And the Land Lay Still

by James Robertson

  But what have I done?

  It’s not what you’ve done, it’s what we’ve done. You’re in a team but you don’t know any of the other players. That’s okay, you don’t have to. It’s better if you don’t. It’s necessary that you don’t.

  I don’t even know what the game is.

  Croick raised an eyebrow. Aye you do. I’ll tell you anyway, in a minute, but you do. The game is up and running, and to be honest we don’t even have to get involved much these days. The civil servants are doing everything they can to not deliver devolution, but just in case they have to they’re also busy redrawing maps of the North Sea and changing the way oil and gas revenues are assigned. You have to admire the way they kill ambition. Nothing saps the energy like a Whitehall mandarin dragging his heels. And now that the politicians have finally got their act together everything is ticking along nicely.

  What do you mean? The politicians are all over the place. They don’t know what they want.

  Precisely. I take my hat off to Wilson – a genius when it comes to creating plenty of smoke with very little fire. His party might not like floundering around in the bog of devolution but what his tactics ensured was that the SNP would get sucked in too. They did and now there’s a full-blown argument going on in their ranks between the fundamentalists and the gradualists, the ones who want independence and nothing less and the ones who think an assembly is better than nothing. You know what devolution is? It’s the longest way to make sure nothing happens. And now Wilson’s away and Callaghan’s in charge, and do you think anything much is going to change?

  But what about the other parties?

  Croick laughed. What about them? The Tories are on our side. Even if a few of them make weird hyooching noises every once in a while, they don’t mean anything more than if they were doing an eightsome reel. The Liberals are useful pissers in the swamp of gradualism but who really gives a damn what the Liberals think? In another couple of years people will be sick and tired of devolution and all its works. What on earth were we thinking of? they’ll say. We must have been insane. Yes, truly insane. And it’ll fade away back to wherever it came from and we can get on with our lives. And you’ll have contributed to that.

  Peter felt like a wee boy being praised, stroked almost, by a stern but friendly teacher. He could hardly look at the other man.

  Croick put his mug on the table. We’ll go and get a drink somewhere, eh? I could do with a drink. So could you. But let me tell you something first. My father was a proud Scotsman. Really he was. But he was a proud Briton too. And he knew his history. He used to say to me, the Scots were never any good at running their own affairs. Whenever they were left to their own devices, they started fighting. They murdered their kings and each other, they were treacherous, violent, fanatical, incompetent, poor, hungry and cold. And when the chance of union with England came along the smart ones couldn’t believe their luck, they took the bribes and signed the deal and grabbed it with both hands, while the stupid ones, the idiot tendency, sulked and drowned their sorrows and eventually followed that Polack-Italian buffoon Bonnie Prince Charlie to Culloden. And that, my old man said, was Scottish history, and the lesson was, some of us knew which way our bread was buttered and some didn’t, but so long as the ones that did had the upper hand we need never be afraid of making a mess of things again.

  Is that supposed to make me feel better? Peter asked.

  No. None of this is about you, or me. I keep telling you, keep your emotions out of it. But you should know that everything we do is designed to ensure that the present state of affairs continues. It’s not heroic or glamorous, but it is the right thing. And you’re a part of that.

  EDGAR: A part of that. Were you a part of … whatever he was talking about?

  BOND: Oh aye. I was. (His head lurches and the cargo slides once more.) Well, no, I wasn’t.

  EDGAR: What was he talking about anyway?

  BOND: You should know. There were plenty of people in Intelligence who thought Wilson’s Labour government was beyond the pale, virtually handing the country over to the trade unions. Some of them even thought Wilson was a Russian mole, for God’s sake.

  EDGAR: Croick?

  BOND: No. He wasn’t that stupid. But the general thesis – that there had to be back-up, a contingency plan – he subscribed to that. It wasn’t primarily about Scotland. Scotland was an adjunct, but it was his patch, his particular responsibility. That’s what he was telling me: once this is sorted we can get on with our lives. I was part of his plan to keep Scotland British.

  EDGAR: But you knew that. You’d been working at it for years.

