White Knuckle Ride

by Alan Carter

  ‘We’ll see aboot that.’ He looked towards the table. ‘Karushi?’

  The Indian whose name was evidently Karushi, had an eyeglass to his eye, examining the stones. He scratched one with a metal prod.

  Dave thought he heard a thump outside. Maybe dripping water. Margaret seemed to have heard it too.

  The Scot was watching Karushi. ‘Well?’

  ‘Mostly shit,’ he said in his thick London accent. He flicked a smaller rock away. It shimmered. ‘This one’s gem quality. The rest are industrial. And no pinks as requested.’

  Dave nodded knowingly.

  ‘Speak fookin’ English.’

  ‘Geologically, these are them. A lot of fuckin’ fuss for not too much. But it’s what the Gov ordered.’ He shrugged, good soldier.

  Another thump. Then a loud voice outside. It was a woman, yelling in Dutch.

  The Scotsman looked up.

  In spite of her rather tight skirt, Margaret launched a sudden but seemingly precise kick, karate style, into his knee.

  He fell to the floor, groaning. She picked up her handbag and stepped smoothly up over him onto the steps. He grabbed her ankle before she could go further, but Dave launched himself across the room onto his shoulder. Margaret scampered up the steps.

  Dave heard her say, ‘I owe you one, Angus.’ He didn’t have time to reply, because something hit him on the head.

  Dave woke but didn’t open his eyes. He could hear a familiar Scottish voice. ‘Och, naw, Mr Dewar. He was as surprised as anyone. No’ t’first lad to be ripped aff by his dick.’ Dave could feel the slight movement of water under the barge. He was shivering.

  A voice talked through a phone like the echo of an angry bee. Dave opened one eye. He was on a mobile. ‘Ye wahnt ah tae dae ’im and bring t’stones?’

  Dave tried to see if there was anything he might use as a weapon.

  ‘Oh aye.’ He clicked off.

  Karushi said, ‘So, you doing him, Campbell?’

  The Scotsman, who now finally had the name of Campbell, said, ‘We’re tae bring ’im tae Glasgow. Have ye got t’condoms?’

  Dave sat up. ‘Whoa there. Now I know this is Amsterdam, but …’

  ‘Doon’t flatter yirself, Angus. Get dressed. What did ye think ye were goonae dae wi’ that wee thing?’

  ‘It’s cold.’

  As Dave got dressed, Karushi funnelled batches of the tiny stones into each condom.

  ‘Hope ye’ve an appetite,’ said Campbell pulling a bottle of scotch from the briefcase. He filled a tumbler and pushed it across the table towards Dave.

  ‘Good news, Angus,’ said Karushi. ‘We thought we’d have to do this.’

  Dave took a gulp of the whisky. ‘So how much money, again?’

  ‘Twenty thousand.’

  Dave eyed the growing pile of condoms.

  ‘And we won’t kill you.’

  Dave stood uneasily near the departure gate in Schiphol. His legs were rubbery, partly from all the whisky he’d drunk, but also from the strange sensations the lumps in his stomach were causing.

  Karushi pushed a cheap backpack under his arm. ‘The hotel address is in the bag.’

  Campbell patted him on the shoulder. ‘Ye wait there until we come. Naw wee love affairs.’

  Dave nodded. He was pushed towards the departure gate. He walked very carefully.

  He sat very still on the plane. He didn’t try to make new friends.

  He asked the taxi driver in Edinburgh to go round corners as slowly as he could.

  He stood against the wall of the charmless white and magenta room of the Jurys Inn trying to work with rather than against the movements inside his body. There was a faint smell of vinegar somewhere in the room. The condoms of rough diamonds continued their slow progress like obese worms heading south. The whisky had worn off.

  The battered telephone shrilled centimetres from his ear.

  The vigorous Australian voice at the other end said, ‘Ken, it’s Bruce. A quick call while you’re alone. Mal’s still in hospital in the Netherlands, but he’ll be here soon. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ said Dave.

  ‘I’m still with you, mate.’

  ‘Mate.’

  ‘Here they come.’ Bruce rang off.

  Dave had no idea who Bruce was or why he had called or who Mal was, but he’d sounded Australian and that was comforting so many kilometres from home.

