Sun Dance

by Iain R. Thomson

  “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 20th 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.

  The Scientific Advisor to Nuen reached for a grape from the Venetian bowl at his elbow. The bath robe fell open revealing Sir Joshua’s thin legs and hairy paunch. He tapped a number into his mobile, “Nicky, so pleased to get you, sorry it’s so late,” he paused to listen, a smile crossing his face, “Yes, perhaps, why not taxi across for a night cap,” and smiling wider as he listened again, “Well, if you’re in that frame of mind, you never know. Yes Nicky, see you in ten minutes.”

  The advisor scratched his stomach, ate another grape and feeling for the remote control turned down the lighting to a flattering softness. This needed careful handling, on several fronts. He pulled his bath robe together as the intercom bleeped.

  Nicky’s voice sounded, “Come on up Nicky.” Sir Joshua crossed to the door. His visitor came gushing into the apartment, slacks and open shirt obviously thrown on in a hurry. Towering over the rotund Goldberg, he bent and they embraced affectionately, “Josh, it’s always a thrill to see you, and dressed so appropriately,” he ran his hand down the scientist back

  “Nicky, Nicky, behave,” Sir Joshua disentangled himself, “there’s a good chap, we must talk a little business,” and patting the couch, “sit here and be good.”

  Nicky Fellows sat as he was told, casually draping an arm over his friend’s raised knees. Tall and baby faced, dyed blonde hair, carefully crimped, a loose mouth weak and effeminate, his otherwise small and even features were marred by a slight boss-eye. One of the more influential board members at Nuen, he also directed the billion dollar funds of an international investment company with offices in London and New York. The pair had been friendly, on and off, for years.

  Handing his companion a bunch of grapes, after a few pleasantries, Goldberg began cautiously, “I see Nuen shares have dropped nearly forty percent over the past three months. Chairman Andy is a very worried chap. It’s rather a spectacular fall don’t you think?”

  Nicky smiled with feigned innocence. They might be close friends and fond of Josh as he was, the nature of his business intervened. Disclose nothing, trust nobody, “Yes,
surprising isn’t it.”

  “How far down d’you reckon they go, Nicky?” Goldberg drew up his knees a shade further allowing his robe to fall open a little. An excited Fellows moved closer, “Oh, maybe another twenty percent, I suppose they might drop to three dollars over the next week or so, once things start, who would know,” he stroked Josh’s leg.

  Goldberg smacked the hand away and spoke harshly, “Look Nicky, when they hit a three dollar low I’ll promptly call for an extra-ordinary meeting of the Board. I want a vote of no confidence in the Chairman organized and passed, without fail, before there’s any chance of an outside rally,” he leaned forward and caught Nicky’s plump cheeks, “and, no fooling about, leave the buy back to me,” and with a final tweak “rest assured it’ll be your own interests.”

  Nicky pouted, “Joshy, don’t worry,” and coyly he slipped his hand under the bath robe, “you know Josh I’m always your big friend.”

  They sat silently for several minutes until with edginess Nicky drew away his hand. “But don’t be greedy Josh, think of me.” At that he became serious, “It’s very, very high risk, took a heap of borrowing to get the price down, even to today’s level. It’s an art, Josh. Sell shares too fast, and all the noses are sniffing the wind. Might take another sale, then a small buy back to steady the price, before the big off load. You sure of your backing, if you get my nod?” and realizing he’d said more than was wise he stood up, glaring down on Goldberg, “This conversation hasn’t happened, don’t speak to me again about it.”

  Sir Joshua swallowed hard and nodded. Looking viciously at his host now squirming uncomfortably on the couch, Fellows added, “Make no mistake, Josh, I need a lot of fun out of this little run.” There could be no doubting the menace. “Make one mistake my dear friend and you’ll know where to find your paddle,” Goldberg shuddered and straightened his legs

  Fellows measured his words, “And I mean a lot for this little game, if not it’s curtains for more than Anderson.”

  And catching Goldberg gently by the hand his guest turned to a wheedling manner, “Come on Joshy, cheer up, that’s business over for tonight, now be a sport and we can be friends again.”

  Squeezing the Scientific Advisor’s clammy hand, he drew him towards the bedchamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Briefcase

  At breakfast on the morning after my musical engagement with Eilidh’s brother in The Castleton I’d disclosed my full ambitions to Eachan, “Maybe you’ll think the idea’s not practical but I fancy living on Sandray, I’d like to see the old house a home again.” Approval was instant. “On you go, boy, you’re the man for Sandray and good luck. I’ll help you all I can,” he’d said, unable to hide the enthusiasm of someone half his age. The prospect of Sandray being home once more to a MacKenzie after nearly a century fired Eachan’s thoughts. No mention of Eilidh of course but as Ella sat porridge down before us I thought I spotted a hint of womanly knowing in her smile.

  Whilst we ate I learnt that Eachan owned the old Sandray house and its byre. In Norse style his forebears and their cattle had lived in a longhouse for more generations than he knew and as the old man had told me with bitterness in his words, “My great grandfather was to lucky escape the Highland Clearances, Sandray was too remote for the landlord to bother about.” The harsh treatment metered out to Highland families in the eighteen hundreds left an indelible mark.

  English nouveau riche land owners and sometimes Clan Chiefs with the support of Church Ministers fearing loss of their stipends, had ordered Highland estates cleared of people. Border sheep farmers, able to pay higher rents than the indigenous population, moved their stock onto grazing left fertile by the cattle economy of droving days. People out, sheep in. Many families physically evicted from ancestral homes had thatched roofs burnt over their heads and cattle taken to pay arrears of rent. Listening to Eachan I realized that the minds of both those who escaped dispossession and those who filled the emigrant ships remained deeply scarred. The New World and the Antipodes got a blood transfusion and the Highlands got the destructive mono-culture of sheep.

