Huey’s Foreword: The following, below, I wrote in 2012 – both the critical evaluation and the two chapters – for an assessed piece of work as part of my creative writing course at the University of East Anglia (UEA). Interestingly, I kept aspects of Strange History (at the time a novel in development) for what would later become The Otero County Disclosure. Rereading, I see clearly certain themes repeat in my writings: identity, truth, privacy, outsiders, strangeness, and big existential questions.
‘Critical Evaluation: The original idea and title for the novel came to me four years ago (2008). Since then, the concept/plot idea has changed beyond recognition. This I cannot reveal at the present time. I began writing it nearly two years ago (2006). It is a crossover novel (YA and adult), although this may change. It’s currently also an experiment (language/vernacular, POV etc). I have found the development of the structure, plot, themes and characters etc., very difficult, because the idea for the novel is ambitious (mixing contemporary themes with magic realism, myths and legends, and those human conditions such as love. Its core themes are truth and identity). This despite having written some 20,000 words so far. There are already more than 30-40 characters I am aware of. There are two main characters – Roddy Mac and Sholto Strange (who is yet to be introduced). The setting (a fictitious island on the West Coast of Scotland) is deliberate as it offers drama (landscape) and the island holds a symbolic importance in terms of the central idea. The following two chapters (originally one) I consider as a dry run – I am trying to establish the voice for the novel. There are presently numerous drafts of these first two chapters, each very different in style. Finally, I would add this assignment is a rough, unedited draft and I am aware of its shortcomings!’
Huey Hawke (penname)
May, 2012
If there’s enough interest, I may resurrect this novel in due course. It would require further work and polish, and adaptation of the language, but I always held it had the potential for a very good story.
The following two chapters run to nearly 5,000 words, or a thirty-minute read.
Odd Dogs at Midnight
The dog bark ripped through the tranquillity savaging peace and silence. Its resonance had a particular edge, a distressed quality, which maybe why the figure acknowledged it with a short sharp gasp. The figure may have stirred from drowsing, but to look at its spectral moon-cut shadow it was rather more the stuff of dreams. Or perhaps nightmares, especially on a night like this; a late hour when the calf stays close to the cow and the rat shrinks in its burrow, shy of the dark and unseen places.
The figure, silhouetted against the star flecked sky, clutched the back of its right leg and with effort, and apparent discomfort, shifted its long body into a more comfortable position. This done it rubbed its eyes with a haste the idle observer might mistake for impatience. Perhaps indifference. However, there was no doubting the measured way the form scouted the whole place from where it sat. And what a seat. Lonely, inaccessible, precarious. Unforgettable. Tragedy Rock. Just about the ideal vantage point to spy three hundred and eighty-three square and empty miles of night. Which is precisely what the figure did; scanning for peculiar twitches and furtive retreats in the vastness and infinite dark blue layers of moonlight-tinged upland and lowland with a way akin to the patient, predatory owl. And like the observant night raptor, it settled its gaze on a point way below; a steady bright sphere in the dozy dark where the moon’s reflection lay kipping on water. A tea light afloat pitch-black oil. The luminous spot flickered and broke, disturbed by the plop of a fish leaping for a sluggish buzzy, then reformed to slumber again.
The figure seemed unmoved.
Stillness once more. The figure turned attention and glanced at the isolated building a distance below, near the water, and the gleam where a small open window mirrored the warm hunter’s moon. Nothing. All was as it should be.
The figure’s head continued to turn, slowly, to left and to right, watching. Surveying. But always it returned to stare upon the croft. There was still no sighting of the animal, the source of the yowl. The figure lay back, closed eyes and heard a distant cow fart. Further afield – and with a little more eavesdropping – the infant River Buie whispered with a constant burr as it gushed from its birthplace high-up in the shattered Bruansgail Mountains. The figure yawned. With the warm woozy air wafting off the Irish Sea, mixing with the pungency of moist fresh-cut peat, it would likely occur to those familiar, those in the know, how easy to understand the locals’ unwavering belief in the so-called, ‘sleepers’ draught’. On such nights, so they said, even the ‘spaewife sleeps like a wee smowt’.
