Whirligig (15 page)

‘He's fine,' she said defensively. ‘He doesn't approve of the wind farm. But this is his party, and he won't spoil it. He's far too polite.'

‘Brr,' said Claypole.

‘Hey. Enjoy yourself. Do you want me to guide you around? Introduce you to a few folk?'

Claypole scratched his head and squinted at the sun. ‘I'll just drift around for a bit, and come and find you when I'm…'

‘Oh. OK,' said Coky, and began to retreat awkwardly.

‘I met your aunt,' he called after her.

‘Yeah,' she said. ‘She liked you.'

For the next four hours, Claypole drifted about, determined neither to be bored, nor to resort to seeking Coky's company. He began ill at ease, but tried some tentative conversations. He talked to the man in the boiler suit about oyster farming, and a blonde in an anorak who informed him how to convert a diesel generator to run on chip fat. Then he had a chat with twin brothers. One made drystone walls, and the other was a forester, and they talked over each other. All of them, on hearing of his business in Loch Garvach, gave him their opinions on the subject of wind farms. Then he helped the couple in charge of the barbecue with the logistics of getting 150 people fed, which occupied the time nicely. They were called Joy and Evan, which
Claypole refrained from making a joke about. For that, and for his efforts at the grill, he was awarded a venison steak in a bun and licence to make free with the home-brewed beer. Evan came and sat next to him.

‘How was the venison?' asked Evan.

‘Delicious,' Claypole enthused.

‘Normally these parties are strictly vegetarian. But this was roadkill, so we allow it. Found it on the road. Some idiot had driven over it a lot, but we still got some meat off it.'

As Claypole drank a sea-cooled beer, he watched some children playing in the shallows of the loch. They had invented a game that was a cross between football and water-polo, and it was fun until a girl of nine cut her foot on a razorfish shell. He was relieved when Coky found him again, but tried to appear nonchalant.

‘Hi,' she said. ‘Do you like mushrooms?'

He said that he didn't object to them, but he had just had a venison burger.

‘No, no,' she said, lowering her voice. ‘
Magic
mushrooms?'

He said he didn't know, having never had any.

‘I don't do them any more, but don't let that stop you. Milky says these ones are brilliant.'

In a green camper van, Lachlan was sitting over a calor-gas stove examining a gently boiling saucepan of dark liquid. He did not look up when Claypole and Coky entered. Also staring into the pan was the tall bearded man who had been standing with Lachlan outside the Loch Garvach Hotel. He gave the man a guarded nod.

‘That's Milky,' said Coky.

‘Claypole,' said Claypole.

‘Come on, Milks,' said Lachlan, ‘chop chop.'

‘It's ready,' said Milky gloomily, and began to dole out the brew into plastic beakers. Lachlan pressed a button on an old stereo, and an ominous and heavy bass beat filled the van.

Claypole looked around for a seat, but opted for leaning against a cupboard. He was presented with a pint or so of black steaming cocktail. He sniffed and recoiled.

‘What's… what's in it?' he asked, as nonchalantly as he could.

‘Mushies, red wine, cloves, honey and brandy,' said Milky. ‘My own recipe.'

‘What kind of red wine?' asked Claypole, and wished he hadn't. Not losing face was going to be difficult. He was nervous. He had smoked dope a few times at university, and found himself being hopelessly giggly and then sick. He had also taken a tab of ecstasy once but it had turned out to be a dud.

‘Doesn't matter,' said Milky. ‘It's boiled.'

Claypole looked at the cup again. He saw something bobbing about in it, and dipped his finger in to try and retrieve it, wondering if he could demur from drinking. It was at once slimy and gritty. He looked at Coky, who smiled reassuringly. Then he saw Lachlan trying to suppress amusement. This instantly angered him. Why should this impudent beanpole, this crusty wood-sprite, have knowledge that he did not? How dare he assume the position of superiority? Claypole had drunk champagne with an ITN newsreader, for God's sake! Thus, with a mental holding of the nose, he drank. He didn't quite know what he was expecting – instant transportation to Narnia? – but he definitely wasn't expecting it to taste nice. And yet it did, almost.
A sweet, alcoholic, musty mud. His eyebrows saluted appreciatively.

