GENESIS (GODS CHAIN) (12 page)

‘No, they were fine
,
’
t
he caretaker
in
toned.
‘
G
ood evening to you.’

Scott’s
mother
seemed to shiver slightly.
‘Come in boys, let’s get you something hot
in you,
’
she said kindly, glancing up only once in puzzlement
as the man
disappeared
down the dim street.

Luckily
,
little or no damage had occurred in the village to any of the houses and buildings.
Only a few loose slates, damaged chimney pots and burst water main
s
were reported.
The Masons had built their works strong.

**********

Drew Kirkland
happily put another
Whisky
away
as he
s
a
t on his tall wooden chair
at the village pub
.
Drew
was middle-aged and in his prime; his
well
-
worn
and somewhat soiled
breeches, tattered tweed jacket
,
and dirty deer
-
stalker hat
lent him a somewhat older air than he could actually claim
, and a
distinctly unpleasant odour
. Dirty and unshaven
,
the
man
rubbed
his dark-
stubble
d
face.
He precariously balanced himself for another evening at the bar and another malt
Whisky
chaser.

‘Mmm that’s a fine dram, Mr
McCourt
,
’
Drew
spoke with a passion in his rough
country
accent, smiling content
ed
ly
as he
savour
ed
th
e
distinct taste.
The man’s weather torn and kipper hardened face cracked a little more as he finished off his fifth.
Only a handful of patrons were inside the bar at this moment
, but the place seemed lively and
friendly banter
bounced from every corner
.

“Another, please,”
Drew
slurred as Tom Milligan, another regular
,
entered from the freezing cold
night,
rubbing his chilled hands.

‘It’s a cold one,
Drew
,
’
he said,
referring to the bitter turn in the weather.

‘Aye
,
that it is Tom. That it is. Cold for the time of year
,
’
Drew
replied in a broad
Ayrshire
dialect
as he tossed off the drink set before him.
‘I’ll be away to milk my herd.
’
His voice had
a pleasant lilt to it, oscillating up and down tunefully
as it did.

‘One for the road
,
then?’
Tom queried
,
nodding to the barman.

‘Aye why not Tom
?
A
whisky
,
’
Drew
replied
,
only too glad
for the excuse
to stay inside.
The men settled in their seats, grumbling a little and grunting appreciatively as their drinks were set before them.

‘What do you think that was then, you know, last night?’ asked
Tom, finally
.

‘Do you mean all that shaking and shoogling?
No idea
,
Tom.
It woke me up
—
the bedstead was bagging off my head!’ shouted
Drew
in distressed remembrance.
‘Woke me up good and proper.
I could not get back to sleep after that
—not a wink all night
.’

‘Aw
,
too bad, it is a bit worrying
, you know.
The papers don’t know what to print!’ came
a
voice from by fireplace across from the
b
ar
.
The man
was an
e
state worker
named
James
,
who was a distant relation of Baron Murray Argyll Thom
—he worked
the
e
state on the outskirts of the village over and past the Hilltop
,
to the
e
ast of
Ayrshire
.
He rubbed his hands over the
heat
of
the small fire.

‘I’m sure that it’ll be no good for my beasts
—
it’ll
be
sour milk
tomorrow,
’ added
Tom
.

‘It’s to do with all that “Global Warming
,
” so they say
—they’re
always talking about it in the television
,
’ added
James with a nod
.

‘Maybe
.
T
he paper is full of it
,
’
Tom agreed
. ‘What do you think
,
Mr
McCourt
?’

The owner had a reddish comple
x
ion and curved moustache
.
He just
smiled
and
nodded
his
agreement
,
focusing mostly on
polishing
the silver tankards
that hung above the bar. He
took
them off from their hooks
one by one,
seem
ing lost in
thought.
Mr
McCourt
was
the
superstitious
sort—he
looked a little panicky and did not reply.

‘Aye, strange happenings
,
indeed Tom
,
’
Drew
cackled
strangely
.
The two men smiled smugly at each other.

The
t
avern
stood
cosily
warming,
in stark contrast to the Italian
r
estaurant
that glittered from shadows
directly across the road.
The restaurant
had been established only a few years ago
,
and
was
called Giovanni’s Bar Napoli.
Unlike the bar, Giovanni’s was frequented by strangers, often r
ather unsavoury types
—unknowns in the smallish village, which was unusual and nerve-wracking
.
Mr
McCourt
had thought
the restaurant
would never take off
, but u
nfortunately it
had
proved very popular with incomers from neighbouring larger towns and some well-to-do
families
.

**********

The earthquake story never even reached the national
papers,
and
the story
only r
a
n in a few local new
s
papers
in
front page
headlines
that screamed:

“
EARTHQUAKE STRIKES VILLAGE
as
INSURANCE HITS ROOFTOPS!
”

and

“
TREMOUR in TOWN
—
OLD FOLK SCARE!”

then

“
THE
EARTHQUAKE that NEVER WAS!”

and then

“COUNCIL BLAMED for QUAKE FEARS!”

The
closest u
niversit
y
, thirty miles away in the
c
ity of Glasgow
,
had advised the
The Village Chronicle
that there had been very little abnormal seismic activity in that area
,
although acknowledging that
there was
a
well
-
known natural fault line
that ran
through this part of the
c
ountry
side
.
The university professionals claimed that the quake was
an
overreaction
of villagers
unused to shaking earth
and
T
he
Chronicle
followed their lead, to the consternation and outrage of locals who had seen and felt the massive disturbance.