Death of a Nag

not one of the youths was employed, that all dreamt of going to London or Glasgow. The boredom of their days was alleviated by a combination of drink, hash and videos. And yet they seemed a nice enough bunch. A generation or two ago, before the dole was enough to drink on, they would have found work in fishing or farming. But they were as much slaves to pleasure and idleness as any dilettante aristocrat of a century ago.

He went back into the church hall and stared in delight at the spectacle of Miss Gunnery dancing with a slim leatherclad youth. Miss Gunnery appeared to have left her inhibitions behind with her glasses and hairpins. She was shaking and moving with the best of them. In a dark corner of the hall, Doris and Andrew were sitting side by side, talking intensely.

He took June Brett up for a dance, but she said she couldn’t abide ‘this modern stuff’ and insisted on shuffling around trying to get him to do a foxtrot to a disco beat.

Hamish could not but help feeling pleased with himself. He knew his efforts were making it a happy holiday, even for such as the dreadful Cheryl and Tracey, who were dancing with stiff stork-like movements in their very high heels, their faces animated under their masks of dead-white make-up and purple eyeshadow.

It certainly never crossed his mind that this would be their last happy evening together, and that he himself would do something before the night was out that would start a chain of events leading to murder.

? Death of a Nag ?

3

Fighting is all a mistake, friend Eric,

And has been so since the age Homeric…

—Adam Lindsay Gordon

When they arrived back at the boarding-house, Hamish noticed the way Doris’s anxious eyes flew to an upstairs window. A light was shining out into the odd twilight which replaces darkness in a northern summer. That would be her room, thought Hamish, the one at the front, next to mine.

Inside, he said his goodnights and made his way upstairs and then took Towser out along the beach for a walk. As soon as he returned to his room, he heard Bob Harris’s voice, loud and clear. “What the hell do you think you were doing, dressing up like a tart? Get that muck off your face. You look like a whore. A dance in a church? Are you out of your head? I don’t know why I put up with you. You make me sick. You go around making sheep’s eyes at men, but no one notices you. You’re insignificant. Always were. God knows why I married you.”

Doris whimpered something and then began to cry.

The nag’s voice went on. “Of course, you think that Biggar chap is interested in you but he’s just playing the gallant officer and gentleman. Never been married, I should guess. Too much fun with the chaps, if you ask me.”

Then Doris’s voice, shrill and defiant, “He’s not gay! You’re horrible.”

There was the sound of a smack, followed by a wail of pain from Doris.

Without stopping to think, Hamish went next door and hammered on it. Bob Harris opened the door, his face flushed with drink.

“What do you want?” he snarled.

Hamish shouted, “Look, man, I’m trying to have a peaceful night, and if you don’t stop nagging your wife, I’ll kill you, you bastard!”

The normally mild-mannered Hamish heard the echoes of his voice echoing around the silent house, the listening house.

“You long drip of nothing!” Bob Harris swung a punch at Hamish, who blocked it and then socked him right in the nose.

“Jist shut up!” roared Hamish.

He went back to his room and slammed the door.

An almost eerie silence fell on the boarding-house. Hamish shrugged. He hoped that would shut the nag up for the rest of the holiday.

¦

The residents of The Friendly House awoke to a new day. Mr Rogers, enjoying the first cup of coffee of the day, said to his wife, “Did you hear that rumpus last night?”

“Aye,” said Mrs Rogers. “I heard that Macbeth fellow threatening to kill Harris.”

“Someone should kill him.” Mr Rogers moodily stirred his coffee, a new brand, miles cheaper than anything else on the market and tasting as if it were made from dandelion roots instead of coffee beans. “D’ye know what he said to me last night, afore his wife came back wi’ the others?”

Mrs Rogers was silent. She had heard all about what Bob Harris had said to her husband, but to point this out would just make him furious. Like most men with a bad memory, Mr Rogers considered that everyone else in general and his wife in particular were the ones with bad memories.

“He says to me, he says, “I am going to report your place to the tourist board as a cheap-skate outfit. The food’s vile.” Can you credit that? Cheek! The place is the cheapest in Scotland for the price. Whit does he expect, champagne and caviare?”

“Can’t stop him,” said Mrs Rogers.

Mr Rogers stirred his coffee ferociously. “Ho, no? We’ll see about that.”

¦

“Was that our Hamish on the war-path?” June asked Dermott as she dressed Fiona.

“He was saying as how he would kill Bob and then I think he socked him one.”

“I can’t see Hamish hitting anyone. Probably that bastard was punching Doris at the time.”

“Hamish said he would kill him.”

“Not a bad idea. You know what Bob’s threatening to do?”

Dermott walked to the window and looked out. His fat face was creased with worry. “He wouldn’t actually do it, June. Would he?”

“I don’t know. How will we stop him?”

“Maybe Hamish will kill him,” said Dermott with a harsh laugh. “That would solve all our problems.”

¦

Miss Gunnery, Andrew, Cheryl and Tracey were the first in the breakfast room. Cheryl’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Well, whit did ye think o’ last night?”

“I enjoyed the dance,” said Miss Gunnery, primly shaking out her paper napkin and noticing with a frown that it was the same one she had had since she arrived. Surely the Rogerses did not expect one paper napkin each to last the whole stay?

“Wisnae talking about the dance, wis we, Tracey?” said Cheryl. “Its aboot Hamish. Did ye hear the row?”

“I never listen to other people’s conversations,” said Miss Gunnery repressively.

“Ye couldnae miss hearing it,” pointed out Tracey. “First it was Bob giving Doris laldy, saying as how Andrew was a poofter. Then Hamish tells him to shut it and next thing I hears is Hamish saying he’ll kill him and the sound of a blow.”

“I am amazed such as Bob Harris has managed to live this long,” said Miss Gunnery. “Mr Macbeth is a gentleman and no doubt the provocation was great. Do you not think so, Mr Biggar?”

Andrew looked up from the book he was reading. “The man bores me,” he said shortly. “But, yes, he ought to be put down.”

They fell silent as Bob Harris came in on his own. Cheryl and Tracey stared avidly at his swollen nose. Then Hamish entered, said a cheerful, “Good morning” all round and took his place at the table.

He was just about to strike up a conversation with Miss Gunnery, mainly to ignore the glowering looks he was getting from Bob, when two policemen entered the dining room, and behind them came Doris, who slipped quietly into her chair.

“Mr Harris?” asked the first policeman, looking around.

“That’s me,” said Bob truculently.