The Chessmen (13 page)

You could see from the way he held his body, how tense and determined he was, back wheel skidding from side to side as he accelerated to the maximum, up the slope towards the first bend. And then he vanished, and the sound of his motor faded into the distance, masked by the rise of the hill.

Strings sat on the parapet, hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer, and never said a word. The rest of us milled about, speculating about the outcome of the race in hushed tones, almost as if we were afraid of breaking Strings’ concentration. I glanced at him and saw how some powerful inner tension was writing itself all over his face. For some reason this meant much more to him than it should. After all, what the hell was in a name? And, in the end, what did it really matter?

We heard Roddy’s bike before we saw it. He was back very quickly. I glanced at my watch. Just over three and a half minutes. And then he appeared, leaning over at a dangerous angle as he came careening around the bend. It took him fewer than thirty seconds to reach the bridge. We all dived to either side as he accelerated hard over the finish line, then jammed on his brakes and pulled the front wheel around to skid to a stop by the far end.

His face was flushed, eyes shining. He knew he’d made a good time. ‘Well?’

‘Three minutes, fifty-seven,’ Dolina called out, and Roddy cast triumphant eyes towards Strings.

But if Strings harboured any self-doubt he wasn’t showing it. He stood up, cool as you like, and threw a leg over his bike to kick away its stand and start the motor. Everyone clamoured around the start line, and I stood up on the parapet to get a better view.

The countdown began.

Strings revved and released his clutch, back wheel spinning, screaming like a distressed gannet, until it gripped, and he was off in a spray of chippings. I watched Roddy watching him, and saw how doubt crept slowly but surely into his mind. And then Strings disappeared as he rounded the bend. Several of us checked our watches as the sound of his engine faded into the afternoon. Tension moved among us like a ghost.

Three and a half minutes passed and still there was no reprise of that shrieking 125cc motor. No yellow blur on the bend. Four minutes, and still nothing.

‘Something’s wrong,’ I said, and for the first time that ghost among us morphed from tension, to apprehension, to fear.

‘Ach, he’s just fallen off,’ Roddy said. ‘Trying to go too bloody fast.’

But I wasn’t waiting to find out. I jumped on my moped and accelerated over the stony Road to Nowhere, bumping away up the track towards the bend. I heard another bike
on my shoulder and flicked a backward glance to see Whistler there. And beyond him, others setting off in pursuit.

There was no sign of Strings, and it wasn’t until I passed the second bend that I saw a distressed Rambo at the side of the road above the
geodha
. Strings’ yellow bike lay twisted in the grass, its front wheel upturned and still spinning, a large swathe of peat churned up where the bike had slewed off-track. Three sheep were scampering away up the road beyond it. Whistler and I reached Rambo before the others. He was in a panic, eyes wide.

‘I was getting my bike when I heard the crash. Must have been those bloody sheep running on to the road. Looks like he went straight over.’

‘Fuck.’ The word escaped my mouth in a breath.

Whistler was already clambering down the slope on the south side. Recklessly. Arms windmilling, before he jumped down on to the lowest of the rock ledges visible from above, and steadied himself. I went chasing after him. When I reached the ledge I spotted the detritus we had seen that morning, trapped by the rocks halfway down the drop. The bottom wasn’t visible from here, and there was no sign of Strings.

I glanced back up the hill and saw everyone crowded along the roadside. Roddy came running pell-mell down the slope towards us. He reached us gasping, eyes wide and filled with fear. ‘Where is he?’

‘No sign of him,’ Whistler said.

‘Oh, Jesus.’ Roddy immediately began lowering himself over the drop.

Whistler tried to grab him but couldn’t hold on. ‘For Christ’s sake, man, don’t be a fool. There’s no way down there. And if there is, there’s no way back up.’

But nothing was going to stop Roddy. I saw his desperation as he climbed down, face towards the cliff, arms and legs stretching to either side, searching for hand and footholds. He had made it as far as the limit of our ability to see into the
geodha
when his face turned up towards us. ‘I can’t see him!’ His voice echoed around the cliffs. And then he fell from sight with barely time for a muffled cry.

‘Shit!’ Whistler immediately started to go down after him, but I grabbed his arm.