But one man couldn’t rest. Instead, he sat listening, mouth open, in a little kitchen, at a small wood-hewn table strewn with papers of handwritten notes and a fountain pen made of bone, staring, unblinking, at a tiny round open window covered in immaculate spiders’ webs and crawling with busy earwigs. The man clutched a half-filled tumbler with fingers turning white. A single bead of sweat crept from the bald, dented crown of his head, over a visible, rapidly pulsing vein, to hide in the furrows of mottled skin above his large left ear. This was followed by another inching drop. And another. He slowly pulled his khaki-coloured jacket tighter about him, concealing his nightshirt, the medals on his left breast pocket glinting proudly for a moment in the guttering candlelight.
The animal barked again somewhere distant. Its menacing base note echo barrelled across the drowsy island. The cat, which moments before had jumped out of the window, leapt back in with its ears swept back, crashing passed him before disappearing under the coal scuttle. The man put a gnarled, twisted hand to his belly. With the knotted fingers of his other hand he gradually raised the glass of whisky to his dry mouth and swallowed the dram in one. His eyes narrowed slightly. An unhurried tongue moistened grey lips.
‘An firrin. An firrin,’ he said.
He shut his eyes and lowered his head slowly.
Very gently he put the tumbler down, picked up the pen and continued to write. Urgently. And wincing with discomfort.
The following morning the blue and white MV Spirit of the Isles approached the Isle of Dall having made an effortless crossing of the Firth of Feur from the mainland. Grey-white smoke trailed from its red funnel in front of which, towards the bow, on the sundeck, a conversation between two people was concluding.
The man who had been addressed by the other as ‘Captain’, continued, ‘Do nae misunderstand, I’m fond o’ ma boat, this sea, the hills. The West laddie. I cherish the place, but… but there’s been mischief on these dark watters an’ bron in those gorm lands for a thousan’ years an’ more. A aboot ’re sad places. Awa’ up there, fifty mile north, Ben Nevis.’ He nodded in the direction, the salty wind finally teasing out a tear from his unblinking eye. The other stood back from him, tentatively, as if finding footing, unsure. The Captain continued. ‘A wee distance ower there, Nor’n Ireland. Glorious Dall in front. Behind us -’ he stopped for a moment and ran fat brown fingertips over cracked, sunburnt lips before rolling onwards, unsmiling, ‘behind us, is the ripplin’ land o’ soarin’ bens an’ deep, sour secrets. A aboot are rivers runnin’ we dirty auld bluid, travelin’ the meagre salmon. Muirs an’ glens fou o’ monarchs an’ ghosties o’ broken men long gone. The tang o’ peat an’ sound o’ buzzin’ bees wi no hame, laden wi sweet heather pollen for the crofter abroad. Nae forgettin’ the creakin’ forests burstin’ wi felled dreams. Just memories noo. Nocht. Aye, fowk focht an’ chauve here for their meagre lives an’ defendin’ haverin’ charlatans. Legends came, nah, they ware forged. Forged an’ then stroded tall in these noo brock, beautiful places. Sad tae say they’re awa’ now. Today its sheep, an’ them; these, these holidaymakers. An’ neither them, nor the sheep, has any idea. Any idea at all.’
The Captain’s initial pause introduced a longer, awkward silence.
‘That’s great, very helpful. Thanks for the coffee too,’ said the other. What a load of b——-. What a plank! Can I buy a clue? It’s always the same; ask ‘em a question, give ‘em a soapbox. Clam up or step-up on the box. What was that all about, he wondered?
