Sun Dance (27 page)

A sharp rap on the door. I didn’t hurry. It came again, more heavily. I opened the door to a man who stood well to one side. Medium height, thinning hair; a heavy, ill- featured face and indoor pallor. Out of puffy black circles, small hooded eyes, attentive and penetrating, flicked over me. Collar, tie, jacket and slacks, city clothes, casual but expensive, a raincoat over his arm. An official? Instantly he meant London, tube trains, politicians, their duplicity and implied threats.

Having rapped smartly on the door, The Agent stepped deftly out of direct line. Nothing. He knocked again. After several minutes, a tall man opened the door. An obvious look of displeasure, if not arrogance on a bronzed faced. Immediately, before uttering a word The Agent sized him up, young, athletic, this bugger could be quick and strong. Play it easy, “Good morning. Hope you don’t mind me calling. Not intruding, am I?” and with a sweep of his arm, “It’s such a beautiful island, lucky you.” He followed with a gracious smile, “D’you live here?”

The ‘toffish’ accent at once struck me as false, however I relaxed a little, “Good morning, yes, it’s a bonnie place on a good day.” Ignoring his question, I awaited his next comment.

The Agent considered carefully…. I need to get into the house… and reaching out his hand. “My name’s David Williams, do hope this isn’t being a bother to you, but perhaps you might be able to help me? I’m an archaeologist, for my sins. You local by any chance? I’ve got a map here,” and looking pointedly into the house, “I wondered perhaps if you might give me some directions?”

Out of good manners I shook hands to find he had a remarkable grip. Archaeologist? I wondered. He didn’t strike me as a man involved in digging. The chap began struggling to open a map he’d taken from his raincoat pocket. Perhaps out of curiosity, I invited him into the kitchen. “I’m just about to have a coffee, would you care for a cup?”

“Why not, don’t mind if I do. O.K. if I use your table for the map.” No point in waiting for an answer from this surly bugger and spreading his map on the table, The Agent sat himself down. “What a fine little place you’ve got here, nice and quiet. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name, not another MacKenzie by any chance?”

I busied myself at the Calor gas stove, fending off his direct question with a laugh, “Oh, well, Mr. Williams there’s as many MacKenzies in these islands as I’m sure there’s Williams in Wales,” and washing the cups with my back to the visitor, “Sorry I’ve only powdered milk.”

Bastard isn’t going to tell me his name, same as that evasive clown I spoke to on the phone. The Agent’s eyes swivelled round the room. What a shitty little hell hole. Bare boards and an old stone sink. Galvanised pails, wooden shelves, who the hell? Only a wanted murderer would shack up here. He stared through the open bedroom door. God save the Prince of Wales. His heart bounded. A briefcase against the wall, cut straps and battered looking, dark stains.

That’s it, that’s it! Oh you beauty, this is the man, that’s the briefcase. By Christ there’s something special in it when it landed in this crazy joint. No wonder that bloody politician seemed so keen. ‘Get the case,’ he told me, ‘the man is your own affair.’ Torture or elimination, I never knew one of these top political sidewinders that ever took the risk or the rap, always just a nod, do what’s needed. The creeping louse will pay for this little trip. This is going to be the real thing.

I turned to put the coffee cups on the table, “I’m afraid there’s only oatcake.” I stopped in mid sentence. The man’s eyes sparkled, tiny dots, glittering out of the flush of bright scarlet which covered his face. Intense and cunning, I thought of a stalking fox. The look lasted only seconds before he glanced down to the map, pointing with a thick finger, “Forgive me, I’ve just made a brilliant discovery. You see this headland? It’s possible, according to my information, that this may well be the site of a Viking ship grave. By the way here’s my card.”

The Agent fumbled through the numerous cards in his wallet. I must get the bugger out of the house. Finding the card, thank Christ for that, he smiled and handed it across the table. Sipping the coffee, “Thanks for the unexpected ‘elevenses,’ saved the day. No, I won’t have an oatcake, but thanks. Got to watch the old weight you know.” This is the foulest piss I’ve ever had to drink.

