Nor Will He Sleep

by David Ashton

  Finally the Mistress of the Just Land found a word or two in response.

  ‘Whit – whit put that into your head?’

  ‘Jist answer the question!’

  ‘I have a broken horse tae mend.’

  ‘It’ll keep.’

  Silence.

  She came back a little and looked down at his face, which resembled a lost dog at the races.

  ‘Well?’ he growled.

  Silence.

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Whit was it like?’

  ‘Terrible.’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  McLevy took up the last sugar biscuit and crammed it whole into his mouth. The sight did not entrance.

  ‘Why are you asking?’ said Jean Brash.

  ‘No reason,’ replied James McLevy.

  She peered closer. That damned moustache of his had hidden something, but now it was clear.

  ‘Ye shaved gey close this morning.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘Usually by this time o’ the day, your chin has a blue tinge.’

  ‘That’s nice.’

  ‘And you have a clean collar, now that I think of it.’

  He had muffled up in his heavy coat, but she caught a glimpse of unexpected colour.

  ‘Is that a purple tie?’

  ‘I found it in a drawer.’

  Hannah opened the window again and banged it shut without uttering a word.

  Jean took refuge in mockery.

  ‘You have a’ the symptoms of a braw gallant. Is it for my benefit?’

  ‘It’s no’ for anybody’s benefit,’ he blurted out.

  ‘That’s sad.’

  ‘I jist found it in a drawer!’

  He had, in fact, in front of the breakfast mirror, swithered over the thought that he might visit Jessica Drummond to witness what he hoped might be admiration in her eyes at his part in the freeing of her brother; had thought to dress in such a way that might further augment his standing, but lost the inclination as the morning wore on.

  Jean was certain now that something was going on in his heart in which she did not play a role, and it cut her right through to the core.

  Guilt and hurt.

  Both married to anger.

  For a moment their eyes met, then she turned and walked away abruptly.

  He did the same, but just as he reached the iron gate and wrenched it open, Jean called across the lawn.

  ‘Oh and James – you asked about love? It’s the very devil.’

  Then she wheeled round and the house door slammed, followed seconds later by the crash of the iron gates.

  One of the male peacocks suddenly leapt into the air and landed on a low-lying branch.

  He let out a cry of strangled triumph and the female lifted her head for a moment, no doubt wondering if his passionate assumption would last the course.

  Chapter 35

  Lars Porsena of Clusium

  By the nine gods he swore

  That the great house of Tarquin

  Should suffer wrong no more.

  By the Nine Gods he swore it,

  And named a trysting day.

  Macaulay, Lays of Ancient Rome

  Stevenson had been part of many strange situations in his life, witness his first visit to Silverado, where the deserted mining village perched like a rusty parrot on the shoulder of the North Californian hills, hemmed by rubble, abandoned machinery and poison oak. He had felt immediately at home.

  Now he was a stranger at home and in a predicament that put other geographical vicissitudes to shame.

  He had observed from the window, as the afternoon wore on, a crowd of students of both camps, scarlet and white, faces daubed accordingly, gather in numbers in the street directly before his house.

  In the main the young men were silent, solemn, and though Fanny, Lloyd and his mother openly gawked at the other window, Robert Louis lurked behind the curtain like Polonius, trusting he would not meet the same Shakespearean fate.

  He enjoyed the limelight, but the last time these ruffians had laid hands upon him it had taken divine intervention to save the day.

  No matter they had not known his identity, it would have been small comfort as the cold sea closed around him to hear a distant voice

  Oh dear – that man swallowing half the harbour water – did he not write Kidnapped? Is that the second or third time he’s gone under? I’m sure I know the face!

  A brisk rapping of the doorknocker brought him from this pleasant reverie and Stevenson quickly made his way downstairs lest one of the servants should have to face these looming troglodytes.

  First he took the precaution of grasping one of his father’s heavy walking sticks. It was of teak, with a brass fist at the top, and would serve the purpose.