The Captain turned towards him and smiled a wide beamer revealing teeth assembled like small weathered bones in an open grave. ‘Hard tae believe eh? The sun is lit today. Them tourists doon there‘ll be snappin’ awa’ takin’ photies. The morn ye’ll sees a blanket o’ the dark mind. Mark ma words.’ He grinned again; the right corner of his mouth nearly rising to meet his sweaty, rutted forehead. ‘Whaurs ye off tae again lad?’
He wasn’t sure he understood everything the Captain said, but attempted an answer nonetheless, ‘Dallaig. Buses regular?’
‘Aye, every thirty minutes, the stop’s by the ‘Weepy’. Ye can have a quick swally while ye wait.’
He guessed again what the Captain might mean and replied, ‘I’m not old enough. I’m seventeen. Summer work experience.’
‘Ye kiddin’ me. Telt me again wha ye meetin’?’
‘Mo Mitchell, you know him? He charters blue boats from Dallaig harbour.’
‘Aye I do. A guid man. Shame aboot hes Phyllis. I’ve kent him as long as I’ve been masterin’ this boat. What’s hes story?’
‘A Dall Police report. Strange lights, voices, engines and some…’ he checked his notes, ‘”large splashes”, last night out in Dallaig bay. Mitchell heard them. Oh, and a strong smell of garlic.’
‘Polis. Them wreck looters again, aye?’
‘Dunno. That’s what I’m ‘ere to find, get photos. Dall called Mallban Police and the ed’ was barking at me to check it out. It’ll be nothing.’
‘Why dae ye need to speak to me then?’
‘A vox-pop on the Inner Hebrides. People mainly. I’ve got two weeks an’ where better to start than a local car ferry captain. What I wanna do is a feature. I’m trying to get my head round this funny place and why anyone would want to drag a caravan here, let alone live? Anyway, wreckers?’
‘They’re nae wreckers,’ the Captain’s eyes swelled to bursting with anger. ‘They’re Sassenachs come tae steal awa’ oor treasure.’ Spittle raked the other’s forehead like buckshot.
‘Treasure?’ That might be worth a bit of digging. If he could get a straight answer. He discreetly wiped his brow.
‘It’s nae real treasure. A legend lad, a guid one mind. Listen, I must awa’ back tae the bridge. It’s been fab talkin’ tae ye, if ye need anythin’ call me. Telt me ye name again, I’ll mak’ a scratch tae remember it.’
‘Roddy Maclaine. Roddy Mac. Remember me. I’m gonna be a war reporter. Today the Mallban Times, tomorrow, well soon, CNN, Sky, Reuters, the BBC.’ He imagined big, fat headline stories in national newspapers bearing his by-line and uncovering scandals called ‘…gate’.
‘Well Roddy Mac, get ye flark jarcket ready an’ be sure nae tae ask many questions. Ye’ll find the westerlies carry whispers far an’ wide, an’ ye tae a sodden hag if ye nae careful. Och, an’ ye last boat back is at seven.’
He gave Roddy a finger-crushing handshake, touched the peak of his cap and was gone. Myths, legends and fairy nonsense, thought Roddy. The Captain’s words prove everyone round here’s a kid. I was right from the start. Crazy people. And in the Captain’s case, a big kid. And he sat down to check the last page of his notes, thankful the shower of spit was over.
He was surprised when moments later his phone rang. He answered it.
‘Ah, Roddy. Roddy. How’s the ferry, the boat to the back o’ beyond? Got any scoops yet? No, I don’t s’pose so. I’m on the train to Glasgow. Lord Dona’s b-day press conference to –’
‘I can smell the stench, Donal. Pond life day out? You Irish – ’
‘Beauty? Ah, Roddy. Roddy. Such a hand-some… thought. No… alas, I must raise another matter…change direction if you will, from this mu-tu-al love-in.’ His pause was accompanied by a sound similar to a zip in motion, faintly heard on Roddy’s phone. ‘I’ve just spoken to Jackie. Lovely Jackie. She’s given me the fun card and carte blanche. I shall have some expensive expenses on the way home. But first Glasgow. Dear Jackie. Did I say I’d spoken to her?’ Donal’s soft, precise Irish accent, spoken as if he enjoyed a permanent smile, was also accompanied by a ghastly hum similar to a kitchen extractor fan on full power.