  BOND: Well, I’d had enough. I tried to get out, a year or so later. This time I used the system to set up a meeting with Croick. I had a good excuse. I was about to be unemployed. The bookshop was going out of business and I thought I’d take the chance. And you know what? I thought Croick would just shrug and let me go. Good riddance. How naive can you get? So we arranged to meet, in this pub on the Southside, in Shawlands.

  EDGAR (as CROICK): I heard about the shop. A shame, but hardly a surprise. Neither is this, Peter. I can see you’re tired.

  BOND: I’m not tired. I’m finished, done. It’s over.

  CROICK: So you want a wee rest? Why not? Recharge your batteries.

  BOND: I don’t want to recharge my fucking batteries. I want out.

  CROICK: Oh, I don’t think so. Not after all this time. Let’s not lose touch now. We can’t lose touch.

  BOND: What’s that, a threat?

  CROICK: A statement of fact. We’re connected. But what am I saying? Things are under control, so, aye, go off and do your own thing for a while. No reason why you have to stay in Glasgow either. Edinburgh would be good. Get yourself a job in Edinburgh. Go into business. Any idea what you might do?

  BOND: You’re not taking this seriously, are you?

  CROICK: I take everything seriously. Even jokes. I hate it when a joke isn’t funny, don’t you? Here’s one. Why won’t Scotland ever be independent? Because whenever the Scots get offered the chance of a free Scotland they know there must be a catch. A bargain-basement Scotland? Sounds interesting. A cheapish one? Aye, maybe … But a free one? No thanks. Think we came up the Clyde in a wheelbarrow? Now, you tell me, is that funny? Think about it. (He stands up, goes to the bar and orders another round. While he’s waiting he goes over to the jukebox and puts in a coin, punches in a selection. He collects the drinks and brings them back to the table.) Now. Where were we? Oh aye, that joke.

  BOND: Forget the joke. What about me?

  CROICK (laughing): What about you? Your future career? All right. Know what I think, Peter? I think you should go private. You’d be good at it. You’ve had plenty of training.

  BOND: What the fuck are you talking about?

  CROICK: Set up on your own. Private detection. Divorces, surveillance, missing persons, dodgy insurance claims. There’s a market. Plus you’d keep your skills honed, should we ever need them again.

  BOND: I’m telling you, I’m finished.

  CROICK: I can put you to sleep for a while, Peter. Maybe for years. But I can’t let you go. Not completely. You’re an investment. Maybe you’ll never hear from me. But you need to know that you might. I’d be lying if I told you anything different.

  BOND: Future exploitation.

  CROICK: That’s it.

  BOND: What about Denny Hogg. Did you ever exploit him?

  CROICK: Who?

  BOND: You know. The lucky bank robber. Don’t tell me he got out early for good behaviour. Is he an investment?

  CROICK: Let’s say he’s got an account at the Cooperative Bank.

  BOND: And what if he won’t cooperate?

  CROICK: He will. You will too. I can make it worth your while, one way or the other. I know what you like.

  BOND: Maybe I’ll change.

  CROICK: Maybe you will. I’m not betting on it, but if I can’t buy you I can always sell you. Damaged goods. Going cheap.
r />   BOND: You think you’ve got me for ever, then?

  CROICK: Aye, or as long as I need you. You’re not stupid, Peter. You’re just a little slow. I always reckoned that about you, right from that very first interview.

  BOND: What interview? In London?

  CROICK: No, before that. (as EDGAR) You will learn things about the world, and about yourself, that you would never otherwise know. (as CROICK) How true, how true.

  BOND (looking at him suddenly and closely): Wait a minute. You just said … That was the other guy. Edgar. When I was a kid doing my National Service. He said that.

  CROICK: Said what?

  BOND: What you just said. Word for word. But there was another man in the room. Wait a minute.

  (There is a long silence. It might be a minute, it might be an hour. That’s the way time is now. BOND is sunk in thought. Eventually he looks up. EDGAR is still there, sitting across from him.)

  BOND: He said what you said. He was there. He was the one in the corner, with the glasses. It was Croick, wasn’t it?