  The hotel room door opened and the Glaswegian Campbell and London-Indian Karushi walked in to find Dave holding the phone.

  ‘For fook’s sake, whit’s going on noo?’

  ‘Room service. I … more whisky?’

  Campbell studied him, but Dave closed his eyes, still standing.

  ‘Naw, ye already have a full toommy. It’s time to retrieve oor packages.’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of bad news about that. I’m not ready.’

  There was a pause. Dave heard the telephone dialling.

  ‘We’re here, but we have a wee hold-up. The stupid bastard’s constipated.’

  Dave could hear the other side of the conversation. Another Scottish voice. ‘Noo matter. T’woman in Holland bothers me. Bring him tae Perth. Ah’ll meet ye at Scone Castle.’

  ‘Scone Castle!’ exclaimed Campbell.

  ‘Aye. I want ye tae take t’train up. Look tae see if ye’re being followed. There’s something no’ right here.’

  Karushi fed Dave Indian takeaway on the train up to Perth. There were lots of lentils. ‘To get things moving, like.’

  An ancient castle crouched atop an outcrop above Stirling. It had clung there for centuries, a piece of historic tenacity that Dave found alarming. Each bump and roll of the train brought aftertastes of the Indian food. Dave sweated. Dave winced. Dave tried not to think about anything, especially when the train entered tunnels.

  On another day Dave might have been quite interested to discover that there was another place called Perth in the world. He might have relished the ancient stone wall the taxi drove through and the ivy-covered battlements and lush grounds of Scone Castle. But today he had more immediate concerns. There were tourist buses in the car park and a line of old people winding towards four portable loos not quite hidden behind a screen of bushes. They were frail people easily pushed aside by a driven younger man.

  ‘I gotta go,’ said Dave.

  ‘No’ yet,’ said Campbell.

  They led Dave, who walked with a stoop, towards a small church on a small hill in front of the castle.

  A ruddy man in his mid-fifties sat on a worn sandstone block. ‘Angus, or should ah say Ken,’ he said in the thick Scottish accent Dave had heard on random telephones across the globe. The man stood and raised his arms to encompass all that they could see. ‘Welcome tae centre of Scotland, laddie. Home tae oor true government for at least thirteen hundred years.’

  ‘Uh, huh.’

  ‘Ah’m James Dewar and this hill is Boot Hill because t’lords of every kingdom would regularly arrive here and empty their boots of dirt. Dirt from their own dear lands tae swear fealty tae their king. And over centuries they made this hill.’

  ‘Yup,’ said Dave, when Dewar paused.

  ‘And noo ye’ve brought a little of yir own land here, and ah need ye tae empty yir boots, so tae speak.’

  ‘Gladly.’ Dave looked hopefully towards the tourist line at the toilets down the hill.

  ‘This stone is a copy.’ Dewar was pointing to the sandstone block he’d been sitting on. ‘T’Stone of Scone is where oor kings were made, but fookin’ Edward ripped it off. Held it, and Scotland, tae ransom in fookin’ Westminster Abbey.’

  ‘Ah, about emptying my, ah, boots.’

  ‘Oi. Ah huvnae finished. Ye see t’Scots heard Edward was a coomin’, so ye think they let him get t’real stone?’ Dewar tapped the side of his nose and grinned like an insane person. ‘It’s somewhere, but no’ in Westminster and no’ in Edinburgh.’ He tapped his nose again, leering at Dave. ‘T’Scottish huv nivver given up on oor fight wi�
�� England.’

  ‘Good for you.’

  Dewar looked at Dave with clear disappointment. He looked at Campbell and Karushi and then back at Dave. ‘Ah wis led tae believe Australians are noo friend tae English.’

  ‘Um, well, you know. I think we got a lot of it out of our system when we made Breaker Morant and started winning at the cricket.’

  Dewar looked confused.

  Dave said, ‘I’m more a mercenary than a revolutionary. Sorry.’

  Dewar threw his hands up in disgust. ‘Aye.’ He said to Karushi, ‘Over t’graveyard.’

  Dave turned and started trotting down the hill, like a hobbled prisoner, towards where Dewar had pointed. On consideration, he’d take the graveyard, even if it meant death. Two young hikers who had been taking photographs of the chapel scrambled back away from them. One looked vaguely familiar.

