mat. She was furious with him, for all this shite with Martin, for always being drunk. He was drunk now, for Christ’s sake, she could see it in the cloudiness of his eyes. He’d deteriorated beyond belief in the last two weeks. She felt like she didn’t even know who he was any more, looking at the shambolic figure across the table.

  Kate had bought her a pregnancy test. She felt it in her pocket. She knew she’d have to use it, but not yet. She didn’t know if she could handle the news. How could she bring it up, with Connor in this state? She would take the test after the gig, or maybe tomorrow, and keep her fingers crossed. Christ, what about the fit? That would have to wait until they were home. One crisis at a time.

  Danny arrived at the table with a handful of drinks. ‘We’re on,’ he said, then headed for the stage.

  Connor watched Hannah as she left the table. She was angry, he could see that, but his brain was too mashed to do anything about it. So the adventure with his angel was finished. Now he just wanted to get this gig over with. An
d after that, he needed to work out how the fuck he was going to get to Loch Ossian.

  The gig was another blur. Drenched in booze and speed, Connor drifted through the music like a wraith. He hadn’t slept in as long as he could remember, he was awake but dreaming, a kind of ultra-awareness sweeping over him in waves, in between bouts of nausea and dizziness. His stomach hurt and his head pounded to the rhythm of Danny’s drumming. At one point he saw Martin Gill in the crowd, but the unearthly way the figure drifted around the back of the room made him realise it was a hallucination.

  Loch Ossian sat in the front of his mind. Why had he stolen the map? Why hadn’t he told the others there was a place nearby named after the band? It was his place, his haven. A refuge from all the vacant faces staring at him and all his friends and their smothering, suffocating concerns.

  When they finished a shortened set with no encore, the four of them couldn’t even be bothered packing the gear away and just sat at a corner table drinking in silence. Connor imagined Loch Ossian and the lapping waves on its banks, the beautiful heather-strewn moorland, the hills falling away in the distance, maybe an eagle soaring high overhead, barely recognisable as he blinked and shaded his eyes from the bright sunlight. Even as he thought it, he knew how ridiculous it was. He was drawn back to the table by Paul talking.

  ‘So. Glasgow tomorrow. All set?’

  There was a pathetic silence among the four band members, as they looked at each other.

  ‘Yeah, then home,’ said Hannah. Connor noticed she wasn’t drinking, but didn’t say anything. She hadn’t nipped outside for a fag either. Maybe she was still worried about the incident in Inverness.

  ‘Forget home,’ said Paul. ‘We’ve got to focus on tomorrow night. Remember, if we kick ass, we could be offered a deal.’ He paused. ‘OK, Connor?’

  ‘What?’ Connor drifted up to the surface and looked around. ‘You think I can’t fucking hold it together, is that what you’re saying?’ He felt a knot of anger in his stomach, but knew Paul had a point. He was barely holding on to the edge of the world as it was.