  EDGAR:

  BOND: He picked me. He chose me right at the beginning.

  EDGAR:

  BOND: You bastards. Did he choose me?

  EDGAR:

  BOND: I should have walked out then.

  EDGAR: You were just a boy.

  BOND: And I should have walked out of that pub in Shawlands.

  EDGAR: By which time you were a man. Getting on a bit. But you still didn’t.

  BOND: He bought another round, and then another. I didn’t put my hand in my pocket all night. That was the only satisfaction he gave me. I should have walked out but I knew it wouldn’t make any odds and I wanted him to go on paying for the drinks. And then, when I was too pissed to stop him, it was him that got up to go. But before that, before he left, his selection came up on the jukebox. You know what it was? The Eagles. ‘Hotel California’. It was being played everywhere that year. And he leaned in to me when the chorus started and joined in but he changed the words, he was singing, Welcome to the Hotel Caledonia. And we sat and listened to that fucking song, the guitar solos, the choruses, and those lines at the end, the whole fucking thing. I couldn’t speak I was so drunk. And then he got up and left me there. And I knew I was doomed.

  EDGAR (singing softly): You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.

  BOND: Aye, that’s the one.

  You kind of step out of yourself, watch yourself. When you’re a kid, real life is a game of imagination you play at one remove. Not so different when you grow up. You watched Bob and Bill concocting stories for the Drumkirk Gazette and pictured yourself in their shoes, doing it better. In London, when you rented hookers, that’s what you did, stepped out and spectated. When Canterbury came to your grey room by the Thames, you floated up to the ceiling and observed his stupidities from a height. When you first saw you were drinking too much you were only a few feet away but you made no effort to reach out and check the hand that tipped the bottle. You didn’t argue with the decision, if it was a decision, not to stop. Story of your life: the constant spy. And so it continued after Croick let you go but didn’t let you go. You watched yourself barrelling down the highway – brakes on or brakes off it didn’t matter, you were heading for a crash anyway and you saw the whole thing and somehow there was nothing you could do to avoid it.

  He was determined to cut himself loose from Croick’s influence, but it was Croick’s suggestion about setting up on his own that lodged in his mind. Sole trader. No dependants, no dependency. Sink, probably, or swim. But not in Glasgow, a city he now just wanted to get out of. He made a couple of reconnoitring trips to Edinburgh, looking for office space that could double as accommodation. The second time he found what he wanted, in a dismal quarter of Leith. A grim wee hole with one window on to the street, a window so filthy you couldn’t see in or out, and a crusted venetian blind behind it just to make sure. Behind this room another with a stained stainless-steel sink and a two-ring hob, and squeezed in at the back a toilet with a cracked seat and a shower with several tiles lying in the tray.

  The landlord was as welcoming as the premises. When Peter told him he was setting up as a private investigator he said, Investigate folk round here, pal, and ye’ll wind up in the docks. Dobie, his name was. He wanted three months’ rent up front in return for which Peter got a set of keys. Anything else was ‘found’. What do you mean? I mean, if ye want anything else, find it yersel. There were marks and holes in the walls where once must have been fixed shelving. There was a phone sitting on the floor in one corner of the main room. Peter picked up the receiver. The line was dead. The Eagles’ tune went through his head again.

  What was this place before? he asked.

  Before what?

  Before now.

  Dobie threw him a look that suggested he should mind his own business.

  Windae-cleaning, he said.

  A windae-cleaner needs an office?

  A business needs an office, pal. You need an office, don’t ye?

  Aye, but windae-cleaning?

  Windae-cleaning, roof repairs, building work, plumbing. Emergency call-oots. That enough for ye?

  I just thought in case any of your old customers drop by, Peter said.

  They’ll no, Dobie said. We just stored stuff here, he said. Any mair questions?

  Peter shook his head and, as if that meant he’d tried to end the discussion and it wasn’t his prerogative to do that, Dobie went on speaking.