  Karushi caught up with Dave and directed him under an arch and around into the old much-breached wall of the cemetery. He handed Dave a plastic shopping bag and pointed to some particularly high moss-covered headstones.

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  ‘Hurry up before the tourists come.’

  ‘No peeking.’

  Karushi turned away.

  Dave got behind the largest headstone and took down his pants and felt a surge of relief. But then the relief was replaced by pain, the pain of attempting to squeeze particularly large, non-viscous …… camels through the eye of his needle.

  Dave and Karushi headed back, Karushi holding the plastic bag out in front of him, as far as his arm would allow.

  Dewar and Campbell met them on the path near the entrance to the castle. When Karushi handed over the bag Dewar exclaimed, ‘Ye could huv washed it.’

  ‘Where?’ Karushi wiped his hands on the stone block.

  Dave, who felt bruised and abused but otherwise better, said, ‘Well, I’ve done my bit. More stones for Scotland and all that. Go the revolution. Now will that be cheque or cash?’

  Dewar looked around in alarm. ‘No’ here, man. Go wi’ t’lads. There’s a hire car in t’car park.’

  ‘What, I can poop here, but not get paid?’

  ‘Go wi’ Campbell, Ken.’ Dewar turned away, holding the bag out to his side, downwind from his nose.

  Dave was pushed to a tiny jellybean of a hire car, a bright blue Ford Ka. Campbell looked at the key and then the car with disgust. ‘In t’ back, Angus.’

  ‘Look, I’m sure you fellas need to get on with things. So, here’s fine. It doesn’t have to be exactly twenty thousand pounds. A tip for your trouble is only fair.’

  ‘Shut up,’ said Campbell pulling back his jacket to reveal the gun Dave had always suspected he had.

  ‘How about this? You keep everything. And I’ll chalk it up to experience. With gratitude. I’m an older and wiser man.’

  ‘Get in the back.’

  Dave got into the jellybean blue Ka, and thought quickly of many things, none of which would save his life, but all of which he would try.

  (From Now Showing, short fiction, 2013.)

  ROBERT EDESON

  THE WEAVER FISH

  Within the opaquely threaded dialects of the Ferendes, and in all the languages of all the coasts that share their latitude, there must be ten thousand distinct words for weaver fish. More words than reported sightings. More words than actual fish by now, possibly. And more words than the number of fishermen who have use of them.

  The latter is logically, if speculatively, explained by Thomas MacAkerman’s observation that each person uniquely owns a private, talismanic name, as well as sharing the communal vocabulary, itself vast. Since MacAkerman’s time, the accumulated effort of a distinguished rollcall of anthropologists, sociologists, and linguists has generated no more plausible a theory.

  More surprisingly, modern oceanography and marine biology, for all their sophistication, seem to have advanced our knowledge of the fish itself not at all. Except, of course, to amplify its mystique and elusiveness. No specimen having been caught and dissected, there is yet no scientific nomenclature, no genus, no species. Acarcerata textor might serve, when the need arises.

  MacAkerman was a physician and amateur naturalist, of catholic interests and impressive breadth of scholarship, who accompanied Captain Joseph on HMS King of Kent for two voyages, in 1816 and 1819. An enthusiast of the new sciences, he was apparently a brilliant popularist and quite famous for his public lectures. These, unfortunately, were never edited for publication, though their quality can be inferred from the comments of contemporary diarists. He did author several papers and monographs on varied subjects, but in respect of the weaver fish only two primary sources survive. One is a short entry, bearing his initials, in the first (and only) edition of the New Scottish Encyclopaedia. The second is a letter in the Transactions of the Philosophical Society of Edinburgh, of April 1823. MacAkerman there describes how, shortly after sunrise on Greater Ferende, he was exploring the littoral for crab species when he ‘occasioned’ on a large sea-pool, sequestered from the receding tide by a sandbar, and