‘We should get help.’ I glanced hopelessly up the slope to where the others were gathered along the track, and to my amazement saw a dishevelled Strings push through them to the edge of the
geodha
. He was covered in peat-black mud, and there was blood trickling from his forehead. I have never seen a face so bleached of colour. The others parted to make way for him, staring at him in silent astonishment. He glanced towards Whistler, then back at me.

‘Where the hell did you come from?’ I shouted.

He shook his head and his confusion was clear. ‘Dunno what happened. Damn sheep came running on to the road. Next thing, I’m coming to in the ditch on the far side, and you lot are all gathered around the
geodha
.’

‘We thought you went over!’ I called back.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Did no one think to look in the bloody ditch!’ He lifted his arms then dropped them to his side again. ‘Where’s Roddy?’

‘Fell in going after you!’ Whistler bellowed. It was obvious that he had little sympathy for Strings. He turned to me. ‘See if anyone up there’s got a rope in their saddlebag.’ And he swung himself over the edge, searching for Roddy’s foot-and handholds.

As I scrambled back up to the road, I wondered at Roddy’s desperation. Only fifteen minutes before he had been determined to beat and humiliate Strings in this foolish competition to decide the band’s new name. And now he had gone and risked his life, maybe even lost it, trying to save him.

Three of the boys had tow ropes. But none of them was long enough. To everyone’s surprise it was Mairead who knew how to tie the knots that would make them into one serviceable length. We shouldn’t have been, since her dad was a fisherman, but the speed and dexterity with which she knotted those lengths of rope together took us all aback. Strings just stood watching helplessly. No one was interested right then in how badly hurt or otherwise he might be. The focus was all on Roddy.

I ran down the slope with the rope and several other boys and inched carefully towards the edge of the drop to see if I could spot Whistler. There was no sign of him. I bellowed his name as loud as I could, and to my intense relief heard his voice echo back up at me.

‘Did you get a rope?’

‘We did.’

‘Chuck it down, then, and make sure it’s well anchored at the top.’

The only way to secure it was to wrap it around my waist and use me as the anchor, while ahead of me the other boys gripped it, hand over hand, like members of a tug-of-war team. I lay back, almost sitting, my heels dug hard and deep into the peat, and we threw the other end down into the
geodha
.

After a few minutes we felt a tug on it, and then what seemed like the full weight of two Whistlers testing our strength to hold it firm. It was touch and go whether we could. I shouted towards the road for more help, hoping that Mairead’s knots were going to hold. Several of the others came running down, girls too, everyone set to lend a hand, until finally we saw the giant form of Whistler pulling himself up over the edge, the apparently lifeless figure of Roddy slung over his shoulder.

As soon as he reached the grass he let go of the rope and dropped Roddy on to the turf. Roddy let out a yell of sheer bloody agony, his right leg twisted at a horribly unnatural angle. Whistler was pink-faced and sweating from his exertions. ‘Busted leg,’ he said unnecessarily.

Roddy was breathing stertorously and unscrewed his eyes for a moment to open them and look up. Strings leaned over him, his bloodied face a mask of concern. Roddy’s lips contorted into a sort of grimace, and he said, ‘So. Amran it is, then.’

I didn’t see Roddy again until after the start of the summer holidays. He had been rushed to hospital and undergone several hours of surgery on a shattered femur. Metal plates
and screws inserted. The band’s summer gigs were cancelled, and it wasn’t until a meeting called to discuss their future that all the members of the band were reunited for the first time since the accident. I never knew what had passed between Strings and Roddy on the subject of the race, but the incident at the
geodha
was never referred to, not in my presence anyway. And in his own obdurate way, Roddy simply seemed happy that he had won the bet. His leg was plastered and in a brace, and he turned up in a wheelchair pushed by a private nurse paid for by his parents.

The meeting was held in the public bar at Scaliscro Lodge, which sat up on the west bank overlooking Little Loch Ròg. Roddy looked terrible. But he had been determined to convene the meeting, to map out the future of the group once they went to Glasgow.