‘Not bad, eh?' Milky showed his crooked and blackened teeth.

‘It's… awright,' agreed Claypole, giving his own toothless smile.

They all swigged and appreciated the brew. Then Lachlan looked at his watch.

‘Anyway,' he said. ‘it's a party drug. We need to be outside, with people.' And the men all drank up.

Outside the van, night had not yet arrived, but the sun was doing no more than lurking somewhere out of sight. The children had mostly disappeared, and it was now the adults who were running about and laughing. And there was dancing. The four of them – Lachlan, Milky, Coky and Claypole – headed instinctively for the bonfire, which now raged and lit up the rocks and the grass. The vans and tents had miraculously formed a circle. If there were Injuns to repel, Claypole mused, it would be done.

He sat on a bale of hay and watched the fire and the dancing. Coky placed a fresh beer in his hand, although she did not have one herself. The dancing was free-form, with head-waggling and twisting open palms that told of the influence of
bangra
. But there was also a Scottish twist to what some of the dancers were doing. There was the occasional clap, and some were twirling each other, or jigging briefly with their arms in the air and their knees pointing east and west. This was an echo of something more structured – a nineteenth-century formality that seemed out of context. It reminded Claypole instantly of something. Some scene of distant pain, but he couldn't fix the memory in time or place. His head was beginning to feel light.

‘You like that stuff?' he asked Coky.

‘What?'

‘It looks like Scottish country dancing,' he said, and sipped beer nervously.

‘Uh-huh.' Coky was swaying to the music, but she looked very sober.

‘You know how to… do it?' he said, and looked at her.

‘Yeah. Love it. But it's tainted,' Coky said sadly.

‘Eh?'

‘Class.' Coky was now looking at Lachlan, who had suddenly thrown himself into a dance with the chipfat-van woman Claypole had met earlier. There was no sign of Jade the Lover. ‘Only posh people know how to dance, because only posh schools kept teaching it through the seventies, eighties and nineties. Then the Nationalists realised that only English people knew about Scottish culture, and all Scottish kids knew about was American culture. So they started teaching the Eightsome Reel again in primary schools. But anyone of our age who knows how to dance a Reel of the Fifty-First is immediately identifiable as posh. Or English. I'll teach you some time.'

He smiled, terrified.

‘Ach,' she said, her Scottishness leaking out. ‘But not now, eh? Having too much of a good time!' They watched as a heavy man in a fluorescent witch's hat slipped on some seaweed.

‘Do you think you'll stay here? In Scotland?' he asked.

But before she could answer, they were joined by Milky, who sat down on a hay bale.

‘You're the windy man,' Milky said gloomily.

‘Yup,' said Claypole.

‘Lachlan doesn't like wind farms.'

‘Right.' Claypole tried to will Milky away, but the man had no antennae.

‘Says they kill birds.'

‘Oh yeah?'

‘Yeah. He'd like to get a proper job as an ornithologist. But… casual work is all he can get right now. Criminal record, see.'

Claypole's eyebrows rose. Coky patted him on the arm and moved off.

‘Nothin' bad,' continued Milky. ‘Bit of community service. Pickin' up condoms and Lilt cans off the A83.'

Claypole coughed as he watched Coky go. ‘What did he… er…?'

‘Motorin' offences. Didn't pay.'

‘God. And they gave him community service for that?' Claypole was genuinely shocked. Was the system in Scotland so much more draconian than in England?

‘Four hundred and eighty-three fines totalling £31,095.'

Claypole's brow crinkled. Milky sighed as they both watched Lachlan, who had stopped dancing and was now sitting opposite them, out of earshot.

‘He had this scam. Dreamt it up in the pub. It was brilliant. He would say he was driving other people's cars and was responsible for their tickets. Speedin', parkin' and that. They give him the money for the fine, plus ten quid, or a pack of fags, and he'd take care of the fine for them.' He sucked his teeth. ‘But he just kept the money. Never paid the fines. All caught up with him.'

‘I…' Claypole didn't know what to say.

‘Yeah. He's a genius, really.'