  about a half-fathom in depth at its most. My attention being focused in pursuit of the crustaceans, their size and colour and actions, I did not at first see something altogether more interesting, which I took then to be some optical phenomenon of the sand and water. I walked the circumference of the pool, to see it vary in place and intensity, and with light in front and behind. It took many minutes to discern, and then only in half belief, that I was seeing fish swimming, many hundreds of them, and of the most transparent substance imaginable, except for small eyes, themselves faint, so that what I had witnessed was the movement of eyes, and a changing refraction of the pool sand of great subtleness. My interest in crabs for the moment set aside, I watched for perhaps a half hour, then something impelled me to throw dry bread into the centre, expecting I don’t know what, but I hoped for some intensification of visible movement. What did follow I could not have expected, for I could not wildly invent the sight, nor would I wish to, for it recurs to me in most distressing images and waking dreams these last seven years. The bread floated for some moments in several pieces, without noticeable disturbance, nor any interest of the fish. Then a solitary gull, to whose aerial squawks I had been only half attuned, plunged at the feast, and rather than plucking one bit in flight, settled on the water, intending, I fancy, to enjoy the multiplicity. Then followed an event I would wish on no man’s conscience, and I am sorely in need to expunge from mine. In an instant the water rose in symmetry around the gull, but it was not water, but a mass of fish stacked high, as well as I could see from the disposition of their eyes and the faintness of their bodies, in intercrossing alignments of great discipline that was surely not accidental. The wretched bird attempted flight, but to nought avail, as its legs seemed bound in a viscous gel. Then the fish trap (I should call it) rose higher to the full measure of its hapless victim, which soon became lifeless, appearing I thought as encased in ice fully a half foot above the water surface. The orchestration of the trap was now more evident, fish bodies tightly woven crisscross, like warp and weft, but layered, as a solid tapestry might be made, and quite still. And before my eyes, the gull dissolved. I repeat, the beast dissolved in minutes to skeleton alone, but for a strange purple colouration (which I would name Tyrian) surrounding it. Then abruptly, as if on some regimental bugle call, the whole edifice unweaved, the pool returning to its former state but for the gull bone sinking unimpeded at its centre, not five yards from where I stood.

  I confess then to great perturbation in my heart. Where previously I had thought lightly of entering the water for the better inspection, I was now repelled, I should say fearful, and stepped back from its edge. For if they could rise so deliberately above its surface, could they not breach its boundary also? After some minutes of composure, and my anxieties abated, I resolved to learn more, and taking from my wares a fine pole net I set about straining the shallows from a discreet distance. To my delight I soon scooped one, a half ya
rd in length as they had all appeared, and held it up for transport to the sand. But to my astonishment and sore disappointment this triumph was quickly reversed. For the fish, which made no movement throughout, took on the purple hue that I had noted earlier, though more intensely, seeming to secrete or gurgitate a slime that I can only guess was some digestive acid of the greatest potency, for almost in a second the fabric of my net was burnt and through its deficiency so effected my captive escaped, falling to the water where it was instantly invisible. Standing there, with my net made useless for its purpose, I admit to the strangest feeling of defeat and perplexity, which in all my years of collecting God’s creatures has no equal before or since.

  MacAkerman goes on to describe further unsuccessful attempts to ensnare a specimen, but his efforts were eventually frustrated by the returning tide. It is difficult now to judge how this account was received. It was a time of a growing culture of wonder at the natural world, with a proliferation of gentleman scholarship that was rarely challenged. The last vigorous debate was on infinitesimals, and the next would be evolution. The modern critical discourse of science was in its infancy. Thus there was no subsequent correspondence on the topic in the Transactions or any other journal. None of this, of course, should be taken to impugn the accuracy of MacAkerman’s report. He was, from all the evidence, a man of unimpeachable integrity and intellectual rigour whose contribution to the sciences has few parallels in his era. Only many years later, and then only in the practice of medicine, was his judgement disordered by the cruel and tormenting decline of his final illness.

  There is no doubt that MacAkerman’s discovery had a profound influence on him. In a public lecture series of 1824 (abstracted by the canal engineer James Lypton in his Journal of that year), he explained his motivation for the second voyage in 1819 as ‘to further my researches in the natural history of the weaver fish’ (the exact wording may be Lypton’s). As it turned out, he never did acquire the specimen for which the Old World museums would have bid dearly; indeed he reported no further observations with any confidence.