‘Poor Jackie. You apologise?’ For Donal’s sake, thought Roddy, it was just as well they were not having this conversation face-to-face. But then they wouldn’t, would they. That’s what phones are for, he thought. To help slimy sneaks like Donal. The coweep. He could picture the snake with phone squeezed between shoulder and jaw. Eyes roving. Hands playing with those garish cufflinks. If they weren’t doing something else.
‘Ah, Roddy. It is I… who… should… apologise. I am so sorry… for being… the bearer… of bad news…’ Donal sounded distracted. Is he in the toilet, thought Roddy?
‘Cut the -’ Roddy was prevented from completing an eloquent observation by the loud, echoing ‘clickety-clack-clickety-clack’ of a train in a tunnel. The phone line became silent. He tried calling to continue speaking but was disappointingly connected to Donal’s voicemail instead. He settled back once more to study his notes as the boat began to dock.
A minute or so later his phone rang again.
‘Ah, Roddy, it’s yerself. That’s better. Now, where we were?’
‘Bad news,’ repeated Roddy.
‘Ah, yes, that’s right. Yes, I spoke with Jackie a few minutes ago. Come Donal, what was it now? Yes, Roddy, we’ve got to let you go. I’m so sorry. You will of course understand that -’
Roddy stood up. ‘What! Say again?’
‘Ah, Roddy, Roddy. Did you not hear me clearly? Must’ve been the drinks. Trolley. Anyway, let me clarify. To be blunt, Roddy, we have no money. No time. We can’t be bothered with you anymore. I can’t be bothered. You’re gone, boy. History. No longer needed. Never were, really. You useless. English kid. Useless. You. Are. Finished. Go and do your Highers. Learn to write. Add up. Come back when your spots have gone. On second thoughts. Don’t bother. I’ve got more journalistic experience and talent in my little -’
‘You, you total -’
The phone line died a second time.
Roddy then spoke some special words. Loudly. And drew the attention of several passengers returning to their cars, including a man whose pale skin turned scarlet and he covered his daughter’s ears. Roddy finally stopped pacing and sat down on a freshly painted bench covered in fresher guano. He tried calling Jackie but received only an irritating voicemail message, ‘Hi-eee. It’s Jackieee. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to youuu. If you have a storyeee, call the news desk on…’ These people. Donal was sure to be on her line, ‘briefing’, as he liked to say.
Strange Day
The ferry docked and Roddy disembarked through a hut-come-garden shed, masquerading as the Isle of Dall ferry ticket office, atop a collapsing stone built pier. The only other building in the landscape was the single storey, dirtwashed ‘Weepin’ Rebel Inn’, just across the road. Topped with a mouldy thatch, its faded sign of a despondent looking Highland clansman, leaning on his claymore, swung gently above a small bus timetable mounted on the upright. Roddy checked the schedule. The next coach was due in twenty-five minutes.
He bought a can of Coke from the vending machine. The device didn’t give him the required five pence change so he punched it, snarling, before sitting down at a pub bench to wait.
A significant, vengeful part of him wanted to get straight back on the ferry, head back to the newspaper’s office and tell Jackie and later, if he was lucky, Donal, where to go and place their rag. Somewhere dark and unpleasant perhaps. While in a public place. With no access to lubricants. Or painkillers afterwards. He slowly squeezed the Coke can. The fudges. Hell, if it hadn’t been for me there would be no ‘Mallban Ferry Toilets Sensation’ and the headline, ‘AC/DC PC ALL AT SEA IN PC WC’, followed by a NIB in the Glasgow Herald. No, he would show them. Stick it out. Donal, particularly, would pay. The twisted, evil – ‘Ah, Futtocks…!’ Coke erupted from the can in a sticky spew.