I read the card, ‘Professor David Williams, B.Sc. (Archaeology). Advisor to The Commission for Ancient Monuments. Maybe. I’d seen plenty of professional cards. This one struck me as bogus. Looking up, I became aware that whilst studying the map he was actually watching me closely. The unease which I’d first felt when seeing him land, grew to a tautness.

Outside, the day lost its early brightness, the dullness of a pending change. Flurries of a wind from the east rattled the bedroom window. Getting up from the table I closed the door. The man’s eyes flickered, his face hardened.

Instinct warned me, this visit is not what it seems. Weather’s worsening. I must get him off the island, pronto. The horrifying thought of his being stuck here, perhaps days. No, no. Should I offer to run him back to Halasay? Force the issue? “It‘s slack water about midday, after that I’m afraid the weather will soon make for a dangerous crossing, especially as winds away round to the east. Is your boatman due back shortly? If not, I would run you over the Sound, really, I mean as soon as possible.”

The Agent jumped to his feet. Action, exhilaration, this job will need to be an out-door one, “Yes, yes, I see what you mean. I say, would it be too much trouble if you could possibly show me out to this Viking site. I must report something back to base you know,” he gave a little laugh, “just a quickie, would tell me if it’s significant enough to recommend an exploratory dig.”

Exploratory dig! Rage swept me. If this were true, the sanctity of a thousand years would be uprooted, desecrated by a gang of dilettantes who’d put their ‘finds’ in some museum remote in feelings and location. No matter how remote in time, these graves were my people and my kinship with them a profoundly spiritual matter. Utter distaste, even fury, must have shown on my face.

Getting this man out of here was paramount, “Yes, of course I’ll come down with you to the headland and then, if your man isn’t showing up we can make straight for my boat.” To leave the man in no doubt I added, “Before it gets too stormy.” “Of course, of course,” the man agreed. A peculiar glow shone from his eyes. The atavistic glint of intense hunger? Or premeditation?

A tingling came over The Agent, prickling the nape of his neck. He shivered as if an electric charge passed into his body, lifting his hair. The sensation thrilled him. He ground his teeth, felt a primitive desire to pounce. His palms sweated a little; a tightness in his head. He moistened his lips. I’ll have this arrogant bastard beg for mercy. Just watching his face, that’ll be lovely, seen it before, better than sex anytime. I’ll make this one last, have him on his knees, crying like a baby.

I walked quickly, very quickly. Ruffled by the wind, small white wave tops crossed the bay. I veered towards the headland, increased my pace. The man didn’t leave my heel. I heard his raincoat flapping but didn’t turn. My back felt desperately unprotected.

This fucker thinks he can tire me out. No way. By God, he’ll find who goes first. What a place, better than I could have arranged. The wind, the wildness, the prospect of fun, it all fuelled The Agent’s intense excitement. He trembled.

Already clouds were becoming leaden streaks, their edges tattered and sailing. Cold gusts winnowed through the brown grass of autumn. Moss on the stones, now grey. Barrenness flowed over headland. “This is all there is to show you,” I stood beside the man amongst the Viking burial stones. My nerves stretched taut. Evil surrounded me, in the wind, the very taste of the air. I became acutely alert, “I think we should hurry, before the tide turns.”

“Don’t worry my friend,” the man’s voice, high pitched and rasping, “you won’t need to hurry where you’re going.”

It pressed into my spine. Hard and boring, twisting, forcing. I knew immediately. “Walk, you clever bastard.” Ten paces. I balanced on the edge of the cliff. The gun moved up my spine. It stopped. Pressed into my neck. “Now isn’t that a bonnie sight, just what a bloody Scotch twat like you would call it, Mr. Hector, cocky, MacKenzie.”

Surging waves frothed onto the ledges two hundred feet below me, dark, licking, awaiting. In a hissing voice the man spoke, “What a pleasure this is for me to be able to offer you a choice. Very decent of me.” His laugh more of a screech, “Which do you prefer, a jump without a parachute or the bullet first? Wait, wait, I’ll be kind to you, I’ll give a brave Scotch bastard like you a chance.”

Now,” he screamed, “down on your fucking knees.”

Pressure. Click.

An uncoiling spring, I swung, hit him, the back of my wrist across his neck. Crack, a violent burning on the side of my head.

The man swayed, moments passed. Attempted to grab me. Missed.

