Sun Dance (23 page)

“Farmers grabbed the new systems of producing food. Hunted for higher profits, egged on by the degree brigade and commercial interests. Bigger farms, fewer people on the land, extractive chemical methods, intensive mono-cultural units; the old cycle of soil fertility, clover, livestock and dung was laughed out. Pesticides dealt with the soil bacteria and the wildlife and adulterated the food the public ate; no word of today’s cancer epidemic Except in terms of the cost of environmental damage, which was discounted, food became cheap. No longer the item which swallowed the workers wages packet and it put the skids under the economics of crofting.”

Though he spoke quietly, the force of words and cogency of argument was dramatic,

“The advent of this artificially cheap food allowed an expanding population to engage in superfluous activity; a world of consumer delights, build fancy houses, bigger and faster cars, time to play at tourism, fly to the beach. The gap between a natural world and what passes for civilisation widened to the degree that food has become a byproduct of the citizens’ global playground with the wildlife driven into a corner.”

There was no stopping him, “So the old systems were priced out, crofting included. But wait you, Hector boy, unbridle a horse and he’ll canter about the field till the barbed wire cuts him. Hedonism comes at a price and that price is the killing of the environment upon which we depend. I took my pleasure from a turning furrow and the gulls at my heel but that’s old hat. The new pleasures are on an escalator, a joy ride, so far without bound but the barbed wire’s in sight. Shed off the responsibility of producing food, abandon any caring for all the other companions in life which share this planet with us, I tell you boy, it will end in the tears of destruction. Capitalism will kill the planet.”

His face became old as the photo above the fireplace. He crossed to the dresser, “One for you and me, Hector,” and handing me a glass, he said quite simply, “I heard the redshank calling out there tonight. It’s a pity. The innocents will go down with the guilty.”

Fired by the strength of Eachan’s words, I spoke bluntly, “Do you think it’s possible to live on Sandray, make it a home?”

He studied his glass, as I had seen him do before, “Yes, it’s a kindly place, the water’s pure, its fields lie to the sun and,” his voice fell away to a sigh, perhaps a yearning for something lost in the sadness of knowing, “the old home has peace and freedom.”

He drained his glass and brightened, “Forget the planners, damn regulations. Throw your mobile phone in the Sound. Yes, Hector boy, hard work and a good woman will make it a home.”

Eilidh- I reached out to her, bridging the distance between us in thought.

The spacious dinning room of Glasgow’s most expensive west end hotel was busy. Kilted gentlemen, portly and white kneed, sported a wide variety of tartans. Every clan, shade and hue seemed present from the heather dye of the Hunting MacSporran to the latest tartan off the drawing board, the mustard and purple Dress Walkers Shortbread. Subdued lighting picked out the silver buttons of Bonnie Prince Charlie jackets, bottle green and tight. Immaculate shirts, cuffs an inch below the sleeve and extra chins snuggled under lacy silk ruffs. Equally formal were the ladies. Long skirts clung expensive and shape revealing, tartan sashes sought to constrain the contents of tastefully matching blouses. No less than the great and the good, in some cases the not so good, were assembled for Scotland’s premier Highland Ball. From the Lord Provost to the pick of the Nation’s legal profession, not to mention baillies, bankers and just a sprinkling of lesser quality, every person of standing in the City was present.

Elaborately coiffured for such an occasion, the ladies when aided by the guile of soft lights, revealed hitherto unsuspected depths of glamour. The City’s sun beds had been booked solid for weeks, not a cleavage but it hinted of topless abandon in the Seychelles. An attractive prospect for the taller men and in some cases a surprise to hubbies. All in all, a colourful spectacle awaiting the skirl of the pipes to march them, couple by couple, behind the Provost and his Lady from dining table to dance floor. One sharp squeeze of his bag and the piper roused the concourse with, ‘A Man’s a Man for a’ That’. No fair hand to be seen without the sparkle of diamonds held high in genteel style as the handsome couples circled the dance floor in the Grand Parade, the termination of which tended to be the bar.

On a small dais a Scottish Dance Band twiddled with microphones, spaced out drum kit and speakers. Last minute pints were stashed discretely behind chairs. The fiddler asked for an A, the drummer rattled a drum or two, the leader tapped his mike, “Testing, one two, one two.” All systems were live, “Lord Provost, ladies and gentlemen, take your partners please for the first waltz of the evening.” The lead accordionist nodded round the musicians and struck C major. They launched into the placid notes of ‘Annie Laurie’.

Dancers sallied onto the floor, a night of formal Highland reeling became a kaleidoscope of colour. Swirling kilts and elaborate steps circled the ballroom, elegant and decorous. The display inflicted upon proud tartans by the revolving balls of chequered light which shone down on the gracious couples was equally wondrous. Bold kilts oscillated between bright red and muddy brown, yellow tartans changed in rapid sequence from pea green to an outrageous purple. Even bald heads could be seen alternating red, blue and a ghastly grey. Many guests were affronted.

But the band had seen it all before, they’d played The Dashing White Sergeant when he was just a corporal. They knew full well by eleven, thanks to certain of the guests, best described as the coarser end of Glasgow society, dancers would be hollering for a rock-an-roll. Men of standing would have taken to lying down, jackets off; the ladies, their costly hair styles sadly bedraggled would be spotted hitching up long skirts and to appease the shouting the musicians would be forced to break into, ‘Come on let’s twist again’. It was nothing new to the band, nor did they doubt by mid-night and six deep at the bar, many bottoms would have been surreptitiously felt and twenty pound notes still showering the till like confetti at a toff’s wedding.

