Tricksters (4 page)

‘Shut it,' Murdo said, ‘I don't want to talk about drink.'

‘I'm just asking, that's all,' Rachel said. ‘Although I do say it myself, I know I'm attractive to men. But to you, Murdo, the drink was more attractive.'

‘It wasn't as simple as that.'

‘Wasn't it?'

‘No,' Murdo said. ‘You've got to understand, I had a good reason for going on the drink that night.'

‘What good reason?' Rachel said.

‘The tour was going to come to an end in a few days' time,' Murdo said. ‘All during that day in Golspie, the feeling grew stronger and stronger within me that I was all alone in this world.'

‘All alone?' Rachel said. ‘But the place was jam packed that night.'

‘Before we started,' Murdo said, ‘I was at the door of the committee room peeping out at the people as they were coming in, and I wondered why I couldn't have a
life like them: a cosy little world where you'd be living with someone who loved you and whom you loved back, where you'd do your best, even though you'd never have glorious success.'

‘And?' Rachel said.

‘And I made myself a promise I'd be all right, and I took a dram,' Murdo said.

‘And you got drunk?'

‘Pissed as a newt,' Murdo said.

‘And you carried on like that . . . in Dingwall and Aultbea . . .' Rachel said. ‘Do you know that when you didn't appear in those places I still had to pay for the hall and I had to pay folk back for the tickets they'd bought?'

‘I had no choice,' Murdo said.

‘You're kidding yourself on, Murdo,' Rachel said.

‘How?'

‘You were frothing at the mouth just now telling me how you'd like to have a normal life like other people,' Rachel said. ‘Lies! All your life, Murdo, you've been running away from the world by drinking too much. It's high time you stood up and showed us the real Murdo. The boozing is destroying you . . . and those nearest to you.'

‘This is too hard,' Murdo said. ‘I've got to go.'

‘I can't stop you . . . and I can't help you either,' Rachel said.

‘I know,' Murdo said. ‘This one's up to me.'

‘Murdo, people have been too willing to help you,' Rachel said. ‘That's what's wrong. We're too fond of you, too fond of listening to you when you're on a creative roll, so you've been spoiled by us all. It was too easy for you to get forgiveness, and you got it too often.'

‘I told you already I'd get you the money,' Murdo said.

‘Let's have a proper deal,' Rachel said. ‘You keep sober and get the money. Then I'll give you a reward.'

‘A reward?'

‘I'll give you the chance to make things better between us,' Rachel said.

‘I'll keep off the drink, I'll get the money and . . . then, I'll get . . . the chance of getting close too you again?' Murdo said.

‘I know you need some time to think about it,' Rachel said. ‘It's just a proposal I'm making to you. I know what it's like to be alone.'

‘I'll need to find someone with a fat wallet,' Murdo said.

‘Go,' Rachel said. ‘Remember, Murdo, two o'clock at the latest . . . and “the ocean of a thousand kisses” tonight.'

‘How much did I borr— How much did I steal?' Murdo said.

‘Three hundred pounds.'

‘Well, I'll get us three hundred and fifty,' Murdo said and jumped out the van.

 

That's our Rachel. A tough lady. But she's not without fault herself. She used to smoke and I hated that. I told her it wasn't feminine. She chucked it and she now chews tobacco. Ha ha. Joking, only joking. But, she can be pretty determined when she puts her mind to it. When she wants to be, she can be as tough as . . . well, if you want proof of how tough she can be you don't have to look any further than her future career. She's going to be a lawyer. She's right, though. I've got to pull the pin on the bevvy. I've been going over the score. You don't believe me? You think I like looking like this? I've got heavier on the cigarettes as well. I'm trying to stop smoking. Which is a very hard thing to do. The other night, I did a very stupid thing. I fell asleep with a cigarette in my mouth. I could have set the whole house on fire. I was just lucky, I suppose. I was lying out in the garden path at the time . . . But getting back to the story – money, or lack of it – and me striving to be the man for Rachel that I have always failed to be. So far . . .