However, it was Mairead who provided the shock. To everyone’s astonishment she had cropped her hair to something not much longer than a crew-cut. Gone was the long, dark wavy hair that tumbled over angular shoulders. She looked stark and gaunt with this most macho of male cuts, although still strangely feminine. There were not many women who could wear their hair like that. But she had strong, striking features, and even the shape of her head, now fully revealed, was classically beautiful. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

Roddy was oddly animated, as if he were on something. And maybe he was. A cocktail, perhaps, of painkillers and beer. Or maybe it was just that restless, relentless ambition
that so drove him. But his face was flushed and there was a strange glow in his eyes.

‘Amran,’ he said, and he threw a little triumphant glance in Strings’ direction. ‘It’s got a good ring to it.’ Nobody was going to argue with him. ‘As soon as I’m back on my feet, Strings and I will go down to Glasgow to try to line up some gigs, and we’re probably going to need a management company.’

I caught a glimpse of Whistler out of the corner of my eye as he laid his pint glass down on the bar with an odd sense of finality. I knew what was coming. ‘I won’t be going to Glasgow,’ he said.

The thumping of the music playing over the stereo system only further emphasized the silence that followed.

Rambo said, ‘What . . . you mean you’ve applied for Strathclyde, or Edinburgh, or somewhere?’ You could hear the disbelief in his voice.

‘I mean I won’t be going to any university. Glasgow, Edinburgh or anywhere else. I’m staying on the island.’

I almost held my breath.

‘What are you talking about?’ Roddy said. All the light had gone out of his eyes. ‘You can’t stay here and still be in the band.’

‘Congratulations. You just won a set of steak knives and a holiday for two in Torremolinos. You’d better look for another flute player when you’re down in Glasgow.’

Roddy looked as if the world had just fallen in on him.

Mairead said quietly, ‘When did you decide this?’

Whistler shrugged. ‘A while ago.’

‘And you never told us?’ Roddy was angry now.

The sound of Mairead’s open hand hitting the side of Whistler’s face was like the crack of a rifle. She hit him so hard that he had to put a hand on the bar to steady himself. She stared at him for a long, hard moment with something akin to loathing in her gaze, before turning to walk out of the bar.

Ironically Amran, as they became, achieved their greatest success post-Whistler, and the accident on the Road to Nowhere seemed, perversely, to have brought Strings and Roddy closer together.

But prime mover in their transition from island Celtic rock band to mainstream supergroup was Donald Murray. Big Kenny had gone to agricultural college in Inverness, leaving the band without a roadie. And it was after my final break-up with Marsaili that I got a call one day from Donald.

‘Hey man,’ he drawled. He was affecting a mid-Atlantic accent in those days, somewhere between Ness and New York. One of the brightest boys of his year at the Nicolson, he had come down to Glasgow University, carrying with him all the despairing hopes of his parents. His father, Coinneach Murray, was one of the most feared and respected men in Ness. Minister of the Crobost Free Church, a man of fire and brimstone, a relentless advocate of a harsh and unforgiving Christianity. A Christianity that his son had rejected from an early age, becoming the archetypal rebel
without a cause, and defying his father at every turn. He drank, swore, slept with more girls than you could count, and seemed hell-bent on a road to self-destruction.

He dropped out of first year at university before Christmas, and I had lost track of him until that phone call at my student lodgings.

‘Donald?’ He sounded different to me.

‘It’s me, bro.’

‘Where the hell are you? I mean, what are you doing?’

I heard him chuckling on the other end of the line. ‘I’m in the music business, bro.’

‘Donald, I’m not your bro!’

‘Hey, Fin boy, keep the heid. It’s just a figure of speech.’

‘What music business?’ I said.

‘Got a job in a music agency. We represent bands, singers, organize tours, negotiate deals with record labels.’ He paused, and I heard the pride in his voice. ‘I’m personal assistant to Joey Cuthbertson, impresario extraordinaire. Amazing guy, Fin. What he doesn’t know about the music business isn’t worth knowing. And I’m going to pick his brains until there ain’t a cell left I don’t possess.’

‘Good for you.’

He laughed. ‘Never could impress you, could I?’

‘Not when you were trying to, Donald. The thing you’ve never understood is that you don’t have to try.’

More laughter down the line. ‘Fin, Joey Cuthbertson’s signed Amran.’ He paused. ‘On my recommendation. They’re going places, boy. Mark my words. I figure we’ll have a record deal before Easter.’