As he licked his forearm clean, a close female voice said, ‘Ye okay laddie?’
Roddy looked left, right, this way and that way.
‘Ye’s a blinded bat. Up here, Weepy, first floor.’
Roddy looked up behind him. He was faced with a bosomy woman whose ampleage hung out and over a tiny windowsill. She bristled like a feral cat caught taking a play in the hay barn. She smiled faintly when Roddy made eye contact with her.
‘Sorry, didn’t realise there was an upstairs,’ said Roddy.
‘For them feelin’ a wee bit wabbit an’ wantin’ a bed, A have the rooms.’ She adjusted her dark, corkscrew curls. ‘Sorry, been cleanin’ and plumpin’ ma matties,’ she said with a warm, hoarse voice, as if she might have been shouting.
‘No problem.’
‘Is ye arm okay?’ She leaned forward to look at the limb, causing problems for her bust-restraining blouse, before the perils of gravity seemed to force her upright again.
‘Fine, spilled Coke,’ he replied, averting his gaze from her chest. Schoolboy error Roddy. Concentrate. You’re a professional. Then he had an idea, ‘Actually, you could help. Have you got five minutes?’
Both her eyes opened very wide.
Once inside the Weepy Roddy explained to the woman his need for feature subjects. She smiled broadly and placed her hands on her hips, ‘Well, Mairi Macquarie’s ma name, A run this –’
‘A.K.A. ‘The Quarrels’ on account of –’ said a loud voice from the other – busier – end of the quiet bar.
‘Och away an’ bile yer heid Andy! As I was approachin’ tae say Mister Maclaine – may I called you Roddy? – I keep the Weepy wi’ ma Hub Hubs, Dougie. Would ye like a pint o’ licht on the hoose?’
‘Sorry Misses Quarr’, Misses Macquarie, I can’t.’
Mrs Macquarie’s eyes narrowed. She deflated her frontage before folding her arms and murmuring, questioningly.
‘Can I have a Coke?’
‘That’ll nae do. Would ye like some food instead?’
‘Thanks, but I’ve gotta hit the road. Tell me more about this place.’
Mrs Macquarie made a ploughman’s sandwich and gave it to him, along with a can of Coke, whilst simultaneously delivering an enthusiastic performance describing her life. She concluded, ‘We’re the intel-i-gence hub for the whole island. Nocht gets by us, or gets on an’ off the island, withoot oor ken.’
Roddy, seated at the bar, gobbled down the sandwich and when he finished, having clarified some facts and quotes and writing his notes, got up to leave, thanked her for the tedious monologue, ‘time, trouble and true Highland hospitality’, before asking about the treasure. The atmosphere popped like a balloon. The remaining silence was punctuated only by the slow swallowing of beer and empty glasses being placed back on the bar. Roddy leant over the bar and kept his gaze upon Mairi.
Mrs Macquarie gave the impression of a suspicious parent considering a child’s words. There was a pause before she responded. ‘Now, Mister Maclaine, we don’t take too kindly to fowk like yersel, outsiders so to speak, enquirin’ too keenly after oor treasure.’
‘I’m not a stranger. I’m forced here. To see granddad.’
‘Ye have a granddaddy on the island?’ Her voice was now an octave higher. She exchanged a glance with someone at the other end of the bar, and then looked Roddy directly in the eye, ‘Would he be a Maclaine too?’ She said slowly.
‘Captain Lorne Maclaine.’
There was continued silence in the bar area with the exception of some discussions at a table of German motorcycling tourists, busy admiring helmets, leathers and kit.
‘A ken him,’ she said. ‘Ye better leave noo or ye’ll miss ye bus.’ She looked again towards the far end of the bar. A man with sandy-coloured hair seemed to nod in response to a silent instruction from her. As Roddy watched, the man got off his stool and left the inn.