Murdo walked straight into the Cocktail Bar of the Tartan Pagoda and took a seat on a bar stool facing Morag, vacuum-cleaner at the port. Morag was an ugly little woman in her seventies. She wore a striped overall and a large, hand-printed identity card that read ‘HOUSEKEEPER'. Behind the extremely thick lenses of her spectacles were the mad eyes of a Presbyterian hysteric.

‘Service? What do you mean you'll give me a servicing twice a year? I'm
Miss
MacIver, and I've never been called
Mistress.'

‘You're telling me you wouldn't fancy me coming over to tune your engine for you?'

‘Bye, pervert!'

‘The engine in the van.'

‘What van?'

‘The van I'm trying to sell you.'

‘Don't be ridiculous, young man. What would I want a van for?'

‘You could go to church in it on a Sunday.'

‘May the Lord forgive you. I
walk
to church.'

‘But maybe you know someone in your congregation who's looking for a van.'

‘Quiet, young man, in case the Lord causes a judgement to be visited upon you. Nobody in our church believes in vans, or in cars or in lorries.'

‘Willie the Tailor down our way thought the same as you. Poor man.'

‘Who's Willie the Tailor and what happened to him?'

‘A holy kind of chap from North Uist who came to a terrible end at Clachan church a year or two back.'

‘How? What happened? What happened?'

‘Well, the service was over about twelve o'clock, and he and a crowd of black Protestants were blethering outside the church right in the middle of the main road. Next thing they see is Calum MacCormack's lorry thundering flat out towards them. The others scattered but poor Willie stood there and said, “I don't believe in you”.
Bang!
A wee bit too late. Archie MacPhee refused to box him . . . and the survivors are still going to counselling classes in Liniclate School.'

‘Why are you getting rid of the van?'

‘I need some money.'

‘What did you do with the money you had?'

‘I gave it away.'

‘To whom?'

‘To the Ethiopians. I saw a programme on the television last night where they were dying of starvation over there, and I felt sorry for them.'

‘And you sent them the money straight away. Bless you. May you find your reward in heaven.'

‘And I enclosed a wee note too.'

‘What did you say in the letter?'

‘I gave them some advice.'

‘Advice?'

‘Yes. I told them not to bother trying to plough or sow in the sand over there. Nothing grows in that soil.'

‘What are they supposed to do?'

‘They've got to go to where the food is. The best thing they can do is buy a ticket to Glasgow. That town is chock-a-block with McDonald's and Burger King and Pizza Hut. They must go on a plane to some place where there's plenty food.'

‘I'd like to go on a plane too.'

‘Where would you go?'

‘I'd go anywhere. I'm sick to the teeth of Skye.'

Murdo glanced at his watch. ‘Me too,' he said. ‘ “Early as I arose refreshed, One May morning in Os, Herds were lowing contentedly, As the sun gilded Leac an Stòir.” '

‘Oh, leave it out,' Morag said. ‘In the summer here all I hear is the quacking of English tourists at Reception complaining, complaining about beds and about meals . . . and if I hear one more person asking for “a half of bitter”, I swear, I'll take the poker off his skull . . .'

‘Aren't you the Christian lady!'

‘I wasn't reared on the Creamola in the Isle of Heather.'

‘You're from Lewis, then?'

‘ “Shawbost is the most beautiful place, The place where I was brought up . . .” '

‘Right.'

‘ “The eternal surge”.'

‘What?'

‘ “Without restraint without mercy pounding the sandy shore”.'

‘Oh, yes. Look, I was thinking . . .'

‘But you're from South Uist, aren't you?'

‘From Benbecula actually – Kyles Flodda, but when I sleep in for good I'll be buried in Nunton. You know, “the township of the old women”?'

‘Who were these old women?'

‘Nuns.'

‘You're, er, a Pa— You're a Catholic, then?'

‘That's what I am, darling. I almost went into the priesthood after I left school, but the Catholic Church rejected me.'

‘Why?'

‘I preferred young girls to young boys.' Murdo spread his arms, palms outward, and raised his shoulders in a gesture of apology. ‘Hey, I'm just winding you up. Sorry.'

‘Do you go to confession?'

‘I used to go.'

