Sun Dance (26 page)

Green faced and in the foulest humour, The Agent came gingerly down the gang plank. “Get me to the Castleton Hotel,” he barked at the young man handling the ships ropes, “Are there no taxis here?” “No I'm sorry, he's away just, the man that has it.”

The Agent's face twisted, “Where is this hotel?” The young chap seemed in no hurry to reply. “I said, where is this place?” Looking into The Agent's eye without a waver, the reply came equally deliberately, “That's no problem, it's only a step or two, at the top of the street.” Glaring at the young man, The Agent snapped, “I'm not used to insolence, you'll hear more of this, what's your name and company number?” A slight grin appeared before the pier hand replied, “Ach we don't worry much with numbers, everybody about here knows me,” and he flicked the ships rope off a bollard. Walking stiffly up the brae, The Agent spoke aloud, “Cheeky young bastard.”

Signing himself into the Castleton Hotel involved little thought. He scribbled, David Williams, Lymetree Gardens, Swansea. A wry smile crossed his face, it happened to be an alias he found amusing. Years back Mr. Williams owed him money, refused to pay up and strangely enough was killed in a hit and run accident. The hotelier's wife showed him up to a bedroom overlooking the bay. He glanced out. The wake of fishing boats in from the Minch spread silver ripples, shore to shore, in the late evening sun. With a flourish he drew the curtains and snapped, “What time's dinner?” “Just when it suits you, Mr. Williams, there's no hurry.”

The green bile of seasickness left The Agent weak. He dumped himself on the bed, not before noticing dust on the bedside table. He wakened after nine, got to his feet, opened the only other door in the room, “For God's sake, a bloody cupboard, no ensuite.” Chain chairs, jug and wash hand basin on the dresser, “What a dump.” He strode down creaking stairs to find the dining room empty.

Pushing through various doors, he landed in an echoing passage, lino on the floor and beer kegs stacked against the wall, “Fuck me, not more of that bloody Scotch music.” The strains of an accordion reached him. He opened the end door to find himself behind the bar.

Faces lined the counter, glowing from salt air and elbow exercise, “Hello, Mr. Williams, you missed your way but you came aground in the right place. What can I get you.?” Hotelier MacLeod seemed not the least surprised. The Agent's manner changed abruptly. He needed co-operation.

“No, no, let me and give these chaps a round on me,” he insisted. “They've had a hard day I'm sure. I watched boats coming in from the bedroom, a fascinating sight.” He smiled down the line of local faces. In due course glasses were raised to him. “Put it on my room. Something for yourself, Mr. um, Mr.?” “No I'm fine just now thanks,” Macleod didn't supply the name but added, “Where would you like your supper, er, dinner?” It flashed through The Agent's mind, one more note from that bloody instrument and I'll, I'll, but no…. with an ingratiating smile he replied, “I'd be happy amongst the crowd, local colour you know, perhaps a table towards the back?”

A steak arrived inch thick and pouring with gravy, worth the racket all round him. A large dram appeared, one of those fishing types he guessed, raising it to the crowd at the bar. His ear caught an English voice at the next table and nodding across The Agent queried affably, “Over here on holiday?” “Oh no, I live here now, quite a native, ten years you know. You on holiday?” and without waiting for an answer, “I'm Trevor by the way, like myself you're from London, I can tell. It's the accent you know, can't hide it old chap.”

Thinking fast, “Well I'm actually here on work and pleasure. I'm an archaeologist,” The Agent laughed, “for my sins.” “Oh really, how awfully interesting,” the new native pulled across his chair, “don't mind if I join you? By the way, didn't catch the name.”

The Agent made space, “David,” he replied grudgingly after a second's thought whilst filling his mouth with steak. Blast that accordion spoiling the meal. It'll give me indigestion and now this prat beside me. A youngish girl began to sing, the bar fell silent, “What language is that?” enquired The Agent in as mild a voice as he could muster. “Oh that's Gaelic, I'm trying to learn it. All oks, ochs, I should say, very difficult to get the right sounds you know, Davie.” “I can believe that,” The Agent commented dryly as her song ended to enthusiastic applause.

