‘What did you say the name was, Charlie? Brigadoon?’
‘Don’t worry, they probably all come to life again after the sun goes down . . . blood suckers just like the midges. It’s why Bram Stoker wrote Dracula in Scotland – he got the idea for the vampire from the Scottish midge.’
‘What’s a midge?’
‘In your case a very unpleasant surprise. A biting insect.’
‘Can you do something about them?’
‘I’ll find some local jallop, and rub it all over your body.’
‘Will that put them off?’
‘No, but it will take our minds off them.’
‘George wouldn’t like that.’ Sometimes she was like a record that had become stuck in one groove. She stretched again. Her whole body moved. So did the earth. Then she asked me, ‘When do you think you’ll be going off to Cyprus, Charlie?’
Now who in hell had told her that? Randall? Pete? Ah. The black widow she might be, but Charlie had no intention of falling into her web.
A cheerful young couple turned up in a civilianized Jeep about twenty minutes later. Mr and Mrs Mine Host. He looked as if he’d either had a good war or none at all, but you can be wrong of course. The wait had given me time to let the tranquillity of the place sink deep into my bones. I sat on an old wooden bench, looked down the loch and smoked a pipe. Doris wandered off around the foreshore. From time to time I heard her shoes crunch on the stones – she couldn’t have been far from me. I hadn’t answered her question, and she hadn’t pushed it. Maybe she regretted showing her hand.
I had booked two rooms – a double and a single – on the assumption that George and Doris would occupy one, and I the other. Her outburst at the station had put a doubt in my mind, so I asked her if I should get another single for her brother.
‘What brother, Charlie?’
‘Brother George. Or cousin George, or whoever he is.’
Pause.
‘He isn’t my brother.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘Isn’t that what you said last time?’ Then she pouted and said, ‘No. Don’t change things. George will expect to be with me. He makes all the rules and carries a big stick.’
We were sitting in a nice little bar. There had been a few people outside waiting for it to open – God knows where they came from, the only nearby dwelling was a run-down farm a mile away. Doris had ordered a treble whisky, heavily watered it, and sipped it as a long drink.
She asked, ‘I shouldn’t ha’ said anything about Cyprus, huh? You could have warned me.’
I looked away. I’d like to say my mind was working furiously the way it does for heroes in kids’ stories, but my mind never works furiously. It sort of limps along way behind everyone else.
Doris gazed innocently at me and offered, ‘Your Mr Borland let it slip. He said he thought you’d have time to help us out before you went to Cyprus. I didn’t realize it was a secret.’
‘It bloody isn’t any more, is it?’
I ran Jelly Roll Morton’s ‘Blue Blood Blues’ in my head. If I could work out who told Bozey I was off to Cyprus, maybe she was telling the truth. I’d told Elaine, hadn’t I? She and Bozey burned up the telephone two or three times a day. My own fault then. Eventually I asked her, ‘Does George know?’
‘He didn’t mention it, but he must have heard.’
‘Don’t mention it to him again.’
‘All right, Charlie.’
I’d given a bloody hostage to fortune, and I didn’t bloody like it. Life’s like that. Most of the people you trust are people you have to trust, rather than people you want to trust. It’s like throwing dice.
I leaned across the table and said, ‘Did I ever tell you that you have amazingly perfect breasts?’
‘Yesterday. But you can say it again if you want.’
‘You have amazingly perfect breasts. Shall I tell George?’
‘You can, but he wouldn’t like it.’
‘What would he like?’
‘He would like to go up that hill behind us, come safely down again, pay you off and fly back Stateside as fast as he can.’
I decided to ask the question that had been interesting me since I’d met them.
‘Why, exactly, do you need me?’
‘George’s afraid of heights.’
Ah.
The owner came to look for me. His name was Ean, yeah, spelled that way, and he favoured heavy Arran-knit sweaters with leather elbow patches, and suede shoes. His brush of hair stood up like one of the cartoon characters from the Beano comic.
‘There’s a telephone call for you – you can take it in the lobby. It’s from the other gentleman. He’s going to be late.’
George sounded bored. I asked him when he would get there.
‘Tuesday lunchtime I guess, pardner. Monday-night flier. The cops and your customs wanted to know where you’d got to.’
‘They’re mad at us then?’
‘Hard to tell. They might even be amused – they never expected you to take off like that.’ The pips sounded, and George pushed some money into the telephone.
‘How do the cops know your name, Charlie?’
‘My fault. I gave it when I went to your hotel. Where are you phoning from?’
‘Trafalgar Square. It looks pretty in the sunshine. You wouldn’t lay a hand on Mrs Handel, would you, Charlie?’
‘You wouldn’t like that?’
‘I’d cut your cock off.’
‘How about me reassuring you that my relationship with your wife will be solely professional?’
‘See you Tuesday, Charlie.’ He hung up.
I went back to Doris. When I sat down at the table she asked me, ‘Well?’
‘If you have to have me again you’re going to have to pay for it – I just promised George our relationship would remain entirely professional.’ She smiled at me over her whisky, and gave a little shrug. The earth moved again. My legs trembled. Some girls can do that to me.
I called