Roddy repeated his thanks to Mrs Macquarie and turned to leave. He thought for a moment, before adding, ‘You can’t tell me anything about this treasure, nothing?’
‘Nae, there’s nocht to tell.’
When he reached the door he looked back. Mrs Macquarie was nowhere to be seen.
The bus route to Dallaig closely followed the coast north. It was more like a meandering track in places and progress was slow. The bus frequently stopped at designated passing spots allowing oncoming cars to pass. Being the height of the tourist season, the bus seemed to be stationary more often than moving. Bored and hot, Roddy occupied himself with looking out of the window. To the calm and quiet landscape. Life, it seemed, continued with little fuss and even less respect for the Twenty-First Century. To his right, yachts far out in the Firth of Feur languished in the now windless conditions. Closer in, men were busy on the decks’ of small, ancient fishing boats chugging towards Dallaig. These squat vessels’ progress gently unzipped the calm sea creating wakes and ribbons of sparkling water like jewelled necklaces in the brilliant sunshine. Inland, lush hillocks and broken groups of deformed rowan and weather-beaten juniper trees gave way to steeper slopes rising to summits out of sight. The mountainsides were covered with shimmering scree and shattered rocks, and scarred with deep gashes that twinkled with dribbling water. Clouds were forming around the peaks like grey halos. Eventually the road reached the top of the island and entered a forest and Roddy caught a glimpse of Dallaig through the dark trees as the bus followed around a small wooded bay. Boats of all types, shapes and sizes were reflected in the harbour’s polished sapphire water. The neat, colourful buildings on the front looked warm and welcoming. Even the palm-style trees seemed in keeping.
Dallaig seethed with crowds of pink sun-cooked day-trippers mooching aimlessly, clutching bags from craft shops and licking fast-melting white ice cream. The bus reached its terminus and Roddy continued on foot. Despite not having time for sightseeing, Roddy gave one approaching girl a slow wink and relaxed, dimpled smile. The girl seemed unmoved and pulled her older male companion closer. A sure sign. And he smiled again. When she passed him he didn’t look back. Should have remembered my sunnies.
He recalled Mo Mitchell’s directions and found the Sea Tiger Charters’ yard at the southern end of the harbour, a quiet spot in the shadow of the whisky distillery. The yard’s floating jetty bobbed on the enticing water. Small blue rowing boats were stacked up in a corner of the yard and a number of larger vessels, some with cabins, had been raised for repairs on crude wooden stands. There was no-one about so Roddy went into the office that had been converted from a large mobile home. The greasy man behind the counter ignored his presence at first, preferring to complete some paperwork. When Roddy explained his purpose the man looked him up and down before saying some unintelligible words in a gruff fashion and shuffled off through a door behind him. Roddy was left to wait for some time.
‘Mister Maclaine?’ said a loud, authoritative voice.
‘Yes, that’s me and you must be Mister Mitchell?’ said Roddy, turning. They shook hands.
‘Mo, please. Nice to meet you, thanks for comin’ over. What can a do for you?’ He had pale bushy eyebrows and continually squinted as if he was looking at the sun.
Roddy’s enquiry was met with Mo’s suggestion they go into the yard. Once outside Mo carefully shut the door behind them and looked about. He led them to the furthest corner, away from the boats and the jetty, to a place that smelt strongly of oil and fish.
Mo’s bearing was plumbline-straight and Roddy noticed his blue overalls were immaculate with precisely ironed creases.
‘Look,’ began Mo, ‘A’ll be honest, A’m no sure what I can tell you.’
‘Okay, why did you call the police?’
‘We had boat thefts in the past. No this year, but two years ago, just after A moved back to the island. A haven’t reported these latest incidents before now.’
‘They’ve happened before?’