  When he opened the door, however, rather than a full frontal assault, he was met by the sight of two youths, one red, one white, who had already retreated respectfully half-way back down the path.

  Both held long scrolls and bowed their heads towards him.

  The White Leader was a small, dainty fellow with an elegant cane and curiously crooked leg, but the other was a large, hulking form, whose face Stevenson vaguely remembered hanging over him from the harbour incident.

  Had he not in fact kicked this fellow? On the ear as far as he recollected.

  The writer took a quick glance at the lughole in question and was gratified to see the remnants of a large bluish abrasion.

  As all this flashed through Stevenson’s mind, the White Leader spoke in formal tones, though his eyes had a curious, almost predatory, glitter.

  ‘We are honoured, Mister Stevenson, that you have agreed to act as our judge in these historic proceedings.’

  Act? Judge? Agreed?

  Then Robert Louis recalled with a sinking heart having received, hand-delivered through the letter-box not long after his father had died, an envelope with ornate calligraphy which he had ripped open, glanced at carelessly and thrown aside.

  The words, jumbled in recollection, danced a riotous jig in his head – privilege to Scotland – greatest living offer – author? – to judge between – ancient rivalry – of Runners and Devils – heartfelt thanks – Scarlet and White our final – your decision.

  He glanced up to the window and Lloyd grinned down proudly, excited to see so many of his contemporaries – though his own university studies of engineering theory had foundered on the rocks – on the streets.

  Fanny looked as if she would prefer the company of man-eating sharks and the mother-widow seemed, as usual, to be prepared for an eternity of mourning.

  But Stevenson dearly loved his stepson despite accusations of the youth being lazy, a philanderer and when it came right down to it, not all that clever.

  So for Lloyd’s sake, he nodded gravely and accepted the proffered role in this great drama.

  A cheer went up, then there was silence.

  The writer was presented with a judge’s wig, filched from one of the student’s own fathers, which he donned with appropriate gravity.

  He cut a strange, frail figure, and yet there was a dignity to the man as he lit up a cigarette and waved a languid hand to begin proceedings.

  Daniel Drummond, released from the confines of a prison cell, commenced to orate and minutely describe the exploits of the White Devils. He had won the tossed coin, so his rival Gregor Gillespie, a hulking fellow who had just scraped through his exams, but was indispensable in the front row of the rugby team, had to stand by and grind his teeth.

  As Robert Louis listened to the various feats, one or two of which had a flavour of high adventure and most others being to do with scoring points off the opposition, he noted at the back a few policemen taking up unobtrusive positions.

  The numbers of the students were not above a combined fifty, these being the hard core, but there was no doubt that if a riot took place they might well wreak havoc.

  ‘That’s a dirty lie!’

  To Gregor’s cry of d
eep indignation, Daniel paid no attention and ended the narrative with a flourish.

  ‘Thus I respectfully commend to your lordship the deeds and derring-do of the incomparable White Devils!’

  A ragged cheer went up from his followers, but the massive figure of Gregor Gillespie had not budged.

  ‘A dirty lie,’ he said loudly. ‘We cracked that window and lifted the dummy!’

  The dispute appeared to concern the breaking of a dress-shop window and the purloining of a partly clothed mannequin, which later had been deposited in front of the Register House.

  ‘Indeed you did break the window,’ replied Daniel calmly. ‘But you then ran for your life pursued by the forces of law and order. And while you were thus occupied, we rescued the poor lady and left her where she might be inserted into the archives.’

  More laughter and cheers from the white faction did not improve Gregor’s temper.

  ‘Ye performed such on our coat-tails, too feeble for strong action. Cowards to a man!’

  Daniel’s eyes narrowed and an insulted growl arose from his followers.

  ‘I think, gentlemen,’ said Judge Stevenson in conciliatory tones, ‘you might leave the discrimination of events to your appointed officer and merely relate the facts.’