They chattered about London. Getting busier, not what it used to be, too many foreigners, illegal types, through the Channel Tunnel and all that carry on. Barely drawing breath, The Agent's companion spoke with a penetrating voice, “Wing a few, that's what I'd do, stop ‘em in their tracks, you know. Johnnie foreigner, a lot of scroungers, no sooner in good old Blighty than they're getting more benefits than you and I'll ever sniff. And this stupid Human Rights that they shelter behind. Human Rights, don't get me started. Wing ‘em when they come out of the tunnel, that's what I say.”

He rambled on, obviously pleased to have the company of a fellow Londoner and someone who appeared to listen, “Used to do a bit of shooting when I was down there, sadly not illegal immigrants, ha, ha. No, pheasant mostly, the odd partridge, getting scarce of course, not really much up here in the sporting line. Mostly I go to the mainland, friends've got an estate in the Highlands, he used to be a newspaper editor, I drop the odd stag, you know, it's quite fun. No, I have to content myself, I just wander along the beach below my house when the mood takes me. I have to say migrating curlew make the best sport.”

Between you and me,” The Agent's new confidante leant closer, spoke a little more quietly, “I pulled off a nice one in The City and here I am. Bought a rundown croft, let the local chappie have a few sheep on it,” and laughing loudly, “saves me cutting the grass, you know.” The Agent struggled to appear interested but on reflection it occurred to him this conceited fool might be the very man to give him information he'd never prise out of these damned evasive locals.

“Strictly between ourselves, I've a nice little income, David, stacked up a good pension, indexed of course, saw the stock market crash coming, cashed the chips and bingo! Living's cheap, here, locals are helpful, if you buy them the odd dram. Mind you I have to say, that's beginning to change, they're not so friendly as they were, incomers arriving all the time you see, rather a pity I have to say,” and lowering his voice, “I'm not racist, absolutely not, David, never have been but last week a Pakistani couple came off the ferry, I tell you,” holding up his hands the man from Bow Bells emitted a hollow laugh.

The Agent signalled the bar with a snap of his fingers. It took several attempts before the barman stood at his elbow, “You took your time. Bring two large malts, put them on my room,” and picking up their conversation, “Funny you should mention incomers, I heard of a chap who came up here from London just a month or two back- scientist bloke, I wonder”

His voluble new friend cut in, “Oh yes, I heard about him,” he put a finger to the side of his nose, “the good old grapevine never fails in these parts you know, they're a nosy lot really. Yes, he's over on that island south of here, Sandray they call it, desolate place, full of Viking ruins, graves and such like, of course the locals don't care about them as you'd expect, too busy counting sheep droppings, but you'd find it absolutly fascinating.” Their glasses emptied rapidly.

The London crofter put his hand on The Agent's arm, “I must tell you, I happen to have a speed boat, just a little fun thing, do a spot of fishing you know, don't catch much, but it's amusing you know. I'd be happy to run you over anytime, tomorrow if you like, here's my mobile number. Don't ring before ten, ha, ha. I say would you care for another snifter?” He waved to the bar, held up his glass and pointed to it. They waited. Had the barman noticed? “This happens quite a lot you know, especially when I'm here with my friends. I often think that fellow's blind, the service here can be gharstly and he owns the place, always talking to those fishermen at the counter. It's so rude.” Trevor stood up and waved. MacLeod nodded and after an interval another round arrived.

“I'm so glad we met, David you said, didn't you? I have to tell you, Strictly entre nous of course, I get a mite tired of these locals, always talking sheep and cattle, that's all right in its place, but there's absolulty no depth to them, know what I mean?” the ex-pat rattled on. “Their music's worse, no tune, so repetitive, once you've heard one you've heard the lot. Sometimes a bloke comes in with bagpipes. Well, I must say when that squealing starts I have to leave, how's that for business. Used to play the piano myself, just for friends of course,” and pointing to the piano at the other side of the bar, “that old instrumen'ts well past its sell by date, wouldn't dream of touching it with a barge pole. Do you play anything David?” and without waiting for a reply, “I'm a bit of an opera buff myself, never missed a new production at Covent Garden. You've been there of course.”

