And of Joan. And Francie. And Ellen. And, a startling pang, little Betty. I felt deprived of all life. Maybe it wouldn’t be too long.
Dubneath was static. Not even a shrimp boat a-coming. The wind was rising, wetting my eyes. I tried the obstinate child’s trick of staring into the breeze until your eyelids give up of their own accord. Of course, I’d have to lie low. That much was plain. I didn’t relish this on-the-run bit, even though it’s the only rational course for a coward. It tends to throw you willy-nilly into weird folks’ company. Like that lot up in Tachnadray.
Six o’clock I went for my last meal—no blindfold or cigarette—at the MacNeish pub.
Providentially, the television was on in the snug, a pleasant girl giving out the news. I caught the last of it: “… the theft of a vehicle from an Edinburgh fairground. Six men are in the hospital, two of them critical. A police spokesman today deplored the increasing violence…”
The surface of my beer trembled. The glass rim chattered on my teeth and I saw George MacNeish glance slowly along the bar from where he was wiping up. I tried to make my momentary quake resemble thirst.
“Nice drop, George.”
“…search moved north. The vehicle was found abandoned but undamaged at a roadside halt frequented by long-distance…” She read it so chirpily, holiday camp bingo.
I went to do the best I could with Mary’s calories.
Seven o’clock Jamie brought his van. Shona, he said, was tired. I left the tavern clutching my curtain material, a hermit to the wilderness. It could always make bandages.
“Can we stop at the, er, klett, Jamie?” I said as we trundled inland. “Lovely view.”
“You’re keen on our bonny countryside?” Jamie waxed enthusiastic, changing gears.
“There’s grand scenery beyond that wee loch…”
Ten points on the creep chart, Lovejoy. The trouble was I’d painted myself into a corner. Crooks in East Anglia trying to do me in. Maslow would put two and two together when the police report stimulated his aggressive mini- brain, and hasten into Edinburgh to help his neffie brother peelers. All the traveling folk on the bloody island were out. And here I was at the very tip. Hardly possible to run any farther. That’s the trouble with being innocent. You get hunted by cops and robbers. Even the worst crooks on earth only get chased by one lot. No wonder people turn to crime.
« ^ »
—— 14 ——
Houses are fascinating, aren’t they? The house at Tachnadray was superbly positioned for light, setting, and appearance. Grudgingly, during the first few days of labor on Duncan’s Sheraton look-alike, I came to admire the place. Catch it any angle and you get an eyeful. The old architect might have had delusions of grandeur, but he’d got it exactly right. Pretty as a picture, was Tachnadray. It brings a lump to my throat just to remember how it all was, in my serene encounter with the clan-and-county set. The surrounding moorland somehow seemed arranged for the purpose of setting off the great mansion’s style. Hardly “antique” in the truest sense of the word, pre-1836, but lovely all the same. The creation of an artist.
Very quickly I learned that routines were almost Teutonic in Tachnadray. The first afternoon I wandered across the grand forecourt to chuck some crumbs into the stone fountain. Goldfish sailed in its depths. I’m always sorry for fish because they have a hard life, no entertainment or anything and scared of every shadow. I’d saved a bit of russell roll and was busy shredding it into the water livening up their wet world when my own dry world was suddenly inverted. I do mean this. It honestly spun a hundred and eighty degrees and I was crumbing the atmosphere.
“What the fuck you doin?” a cavern rumbled in my ear. Giant hands had clutched my shoulder and spine and tipped me upside down.
“Feeding the fish,” I yelped. “Please.”
“Who the fuck said you could?” the cavern boomed.
“Down, Robert.” Elaine to my rescue. Wheels crunched gravel. “Down!” Like you say to a dog. Then something in a language I didn’t understand, slidey-smooth.
The world clouted my left knee. He’d simply dropped me.
Groggily I clambered upright. My trouser leg was ripped. The big kilted man stood skywards over me. Another McGunn, I supposed wearily, making yet more instantaneous assumptions about good old Cousin Ian. He marched off on his great hairy legs. A knife hilt protruded from his stocking.
“You came just in time, love.” I was wheezing. “I’d have put him in hospital.”
She laughed, applauding. Robert turned his maned head, but kept going.
“Don’t mind Robert, Ian. He’s big for the cause.” She wrinkled her face at the scudding clouds. “Rain soon. The anglers’ll be out as far as Yarrow Water.”
A distant clanking tapped the air, Duncan calling work on the iron rod which hung by the workshop door.
“My free hour’s up, Elaine,” I said, but hesitated before sprinting back to the treadmill.
“Another time, Ian,” she said. “Not on your first day. Turn me round, please.”
“Chieftainesses of distinguished clans shouldn’t have to ask.”
She glared up at me. “Oh yes, we should!”
Some women have a terrifying knack of seeming to move their faces suddenly nearer you without stirring a muscle. They do it in love or in fury. I’ve noticed that. Elaine was the best at it I’d ever encountered. The images of physical love and the poor paralyzed girl juxtaposed in my mind.
“Penny for your thoughts, Ian,” Elaine said slyly as I obediently set off along the drive to Duncan’s workshop.