  The tension faded a little but, though there had been at the outset of the contest good-natured horseplay between the factions, as the days wore on the physical striving had become more and more bruising. Now, at the end – though they may not even have been aware of it – both parties were spoiling for a fight.

  Young men are often so.

  Unaware and potentially violent.

  Stevenson took another long drag at his cigarette, tapped the ash daintily upon the cracks in the family path, and waved his hand to indicate the renewal of proceedings.

  He also remarked that a few more police had joined a few more police, which is never a good sign.

  So – on with the motley.

  Gregor coughed importantly and unravelled the scroll, which in truth was almost twice the length of his opponent’s and looked more than a little absurd as it trailed to the ground.

  The unravelling of subsequent events was, sadly, to do with a pea.

  Nothing more heroic.

  One of the White Devils had felt the force of Gregor’s fist in the previous rammy by the harbour and borrowed his younger brother’s pea-shooter that very morning.

  He rested it lightly on the shoulder of the fellow in front, took aim, puffed out his cheeks and let fly.

  It was a hard pea, nutritious in days long gone, but not unlike a miniature cannon-ball as it sped through the air and smacked into the tender flesh just by the ear, where a certain famous writer had already landed his boot.

  Gregor let out an outraged howl and, since no-one but he and the shooter knew the cause, appeared to jump spasmodically as if suffering some delusion or perhaps had been stung by an early horse-fly.

  A clegg is the name in Scots for something that sucks blood and leaves a lump.

  The recipient cut a far from dignified figure, and Daniel could not restrain a snort of amusement.

  Stevenson sighed. In his time he had experienced a student fracas or two and if this one took off, it would be a hell-broth.

  Take off it did.

  Gregor swiped mightily at Daniel. A punch that, had it connected, might have wrenched his head near off his shoulders – but it did not.

  The slighter figure ducked nimbly, then lashed out with the thin cane he had used to support himself during the formalities.

  It was aimed at the side of the assailant’s neck, but glanced off the shoulder and hit the man flush in the side of the face, leaving a white welt as the scarlet paint peeled off under the force of the strike.

  Gregor’s second roar of anguish operated like a signal for hostilities to begin.

  As Daniel skipped off into the street, pursued by the vengeful ogre, a rammy of mammoth proportions commenced.

  Scarlets and Whites threw themselves at each other tooth and nail, all protocol forgotten, the scrolls dropped and trampled underfoot as fists and boots flew.

  Whereas their previous skirmishes had an element of ritual posturing, this was savage and bloody.

  Noses were broken, teeth were smashed, and to fall was to suffer badly damaged ribs as kicks rained in.

  Stevenson lit up another cigarette and watched quietly; it would seem that the primitive side of man was never far distant and that Mister Hyde was having a field day.

  Further oil on the flames was the intervening of the previously undetected police; at first outnumbered and suffering a violent buffeting as they tried to separate the warring factions, then augmented by reinforcements led by two figures with which the writer had enjoyed some previous experience.

  Daniel had been pushed to the ground, collar wrenched and torn as he looked up to see a Scarlet looming above, face distorted with anger and hatred.

  ‘Smart boy, eh?’ said the other, kicking Daniel hard in the gut and doubling him over in pain.

  Daniel knew this man, had seen him in the university, a decent type, but now unrecognisable, a brutish adversary.

  ‘See how you like this, smart boy!’

  As the other lifted his foot to stamp down on Daniel’s crippled leg, an iron hand smacked into the attacker’s face, almost paralysing him with the force of the blow.

  The man was then pitched into the arms of some waiting constables and Daniel hauled to his feet.

  He found himself facing James McLevy.

  ‘Ye’re handy wi’ that wee stick, I notice,’ said the inspector with a sardonic grin. ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  Daniel found he was still clutching the cane, but before he could make response McLevy hurled him contemptuously off in one direction before plunging back in the other to rejoin the fray.