  Ye’ve got tae keep moving, he said. Keep ahead of the game. There’s money in windae-cleaning but it’s territorial, ken. I went part-shares wi another guy that already had a patch. We were daein the other work tae but there’s only so much ye can dae in one area. We wanted tae expand on tae somebody else’s patch but somebody else didna want us tae. So … He gestured with one hand at the space they were in. It’s better this way, he said.

  What about your partner? Peter said.

  He moved on, Dobie said. An amicable split, he said.

  There wasn’t a trace of amicability anywhere on his face.

  *

  The bookshop closed, but long before it did Peter was away. His possessions from the Partick flat went into two or three cardboard boxes, plus half a dozen more for books and pamphlets, and that was him, out of Glasgow. A guy in his close who had a car ran him and the boxes through to Leith, wouldn’t take anything for it, especially not when he saw what Peter was going to. Jesus, he said, you’ve got to be kidding. I always knew Edinburgh was a dump, but this … Peter said, If anybody comes asking, you’ve no idea where I went. He said it without conviction, knowing that if Croick wanted to he’d track him down in a matter of hours.

  He despised himself for taking Croick’s advice but he’d have despised himself more if he’d had to go back to Slaemill. He’d thought of London, wondered if he could disappear down there, but he’d had a good look at himself and what he saw was not a man ready to tackle London again. He hated Canterbury and Croick but he’d colluded with them, he was as responsible for what he was as they were. More so.

  He felt so low it was liberating. It gave him a burst of something like energy. He had the phone reconnected – it only took three weeks and another deposit – and scoured the thrift shops on Leith Walk and Great Junction Street, picking up a mattress, pillows, a couple of chairs, a desk. He ate fish suppers and Chinese carry-outs and managed to restrict his drinking to cans of beer. He got a Post Office Box Number because he didn’t want folk turning up unannounced at the door and finding the office was also his bedroom. No name on the door, no indication of what was behind it. The front room smelled less damp than the back and had an electric fire hanging off one wall, so that was where he slept. In the morning he moved the mattress through to the back. He had about a hundred quid left in the world.

  He took out an ad in the Evening News and the Scotsman, three days a week for two weeks:

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS UNDERTAKEN.

  Marital, ins
urance, missing persons, etc. All work considered.

  20 years experience with Govt agencies. Discretion assured.

  Then the box number and phone number. Everything, with some latitude, was contained in those lines. All the money he had left was in his back pocket. He thought, sink or swim, Mr Bond, sink or swim, and wondered if that was a line some villain had once said to Sean Connery or Roger Moore or whoever the fuck was playing 007 these days. If it wasn’t, he thought, it should be.

  To his amazement, the ad worked. After two days he’d had four phone calls and a couple of written inquiries. The good folk of Edinburgh had plenty they wanted to find out about their spouses, relatives, friends, rivals, work associates. Mostly it was: who are they sleeping with, who are they talking to, who are they paying, where do they go, where have they gone? There were worried parents, vengeful wives, controlling husbands, men who knew their business partners were ripping them off and needed proof. They wanted to know but they didn’t always want to see. I’m your man, said Peter, I’m your eyes. When the two weeks were up he renewed the ad in the papers. He came up with a name, JB Investigations, because he wanted to keep his own name out of it: if the thing died and he had to do something else, he didn’t want his history stalking him, not any more than it already was. Later he put an entry in the Yellow Pages, which had only been going a few years. For a while JB Investigations was the only listing under Detective Agencies. People liked going through the Yellow Pages just to see what was in it, and when they saw Detective Agencies they desperately tried to think of reasons why they might need one. Some days the phone never stopped ringing. Aye it did. He thought about hiring a secretary. No he fucking didn’t.

  He didn’t drive and that was a handicap, but the city was small enough for it not to make his work impossible. There were only so many hotels, so many bars, so many saunas doubling as brothels, and usually no shortage of taxis. Sometimes he arranged to meet potential clients on neutral territory, sometimes they insisted on coming to his place of business. He discovered something: they weren’t put off by the location, nor by the run-down look of the place or him. Nor by the absence of paperwork, the emptiness of his desk, the fact that he hardly ever took notes. Nor even by the smell of booze that still came off him some mornings. On the contrary, these things seemed to reassure them.