“Will Sir take coffee in the lounge?” The Agent didn’t lift an eye from his copy of The Sun newspaper. Several other papers also sprawled open across the table. The waiter, standing respectfully a little to his left, awaited a reply.

Oblivious to the Highland Ball, The Agent’s eye rested on a newsprint headline,

‘Hit and Run, Toddler Dies in Mother’s Arms.’

Dishes long since cleared after each course, the cheese board alone remained to accompany a third carafe of vintage red which The Agent had demanded. At least the meal came up to standard. Indeed so satisfying that without noticing he belched loudly. The news, anything but satisfactory. Gulping more wine and scowling at the item, without speaking or looking up, he pointed at the dining table. Completely engrossed, he read and re-read the story.

“As you wish, Sir,” and picking up the crumpled napkin from the carpet, the waiter hurrying to the kitchen, returned with a coffee tray. The last remaining diner, The Agent grunted and waved the waiter away. “The stupid bugger, botched the bloody job,” he muttered aloud, absently pouring another wine, insensible to any music or dancing. ‘The Sun’ gave the most graphic account,

‘BADLY INJURED MOTHER CRADLES DYING DAUGHTER.’ A hit and run driver veered onto the pavement outside an East London kindergarten fatally injuring a four year old toddler and severely injuring his mother. The infant died as the pair lay on the pavement. The mother who herself suffered multiple injuries struggled to support her dying child until the ambulance arrived. The incident occurred as the mother and child were walking home from their local play group. The driver, who has not so far been identified, drove off at speed. A stolen car, thought to be the vehicle involved, was found abandoned three streets away. The mother is in intensive care but not thought to be critical. It is understood the woman works as a secretary in Government security and the police are at her bedside.’

“God, what next?” Only half a fucking job. If that cow squeals to the police?” He swilled his wine, “That bastard music’s getting on my tit. For Christ’s sake, I told him get the bloody woman first. A fifty-fifty job’s no use, worse, when it’s only the brat of a kid.” He raved away to himself. “He needn’t think he’ll get paid. Two thousand down, he’ll bloody well not see the other half, not a chance.”

A half empty carafe, the coffee long cold, what to do? Tomorrow a ferry trip, out to some damned wilderness island. Those computer thick heads back at base had better have it right. He scanned the coded message again. Its gist, a person called Hector MacKenzie fitting the given description travelled to the island of Halasay on June 20
^th
and has not so far left the island by any known form of transport. This man’s whereabouts on that island are not known. As per instructions local police have not been informed. He folded the message, this needed thought.

Opening his wallet The Agent scanned the reservation, “The Castleton Hotel, Isle of Halasay. What the fuck place will that be? Wonder should I cancel this trip? Maybe better to be back at base in case this botched job needs handling at top level. Easy to say I discovered she knew too bloody much, the boss’ll understand, it’ll be a simple fix. He wouldn’t believe her cock and bull story anyway.” In spite of himself he laughed at the analogue. His smile quickly passed, that bastard music really began to annoy him

Coloured light beams still illuminated a dance floor now full of whirling kilts flying at thigh level. Tired of the constraints of long skirts, ladies bottoms gyrated and the dance band, rid of fancy reels and Petronellas, was letting rip. Their interval behind the bar was taking hold.

Leaving his newspapers littering the table, The Agent considered options. Hit the town? No bugger that, it’ll be full of these insufferable bloody Scotch layabouts with their singsong voices. Nightcap? O.K. He swayed to his feet knocking over the half empty carafe. It spilled across the table and dripped onto the carpet. He laughed at it. So like blood. Good, he felt better.

Ignoring the mess The Agent made for the bar. Crossing the dance floor, he pushed between a leg flinging couple doing something approximating to The Charleston. A voice panted, “I say, do you mind?” “Yeah fucking matey I do and I’m not a wanker poncing about in a skirt.”

A sweating barman eyed The Agent, “A large malt and ice, on room eighty-two.” “I’m sorry Sir, don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink?”

At that point a hand gripped The Agents elbow, “I think you owe the lady an apology.” A large flush faced man swam into his sights.

“Don’t you touch me Jocky boy.” Two carafes of wine impaired his aim. The punched flew harmlessly past the dancer’s ear. Two hefty guys materialised.

Sunshine and a splitting head awakened The Agent in room eighty-two.

Sir Joshua Goldberg, dressed only in an embroidered purple bath robe, reclined on a chaise longue, propping his back with oriental silk cushions. Erotic Indian carvings ran along the sofas mahogany sides to curl at the headrest into plump cherubic figures. Lion claw feet supported the significant bulk of a Knight of the Realm.

A spacious room, its discreet uplighting shone from behind palm tree greenery to illuminate massive tapestry drapes which covered the walls and the arched entrance to his bedchamber. Desert scenes of camel trains and turbaned nomads crossing trackless dunes towards lofty turrets and sun baked fortresses, the asceticism depicted somewhat in contrast to rich Turkish carpets providing luxury for Sir Joshua’s bare feet as he padded about the apartment. Intricate patterns indicated the rugs were of unique design. Adding an erotic element to the sumptuous furnishings, from votary urns of glazed clay in each corner there wafted the heady scents of Arabia. Twenty-five stories up in a Manhattan penthouse no disquieting sounds from the unending traffic below, nor indeed the stench of diesel fumes were allowed to penetrate the exotically scented atmosphere. The ambiance of the apartment rivalling the opulence of a desert sheikdom lacked only date palms and a Palomino stallion.