‘Oh, I'd love to go to confession. I've got so much to tell.'

‘Really?'

‘Can you take food in with you . . . maybe a blanket and a wee pillow?'

‘Well . . .'

‘I'd love to get the chance to do that.'

‘What?'

‘To open up to someone without considering what they thought of me.'

‘You're right,' Murdo said. ‘It must be great to be able to speak to someone you trust about the little worries that grind you down.'

‘That's what's wrong with folk today. They're drowning in their own thought. They won't share with other people. So, they don't really know who they are. I'll bet you don't know who you are either.'

‘Uh-huh, I can't deny it.'

‘Pedro Gonzalez. “There is a Pedro Gonzalez for everyone, an adequate man, but beneath age and clothing, he has no name . . .” ' the housekeeper intoned breathlessly.

‘I didn't know any of the Gonzalez family. All I heard was that they came from Garryhilly or somewhere like that up in south Uist.'

‘Pablo Neruda, a famous poet from Chile, wrote that, you clown.'

‘Oh, it was the Peterannas from Daliburgh – Uist Builders – I was thinking about,' Murdo said.

Morag spoke apologetically. ‘I'm one of these people who just love to read.'

‘I'm not. Torlum was the school I went to. In Donald Macleod's wee blue bus.'

‘Most of the time it's the Bible I read.'

‘I hate interrupting you but . . .'

‘First Letter to the Corinthians, Chapter Nine, Verse Seven. “It is better to marry than to burn.” '

‘Uh . . . I wanted to talk to you . . . about . . .'

‘Fortunately, I won't burn, though I never did get married.'

‘But you did have a boyfriend at one time, though?'

‘Oh, yes. But I gave him the elbow.'

‘Why?'

‘I caught him in bed with the woman next door.'

‘You must have been hurt to the quick.'

‘No, I was just grateful he'd broken up with the helicopter pilot!'

‘Nice one,' Murdo said.

‘I think it's about time you got married,' Morag said, ‘before you burn.'

‘Who to?'

‘The one you really love with all your heart. You know yourself who she is.'

‘Aw, you know what marriages in the islands are like,' Murdo said, affecting a deep growl. ‘ “Mary, pet, I'm pretty fond of you.” ' He smacked the palm of his left hand with the back of his right, as though delivering a slap to someone. ‘ “And don't you ever forget it!” ' Murdo laughed nervously. Morag didn't.

‘Don't move,' Morag screamed. ‘Keep away from me.'

‘Whoa, lady! I'm not going to touch you.'

‘Make one move, and you'll get a punch from me that'll level you.'

‘Wait a minute . . . All I need is . . .'

‘I know what you need.'

‘You do?'

‘Sure.'

‘So, you know that I'm short of money, don't you?'

‘Is that all?' She paused. ‘Tell me what you really want.'

‘I've told you before. I want to sell something.'

‘Everybody wants to sell something,' Morag said.

‘I'm not like that. Come here, I've got collateral.'

‘What kind of disease is that?'

‘My van. Come over here to the window till you see it.'

‘I'm not moving.'

‘Wait, we've got off on the wrong foot here.'

‘I suppose you're just like that other fellow who works in television – that man in Room 3,' Morag said.

‘No! All I want from you is for you to tell me who's carrying cash around this place.'

‘Cash?'

‘That's it.'

‘You're not going to rape me?'

‘No, indeed I'm not.'

‘I didn't think so. I recognised you had a full heart.'

‘A full heart . . . and an empty wallet.'

‘As soon as I saw you I knew that you were born to love. That you were ruled by the desires of the flesh.'

‘Forget the desires of the flesh,' Murdo said. ‘Look, I've got to be out of this hotel by twelve o'clock. Let's talk about money. Can we?'

‘Okay,' Morag said. She slowly moved to the gantry and poured herself a large drink. She turned towards the motionless Murdo. ‘Fancy a glass?'

‘No, thanks.'

There was a slight pause before Morag spoke again. ‘Are you going on the Lochmaddy ferry?'

‘If I make it onto the boat, I'm going to Tarbert, and then on to Stornoway . . . maybe.'