The Agent groaned inwardly, he'd dealt with this type before. If they're going to be any use, you have to string them along and this buffoon could certainly be put to use.

From behind the bar Angus MacLeod watched them thoughtfully. He was a shrewd judge of his fellow man. All sorts of characters, shades and persuasions passed through the swing doors. It clicked, Williams was the man with a London voice enquiring on the phone for Hector MacKenzie.

Two o' clock, closing time, “Drink up please.” MacLeod took a few more orders and the bar slowly emptied.

The Londoners shook hands and parted firm friends, “Davie, old pal, phone me in the morning,” and slapping The Agent on the back, “not before ten, absolutely not, ha, ha.”

“Be delighted, Trev.”

The steadying hand of the hotelier guided The Agent to his bedroom.

David Williams is not quite what he claims to be thought MacLeod, closing the door.

After a midday snack of oat cake and cheese I sat on the stone by the door writing out my scribbled words of the previous evening. Sounds carry far over calm water and my attention drifted from the note pad to the high pitched whine of a powerful outboard engine. Occasionally a fishing boat steamed past the island homeward bound from the Atlantic. Riding low in the water with a heavy catch on board, they’d be pushing a hefty bow wave and if the day was still I’d even feel the throb of their engines.

This was different. I looked up and listened. Seconds later a twin engine speed boat banked in from behind the headland and planed across the bay with a curve of flying spray. It stopped suddenly just yards of the jetty. A mound of wake rolled onto the beach, panicking the seals and sending gulls squawking to the hill. A peaked cap bobbed over the Perspex shield and taxied the craft alongside the jetty. After some heaving a man managed to get himself onto the landing.

Shouting voices reached me. “I’ll be a least couple of hours, Trev, I’ve got your mobile punched in. If it’s O.K. I’ll bell you when I’m finished.” The reply from a man at the throttle floated across, “Alright by me, David, absolutely no problem. I’ll maybe throw out the odd hook, smack the water for a shark, you know.” I heard laughs. “Won’t come over till you bell. It’ll only take minutes to nip across for you.”

Outboards screamed to full throttle. Reverberations echoed round the bay. A couple of revs and with a flourish which left a wide arc of curling water, the nose of the craft lifted and it planed round the headland with blue smoke pouring from the stern. Before a succession of waves swept onto the beach, operator and speed boat had vanished. The man who’d come ashore stood looking carefully at Eilidh’s boat before walking the length of the jetty, deliberately studying all around him.

A vicious feeling of possession overcame me. Furious at the intrusion and especially the manner of arrival, it took much restraint to stop my walking smartly down to challenge this uninvited visitor. A fortnight here and already the island was mine. I hadn’t missed a telephone, definitely not the T,V, surely I wasn’t becoming a recluse? The rearrangement of my priorities had been startling; the change in a sense of values, dramatic. It took a moment or two before I steadied enough to realise that this sense of ownership, compelling as it felt, had no basis except in emotion. Deciding the man couldn’t have spotted me, I stepped into the house, closed the door and sat down to calm myself. From the window I could see him staring down at the dingy. His behaviour struck me as odd. What was he weighing up? Inner rage gradually turned to a palpable unease.

The Agent watched the speed boat roaring away, “A bloody fool, but useful,” he muttered, “seemed to think this is where this MacKenzie bastard is holed up.” He stood some time looking down at the wooden dingy moored carefully to the jetty; umm, if this is the man I’m after…. his mind already hunting possibilities for dealing with him. Hope to hell he’s alone. It’s quiet enough, but what a God damn awful place, fucking ghastly, bloody seals and birds and miles of bugger all. No sane creature would come here unless they’d a hell of a lot to hide. That means this bastard could be dangerous.” Checking under his left armpit and still grumbling, he walked deliberately up the track from the jetty to the house.