During the previous five minutes, Claypole had become aware of a gentle and tickling paranoia. He now had a feeling of light but unshiftable dread, and he realised that the drugs were beginning to take effect. As Milky talked about something or other, Claypole felt some physical symptoms begin. It started in his knees. They became tender, as if the patella and the joint behind it were still notionally under his control, but now had the consistency of a thin stew. This stage did not last long. Shortly, even Milky had stopped talking, and was just staring into the fire. Claypole was suddenly feeling warmed and chummy. He shifted on the hay bale and found that he was perfectly comfortable despite the slight chill of the wind. Incongruously, he found himself thinking of his first car – wondering where it was now. Then he looked around the fire, and decided that they were all quite nice faces and deserved more study. He stood up, then couldn't remember why he had stood up, and sat down again. He began massaging his eyebrows, then his ears.

‘Oh yes,' said Lachlan loudly from across the fire, and closed his eyes in reverie.

The next ten minutes for Claypole were spent trying not to laugh at inappropriate times and trying not to wipe his face with his hands as much as he wanted to. He also found he had incredibly itchy shins, and was scratching them with ursine vigour when Coky arrived at his side. He stood up again and wobbled.

‘Wotcher,' she said grinning. ‘Got any colours yet?'

He looked at her with blind panic as he realised that everything was slightly purple.

‘Oh dear.' Her voice was genuinely concerned. ‘OK, sit down.'

He did so. She said something Claypole could not hear to
Milky, who came immediately to Claypole's side.

‘Listen to me, and listen carefully,' said Milky. He was woozy, but emphatic. Claypole's eyes swivelled and focused on Milky's long, hairy face. ‘You are now on a trip. You need to give in to it. If you fight it, it might cause trouble for you. Nothing very bad, but it just won't be any fun. Don't drink any more. Shoulders back, breathe deeply.'

Claypole nodded.

‘No, I mean it. Do it,' said Milky.

Claypole breathed deeply and straightened his back. He was still nervous, but he did feel slightly better. So he did it again.

‘You should be reassured,' Milky continued in a lulling monotone. ‘People have been taking mushrooms for thousands of years. Egyptians, Romans, everybody. Nothin' bad happens. Or at least, nothin' bad will happen
here
'cos I know what I'm doin'. Psilocybin, which is the active ingredient in the mushrooms, is a psychoactive, or psychotomimetic, substance. This means that it will alter your consciousness. If you are in a bad mood, or you resist, the consciousness that you are brought into will jar with the natural order of things.'

Claypole nodded, not able at that moment to register that he thought Milky to be full of crap.

‘Good. Now that you are not in charge, does that make you feel better?'

Claypole blinked.

‘You're confused. That's OK. Let's us… Let me put it another way…' Milky was beginning to slur his words. ‘You are not in control of this. You can't be. The drug is takin' over. You're still you, but you're you… on a journey.'

Claypole shifted in his seat. His palms were sweating. He said nothing.

‘So, on this journey… does it matter to you that you are not driving?'

Even in this state Claypole could understand that this was a metaphor. He nodded and shook his head at the same time. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Lachlan had started to rock back and forth.

‘Or… no, wait… does it matter to you that you are not the car?' Milky seemed satisfied. ‘You just, ay, um… get acquainted with the High. Know what I mean?'

Claypole nodded, his jaw now stupidly slack. ‘Will I see things?'

‘Nah. I doubt it. I haven't given you enough. No one needs pixies and elves running about the place. But it should be interestin'.'

It was now just the four of them – Lachlan, Coky, Milky and Claypole – sitting on these hay bales. Everyone else was dancing. Suddenly, Lachlan was on his feet.

‘I am Lailoken!' he shouted. The others, including some of the dancers, looked at him with detached curiosity. ‘I am the Merlin of the North!'

‘Oh God,' muttered Claypole, and received a pat on the shoulder from Milky.

‘I roamed the forests and the glens in the days before Union,' Lachlan intoned. ‘Before the Tweed met the Powsail. Before the English came!'

Claypole whispered to Milky. ‘Is this normal?' Milky nodded.

‘I am the prophet, and I roam in penance for the battle I caused! When I meet Kentigern in the wilderness, he will forgive me!' There were sprays of spittle as Lachlan roared.

‘Come on,' said Coky, getting up, and tapping Lachlan on the shoulder. ‘Time to get you to a bed.'