Death of a Scriptwriter

“Coming,” called Ailsa, brushing down her hair.

She clattered down the steps to the shop.

Holly was a tubby middle-aged woman who had moved to a little cottage in Drim after the death of her husband. She had lived before his death in a large house on the outskirts of Lairg and after his death had sold up. Her brown hair was done in the same hairstyle that Ailsa had just vigorously washed out.

“What have you done to your hair?” gasped Holly.

“What d’you think? I washed it out. I looked like an aging Beatles fan.”

“They want our hair like this,” shrieked Holly. “It’s so exciting. The film’s set in the sixties, and Alice has turned us out in sixties hairstyles because that’s as far as she ever got in hairstyling, and the film people are wild about it. We’re all to be in crowd scenes.”

Ailsa clutched her now-smooth hair. “What have I done?”

“Go round to Alice’s and get her to do it again,” urged Holly.

Ten minutes later, Alice, with a superior smile on her face, whipped a smock around Ailsa. “I knew what I was doing,” she said. “I knew it was set in the sixties.”

Ailsa bit back an angry retort. “Just get on with it,” she muttered.

¦

Jimmy Macleod, a crofter, listened in horror as his wife, Nancy, teetering on high heels across the stone flags of the kitchen floor, announced that she had a part in the film.

“You’re not consorting with naked women and that’s that,” said Jimmy.

His wife looked at him contemptuously.

“I’ll put a stop to it right now.” He seized his jacket from a peg by the door and strode out.

In her office in Drim Castle, Fiona looked up wearily as Jimmy Macleod was ushered in by Sheila. He was a small man with rounded shoulders, a wrinkled face and an odd crab-like walk.

“Whit’s this about putting my wife in a fillum?” demanded Jimmy.

Fiona smiled at him. She had already dealt with two other irate husbands and knew exactly what to do.

“Wait right here,” she commanded. She made her hands into a square and surveyed the now bewildered Jimmy through them. “Perfect,” she said.

“What are ye talking about, woman?”

“You look the perfect Highlander to me,” said Fiona. “A very good face for one of our crowd scenes.”

Jimmy looked at her, his mouth open and the anger dying out of his face. “You will be paid, of course,” said Fiona. “Yes, we need the nobility of your face. What about a dram, Mr…?”

“Macleod, Jimmy Macleod.” Jimmy scuttled forward and sat down. His heart was beating very hard. He had gone to as many movies as he could afford when he was a boy. He felt as if some fairy had waved a wand and transformed him into Robert Redford. Fiona poured him a generous measure of whisky.

“Here’s to a successful show,” said Fiona.

“Aye,” said Jimmy, a smile cracking his walnut face. “Here’s tae the fillum business.”

“Film business,” said Fiona, “of which you are now a member.”

And Jimmy thought his heart would burst with pride.

¦

Jamie Gallagher was swollen up with vanity and whisky. He felt he could have turned out the whole television series on his own. Had he not told the director which camera angles should be used? But going over the day’s rushes, Fiona had objected to several of his choices, although the final choice would lie with Harry Frame.

Jamie left the bar of the Tommel Castle Hotel and went up to his room, where he phoned Harry Frame.

“We’ve a good team up here, Harry,” he said. “But there’s one person I cannae get along with and that’s Fiona. She’ll have to be replaced.”

Harry’s voice squawked objections at the other end. The publicity had gone out with Fiona’s name on it. Jamie finally threatened to pull out of the series, and Harry capitulated.

¦

Fiona listened to Harry ten minutes later on her mobile phone. “You can’t do this to me, Harry,” she said.

“I’m afraid I have to, luv. I’ll find something else for you.”

“I’ll kill Jamie,” said Fiona.

“I’ll come up myself tomorrow,” said Harry.

“What’s the point?” Fiona snapped her mobile phone shut and stared coldly into space.

¦

The following morning Patricia sat down to read her daily copy of the Scotsman. She felt calmer now. She would just stay away from the film location, wait until her book was published and then the reviewers would surely point out how superior it was to the television production. Then she came across an interview with Jamie Gallagher, famous scriptwriter of Football Fever. In the interview, Jamie described how he had created The Case of the Rising Tides and the character of Lady Harriet. There was no mention of Patricia or that the television series had been adapted from one of her books.

“I’ll kill him,” hissed Patricia. Then she ripped the newspaper to shreds.

¦

Angus Harris sat sadly in the Glasgow flat of his late friend, Stuart Campbell, sorting through his effects. Angus had been away in the States and had only just discovered that his friend had died of AIDS during his absence and had left him his flat and effects in his will.

Stuart had been a struggling writer. A trunk was full of manuscripts. Angus did not know what to do. Perhaps he should find some literary agent and send off all these manuscripts in the hope that at least one would get published. He pulled them out one by one, stopping when he came to one entitled Football Fever.

He slowly opened it. It was the script for a television documentary. He frowned. It had been shown in the States on PBS, but he was sure Stuart’s name hadn’t been on it. It had originally been produced by BBC Scotland.

And then he remembered seeing something about it in that day’s Scotsman. He went and got the paper and came to the interview with Jamie Gallagher.

It all clicked into place in his mind as he read the interview with Jamie. Stuart had written to him, saying that a scriptwriter called Jamie Gallagher was running an evening class to teach writers how to prepare a script for television.

“The bugger must have stolen it,” said Angus.

He set out to investigate. He called at BBC Scotland, but they had never heard of Stuart. He tried to find out names of any people who had attended Jamie’s classes, which had been held in the basement of a church. But there were no records, and no one could remember anything.

Angus knew his own violent temper was his weakness. But the thought that poor Stuart had died and someone had used his script to get international fame and glory was past bearing. This Jamie Gallagher was in Drim.

He would drive up there and confront him.

¦

Josh Gates, hungover, ate his bacon and eggs in a bed-and-breakfast outside Perth as he read the interview with Jamie. Here was the man who was behind making his wife flaunt herself on television.

“He’ll have me to reckon with!” howled Josh.

The other diners averted their eyes. This must be the madman whose drunken retching had kept them awake during the night.

¦

Fiona moved through the next day as if walking in a nightmare. She could hardly bear to look at Jamie and at the triumphant little smirk on his face.

Harry Frame arrived, having flown to Inverness early in the morning and taken a taxi up to Drim. Typical, thought Fiona.

I have to watch out for every penny, and he spends about a hundred and fifty pounds on a cab fare.