‘Oh, A should think several times in the last two months. Always on a Tuesday night. It was probably nothin’ as yachtsmen can be up to all hours makin’ merry.’ He smiled meekly. ‘The odd thang about last night was the sound of heavy equipment an’ lots of voices. There were some very big splarshes as well. It was at a funny hour too, must’ve been aboot three-thirty. Too early for the tide.’ He pointed to a spot about two-hundred-and-fifty metres out into the bay. ‘A’d say it was happenin’ near there, aboot where the Sevillia is reputed –’ He stopped abruptly.
‘I don’t understand, so why report last night to the police?’
Mo started to shift slowly from foot to foot. He put a hand over his mouth as if feeling an imaginary beard. ‘You’ve heard about the supposed Dallaig treasure?’
‘Not before today.’
Mo moved closer and spoke more quietly. ‘The treasure matter is a rumour. That’s all. There is a ship doon there but A don’t believe there is any treasure, it’s just a rumour the locals –’
‘What ship, when did it sink? And why are you so jumpy?’ Roddy was beginning to feel frustrated having made a wasted journey for a non story.
Mo stood back a step. ‘Patience. For a young man you still haf a thing or two to learn about eff-ective communication.’
‘Sorry,’ said Roddy, attempting sincerity.
‘The ship is believed to be the Sevillia. A’m sure others can fill you in on details. For mysel’, A half my own reasons to report strange goings on oot there. By the way, it’s no secret what’s reputed to be lyin’ on the bottom. We’ll leave it at that today, eh. A’m sorry Mister Maclaine, Roddy, you’ll have to understand. Please, take your pictures.’
Roddy was inclined to leave immediately rather than waste any more of his time. He had been looking forward to getting his teeth into a half decent story, but the day – and his luck – had got progressively worse. Suddenly fame and fortune as an investigative journalist seemed far-off. Perseverance his mum had said. He took pictures of the yard, Mo and the bay, before catching the bus back to the ferry terminal.
The bus dropped off local passengers as it wound its way around the island towards the ferry terminal. Roddy noticed the cloud was thickening and the wind was picking up again.
‘Mister Maclaine,’ said a quiet, gentle voice behind him. Roddy turned round to see Mo Mitchell.
‘Mister Mitchell!’
‘No, A’m his brother. His twin, Stevie.’
‘How do you know who I am?’
‘A’ve been talking to my brother. He told me about you this mornin’, but he does no’ ken A is here. Talking like. You’re the only fellow A’ve seen today with a shirt and tie and a camera. You’re no’ a tourist.’
This was beginning to feel like a very strange day, thought Roddy. ‘Nice to meet you, you’ve got something you want to tell me?’
‘No, need to tell you, Mister Maclaine.’ He stopped for a moment and looked out of the window. ‘A’ve followed you from Dallaig, on the bus. You look out of the window a lot Mister Maclaine. Thinking perhaps? For a journo, you’re no’ very observant. You practically ran away from Dallaig and you didn’t notice me. Look and think, Mister Maclaine. Think and look. Keep your eyes open all the time.’
Roddy frowned. He was taken aback and very surprised this stranger was talking to him like this.
Stevie Mitchell continued, ‘My brother is a broken man.’ He paused again and then turned to Roddy. ‘We need your help Mister Maclaine.’
‘Wait a minute, why are –’
The bus came to a stop.
‘A don’t have time to tell you everything Mister Maclaine. When you have a time A suggest you go through archived copies of the Mallban Times and look for stories about Phyllis Mitchell. Last summer. And Bo Drummond. He’d be dead about fifteen years. This is my number,’ he gave Roddy a small piece of folded paper. ‘And this is my stop. By the way, there is definitely gold at the bottom of Dallaig Bay. Mister Maclaine.’ He got up, nodded and left the bus.
Roddy opened the piece of paper. Inside was a telephone number. Beneath it, in capital letters, was the word, ‘SCALAG.’
Yes, indeed, this is a very strange day, thought Roddy.
The End