  All was not lost. In recognition of the parlous position of those remaining on the land Parliamentary legislation granted them the security of tenure for their crofts in perpetuity. Furthermore in many areas of the Highlands the Government took ownership of the land. Halasay, along with the whole of Sandray came under Government ownership and thanks to the guaranteed tenure, Eachan inherited from his father both the croft of Ach na Mara and Sandray. Significantly the tenancy of the island could pass to his successor. Little then did I appreciate this gem of information.

  The old boy sat before a half finished plate of porridge. I knew the signs, his eyes focused on an inner scene and keen as always to share the view, he began, “The old house is in fair condition, plenty fit to live in. Tigh na Cala, that was the name my grandfather and his people before him had on it, House of the Haven. Tigh na Cala,” he repeated it fondly, going on slowly, “If you follow those marks heading south across the fields, it’s the track to what was once a clachan, you’ll find plenty of foundations, aye and maybe still the odd gables standing. I haven’t been over to that side of the island since we gathered the sheep for the last time and ferried them over here and that’s how many years ago now Ella?”

  His wife spread her hands on the table, “If you start a story now, Eachan, the rest of your porridge will be stone cold before you’re half finished.” Pretending annoyance, he put an old and worn hand over hers, “Quiet woman, I’m only telling the boy what he needs to hear. There’s a burying ground on a cnoc up from the village, that’s where your great grandfather’s buried, him that was drowned out in the Sound. The clachan’s almost buried as well. A southerly gale, takes the top off the dunes. My grandfather carted away the best of the stone, put gables to the Tigh na Cala, raised the walls, put on a new roof and so forth. What a pair of hands was on the bodach.” Maybe hands follow families. As he spoke I looked from Eachan’s to mine; certainly my own had some way to go before they would look as useful.

  “That clachan, a dozen or more houses, there’d been people living in it I’m sure since thousands of years, probably since the Iron Age, there’s standing stones out on a flat to the west. You see their land lay to the south, fine for the crops but the landing is exposed.” The length of Eachan’s stories being unpredictable, Ella poured a cup of tea and sat.

  “Anyway it was the Viking that took it over. I dare say they thinned out the folks, but that south beach wouldn’t have suited their longboats, the east side of the island has more shelter and its to there they went to farm. The outline of a Viking longhouse is there yet, easily seen by the overgrown mounds. Far bigger house than the Celts ever built. But the finest shelter on the island, yes and as good as anywhere in the Hebrides, is in the bay below the house where you’re planning to live. You see, Tigh na Cala and the ground they farmed about it was a Viking homestead and according to the old grandfather, the original house was the hall of a chief.”

  He allowed that bit of folk lore to sink in, “You know and it could be in ourselves. The Norse weren’t great for living in communities, they liked to have plenty land round about them and keep a mile or two between themselves and their neighbours,” he winked at me, “except when there was a party on the go.” I laughed and rose from the table.

  No hesitation, that morning I started. Eachan responded immediately, “You’ll need to take the tractor to Castleton.” I plundered my bank card. All manner of tools, spade, pick and shovel, coils of piping to take water to the house, a surprise for Eilidh’s return; food supplies, porridge oats high on the list; corned beef, packet soup, candles, outboard fuel, dozens of items, plus a pail of salt herring from Ella; all stowed under a bulging tarpaulin aboard Eilidh’s sturdy sixteen foot dingy. She lacked the length of the ‘Hilda’ but could carry enough to keep me fed and busy for a month.

  No telephone, mobile or modern means of contact. Slack water, middle-day, Eachan
’s final words were simple, “Watch the tides, put a white sheet out on the headland if there’s any problem. That’s the way they signalled across in my young days.” He stood a moment, lifted a hand and turned away, his step heavy with thoughts. I sailed the Sound, into a new life.

  Anticipation turned to excitement, any tiny doubts swallowed by enthusiasm. Up from Sandray jetty I lugged tools, supplies and the piping. By late afternoon the rolled out coils of pipe stretched along the track to a pool in the burn. My private water system would need a small dam, stone and concrete, maybe a settling tank. I poured water in the end of the pipe and ran down to the house. A dribble wet the ground at the gable. Gravitation worked! Two hundred yards of digging would put the pipe out of sight. Thirty yards a day? I laughed “Surely, Mackenzie, you’re fit for that,” and set to work.

  Stripped to the waist, evening sun on a back already browned at Eachan’s hay making and a breeze off the sea to keep me cool, I made a start. When the house stood dark against an ocean sunset, twelve yards of pipe had vanished into a trench. I straightened up and put my shirt over a now lean body. Working muscles relaxed. Disappearing fast were the ladylike hands of modern man, hard, rough lined hands would take their place, curl easily round a spade shaft with a grip to match. Add the pleasure of gaining strength and fitness, a stimulation to feed the mind and I was highly pleased. Four more days of digging and I laid aside pick and spade, fitted a rose on the pipe, soaped down and at the gable of the house danced naked with shock under a fountain of cold water.

  I’d thought as I dug. Make a sustainable home with some modern comforts involved utilising sun and wind power effectively. The sun didn’t always shine but when it didn’t, generally the wind blew. Neither clocked up a meter. South facing roof, perfect, re-roofing, yes, some glass, extra light, solar panels, maybe photo voltaic tiles. In my wildest theory, I’d concentrate sunlight through lenses, make steam, drive a generator. Enthusiasm galloped away with me, it would be a sunshine home, sunshine, we only use one percent of it. What falls on three percent of the world’s deserts would power the planet, a fraction of world expenditure on armaments could do the trick.