I stumbled, clawed at grass. It gave. Came away in my hands. I slithered over the edge, stared into space, the chasm of imminent death.

In slow motion, I began to fall. Time slowed. Eilidh came to me. I saw her again, her eyes in mine, talking to me.

The man pitched forward, his eyes bulging with the terror of death. He hurtled past me, arms flailing, floating almost, his raincoat spread by the wind.

Screaming, falling headlong, down, down. I heard the thud. The crunch of bone.

I slipped down the rock, my whole body pressed against it. Torn fingers searched for hand holds, feeling over a cold wet surface, gripping the tiniest roughness. Slowly, five feet, ten feet.

Suddenly my hands lost their hold. Faster, faster. In the terror of death the sweetness of life came to me with an overwhelming sadness. My boots caught something. I fought to hang on.

Legs buckling with fear, wind buffeting the narrow ledge. This, the end of a glorious saga? Hopes, ideals, all tomorrow’s promise brought to a futile end below a Viking grave?

I saw Eilidh weeping, I touched her hair. She looked up and I kissed her. A longboat put to sea, a fair wind billowed its raven sail. I journeyed back through time, no longer afraid of dying.

Calmer now, I found hand holds, my legs steadied and turning my head, I glanced down.

Face up, on a shelf of bare rock he lay, beside the Sound, grey and flecked. Broken- backed, fully conscious but immobile.

A wave backed off, came frothing in again and lapped around him. Blood trickled from his mouth. The next wave surged to his face. He spluttered, arms waving franticly.

Unable to move, each wave came and went, indifferently. The tide rose slowly.

Balancing precariously on the narrow ledge, I looked down. He saw me. Fresh screams carried up the cliff, crying, pleading, “Save me, climb down, for Christ’s sake, please, please.”

Waves began to lift The Agent’s body, gradually at first, wrapping a raincoat about his useless legs.

Still he clung, snatching at the rock between surges, the dripping shelf his only haven.

Another wave covered his face, retreated, drew back into the gurgling depths, gathered momentum and white tongued, it came licking towards him again.

Vomiting water and gasping, I could see the man’s eyes bulging in abject fear. He waited each wave, gulping air between each measured space, powerless in the agony of breathing death.

They came. Slow, hissing waves, deliberately unfolding, washing him up the shelf and then, with rattling detachment, unhurriedly sucking him down.

Little by little, without compassion, they dragged my visitor towards a sinuous grave.

Without remorse, I watched his drowning.

Gradually his threshing body below a floating raincoat ceased to move; a mere dot, no more than a piece of flotsam rising and falling with the swell, he drifted into the Sound.

And the uncaring sea covered his bloated face in a veil of waves.

Nuen spared nothing, least of all expense, in moving from its New York, Park Avenue offices to a prestigious site overlooking a bend of the Hudson River. Fifty million dollars down and forty floors up, on the rooftop of the flamboyant Nuen Building, Chairman Anderson paced back and forth the full length of his lavish sunshine garden. This dream child, which the Chairman had conceived after several viewings of ‘Jurassic Park’, involved him in the expending of many creative hours and it might be said, a prodigal amount of the company’s petty cash.

Rock piled upon rock climbed to a summit pool from which, by virtue of the cleverly arranged sound recording, there tinkled an icy waterfall. Splashing ledge by ledge with a sparkle enhanced by hidden lighting, it descended as a delightfully musical cascade until it vanished into the enveloping steam of a heated lagoon. Realistically moulded dinosaurs perched on outcrops overlooking the swimmers, pterodactyls flew past on invisible wires and to boost the effect, a growling Tyrannosaurus Rex belched flame at the flick of a switch. Every rocky crevice bloomed with fragrant plant life, miniature jacaranda trees blossomed in the background, date palms leaned over the lagoon’s blue effect water and to perfect the vision, on a sandy bank facing the sun sat a Tahitian beach hut complete with cocktail bar. Perhaps the only discordant feature of the garden’s pretentiousness was its helipad. Given a succession of celebrities dropping in by private chopper to the Chairman’s ‘novel’ all night swimming parties the downdrafts tended not only to defoliate the vegetation but in some cases to ravage the more flimsy outfits of his female guests.