  An angry fire burned at the back of the young man’s eyes, to be treated so, to be so humiliated – he saw the hulking shape of Gregor making towards him, but then was grasped firmly by the shoulders and hustled from the fever pitch of conflict.

  Alan Grant was by his side, face a little bloody from a cut under the eye.

  ‘We don’t need any more trouble, Daniel,’ he shouted above the noise. ‘This is out of your control now.’

  For a moment Daniel stiffened, remembering what he considered a betrayal by Grant, but he saw nothing in the other’s eyes save concern and friendship.

  Enough was enough.

  Though the bitter anger still burned.

  Always.

  ‘I am inclined to agree,’ he replied formally, and the two slipped away out of sight before a stray representative of the law might think them fair game.

  Just before escaping, Daniel glanced back to where Stevenson stood, and was rewarded with an ironic bow.

  He responded in kind, and for a moment there was contact between them.

  Gregor meanwhile knocked a young policeman to the ground and howled like a Berserk.

  Mulholland could scarce believe his eyes.

  ‘Ballantyne!’ he called out. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

  ‘They ran short of numbers,’ gasped the constable.

  ‘Don’t move!’

  There wasn’t much danger of that, since the boy was badly winded, but Mulholland had little wish to be distracted.

  ‘I am afraid, sir,’ he said politely to Gregor, ‘that you may have stepped beyond the boundaries of the law. That being the case, I’ll have to be arresting you where you stand.’

  The big man had blood in his eye and saw only a bean-pole with a fair complexion like some country bumpkin.

  He charged forwards and was hit precisely between neck and shoulder by a hornbeam stick that was as hard as the hand of God. As Gregor tried to haul great bucketfuls of air into his lungs, the stick came down on his other side with equal force and, like a stricken oak, the great leader of the Scarlet Runners fell to earth.

  Mulholland levered Ballantyne up to his feet. />
  ‘Go and find a quiet corner,’ he advised sternly. ‘Do not move from there until I give you word.’

  The young fellow hung his head, birth-mark pulsating down the side of his neck.

  ‘Don’t be hammering at yourself now,’ said Mulholland in more kindly tones. ‘The only thing you lack is the one thing I would never wish you to possess.’

  ‘Whit’s that, sir?’

  Mulholland picked up the carcass of Gregor by the leg, and, as he prepared to depart, whispered a response.

  ‘Violence. Terrible violence. But luckily or otherwise for yourself, you have to be born with it.’

  ‘And whit about you, sir?’

  ‘I’m never really quite sure.’

  McLevy at that very moment was bringing together a Scarlet and White pair who had previously been fighting, but found themselves at the beck and call of a greater force.

  This power crashed their bodies into each other with wounding velocity.

  Both toppled to the cobblestones and as they did, the inspector looked around to see that the battle was losing intensity, bodies scattered round like a haphazard harvest.

  He became aware of scrutiny and saw the figure of Stevenson, judge’s wig slightly askew, regarding him from a distance.

  ‘I declare this contest to be level-pegging!’

  Having made this announcement to the unheeding throng, the man smiled, waggled fingers at McLevy, and then walked back into his house as if – the entertainment was over.

  As if – and this dark thought occurred suddenly to the inspector – Robert Louis had brought it all into being.

  Further down the road, towards Albany Street, three of the Runners ran for their life and crossed paths with a burly figure and diminutive companion.

  One of the Scarlets, having been deep in the conflict and received more than a few merited vicious kicks and punches, had decided to leave war to its own devices, but nevertheless recognised the smaller figure.

  ‘Tom Carstairs!’ he shouted. ‘You should have been there to support your brothers. You are a coward, sir!’

  The burly man stepped forward, one of his arms hanging limply by the side.

  Without further ado and with the good limb, he hit the accuser a blow on the chin that lifted the man off his feet and dumped him senseless upon the ground.