by Alan Warner
We heard the chopper raising clouds of vapour out of the wet grass as we sat in 12, the men passing the whisky round. Aircrash Investigator started the video tape.
The scene began on the deck of The Maenad, Grainger in a kilt and the little one-eyed child smiling at the camera. Then the viewpoint swung around to show what at first looked like a long black snake following the boat in its wake, but you soon saw it was several seals dipping in and out of the froth, flanked by two dolphins. The scene cut to the jetty and there I was, tummy all enormous, smiling at Grainger and the wee brat. I could see her prim jaw move and could remember the words: ‘It was her who saved me but she’s not nice.’
Then the scene cut to a shoreline shot of The Maenad at anchor, the bob-heads of seals, dolphins and two divers around its red-and-white hull. The two derrick cranes reached out over the waters and two hammock-like bags hung down into the waves.
Next shot showed something disturbing the surface, then I watched the Aircrash Investigator’s face as the erect, dynamic lines of the Cessna tailplane broke out and, slowly, the entire fuselage of Alpha Whisky hoisted up, gushes of brown water pouring from the ill-fitting doors and The Maenad was bowing in shorewards and bearing the slung wreckage of the now-risen sunken aircraft to the jetty. The next shots had shifted to the interior of the boathouse. A naked single bulb illuminated the wreckage of the two aircraft: united, like two fossilised dinosaurs, displayed across the deep black bottle-ends of the floor. A long, golden worm crawled from the barnacled wreckage and the Aircrash Investigator’s heel crushed it against the upturned champagne bottles.
Finally we saw the Aircrash Investigator take the camera and turn it on the operator, it was the Grainger boy dressed in a British Rail uniform. He saluted seriously. The film fizzed out.
The Aircrash Investigator ejected the tape and started explaining what I’d heard, a good few times, before:
‘Once I’d got the propeller off my fucking back, I was able to examine it closely. If you look at the end of it there’s a tiny impact point with paint-traces. Those paint-traces match Hotel Charlie but the amazing thing was: they came from the lower rear fuselage.’
‘So?’ Brotherhood shrugged.
‘It means: though he took off first he was behind Hotel Charlie. I’d been looking at it the wrong way round. When they both took off, somehow – and it would’ve been easy in the darkness – both pilots thought each was completely elsewhere: Hotel Charlie thought Alpha Whisky was ahead of him, Alpha Whisky thought Hotel Charlie was behind.’
‘One overtook the other in their turn. Alpha Whisky came out of the final curve, probably checking behind him, pulled up and flew right into Hotel Charlie’s blind spot. Once they touched both probably over-compensated to try and avoid collision. In darkness they both could have stalled or lost control. Whatever, the prop gashes tell me the whole story.’
‘So, your work is finished.’ Brotherhood smiled.
‘I’ve still my report to complete,’ the Investigator nodded to the Fisher-Price multi-coloured typewriter from the old crêche. Everyone laughed at the scattered manuscript, messily typed on the back of old menus and honeymooner’s receipts.
Since it was Christmas, I did a few cigarette tricks, not inhaling, scooshing lighter-gas into pint glasses and burning it till we’d a nice blue cast to the room. I even filled the cellophane cig wrapper with smoke from a Silk Cut!
After Christmas, fires began to burn down on the airfield as Hogmanay approached. Macbeth would tie a firework to his remote-control aircraft and circle it through the night, ducking it in and out of bonfire flames. Tribesters arrived in tents, stalls, caravans, portakabins – The Charon came back into use, ferrying over from the Mainland while Nam the Dam’s chopper delivered the heavy gear.
I kept close to the hotel, planning the end, understanding the time was near but hating the horribleness of not knowing when; the thing in my guts – the most spectacular tumour of all that I already loved – when would it come forth? The Devil’s Advocate, still on the hill watching all, awaiting his time to come back down among us again.
Brotherhood had made several trips to the graveyard, under cover of placing imitation flowers, snipped from the fake dining-room tree, on his father’s grave. He’d also taken to leaving apples and bananas that were rapidly nicked by the wee tribester girls, with their dreadlocks and doggies, camped down by the boathouse.
The Big One, DJ Cormorant’s millennial dance party, was to start on the night of the thirtieth and rave on till the new century came in at 3 1st’s midnight. Cormorant had brought in all the right DJs, with Lucky People Center bringing on the moment over in the old tent they’d stolen offof one of the test platforms, drilling a few miles out into the seas. The entire tent had been silver sprayed with quotations from the bible – the nicking of the huge tarpaulin and the spraying was rumoured to be the work of the salvager, Scorgie Drumvargie, brother to the doctor on Mainland and often going under the name Argonaut. It was him had beaten up the Aircrash Investigator and almost killed him tying the propeller to his back.
Joe the Coal delivered the peacocks in his Bedford truck, shooing them out: purple feathers and faces besmeared with coal dust. It was also Joe who handed me the envelope with:
pregnant housemaid
Drome Hotel
and a big thumb’s print in coal dust on the front. What a hoot, Dad; even you’ll appreciate this. After rescuing the sunk aeroplane same way I’d rescued his half-blind daughter from the watery place, things had been playing on old Grainger’s conscience; he’d come to the conclusion Aircrash Investigator had got me up the spout! His letter invited us to go work for him at the military zoo and seal pond ‘as keeper to whatever animals you prefer; we’ve some animals in here from jungles, thing is we’re not quite sure what they are.’ And Aircrash Investigator was invited over as driver of the miniature train! We really got the hysterics imagining that perverse little domestic scene. The money was waiting for me at the castle.
Brotherhood complained about the noise all night at the start of the 30th. So I thought, the hell, and stole his cashmere overcoat from reception, stowed a little something in it, then headed out to the rave. Everyone was going totally bonkers. Saw one guy so out of it he was just standing still, taking his shiny jacket off and putting it back on again – he was actually getting quite a speed up and under those lights it looked really cool.
Bonfires were flaring inbetween the rave tents – empty bottles of mineral water kept banging and exploding as you passed, leaping out the flames. Peacocks stumbled around and folk were plucking their feathers – you kept seeing them in girls’ hair.
It was near dawn when I met them, each with big joints all a-stumbly holding each other up and no girls near them.
‘Telly-aerial repairers!’ I shouted.
‘Hey, hey it’s the lassie from the boat at Easter there,’ Redhead one says.
‘You shower here again!’
‘Aww, couldny miss this,’ goes The Tall.
I went, ‘So the tellies are out?’
‘They’ve been out since Boxing Day.’
‘Och, shame, all the poor grannies with no telly to see in Hogmanay.’
‘Nah, nah,’ went the quiet one, ‘we’re gonna sort that, promise, and DJ Cormorant’s got us something else to do.’
‘Aye. You just watch the hills up there at midnight. Here, by Christ you’ve been busy!’
‘Who’s the lucky man?’ Redhead tried to grab me so I stepped aside and, despite, felt myself go beetroot.
‘When’re you due?’
‘Bout week back.’
‘Man, if these beats don’t sook it out . . .’
‘Right, okey-dokey, be seeing yous,’ I went.
‘Aye.’
‘Don’t be sailing now.’
‘Haw, God bless you, lass, and all who’ve slept with you.’
I walked on, dusk seemed to be descending already. I saw a coloured fizzle in the sky and over by the slowly circling pony rides I sa
w Macbeth squinting into night air, holding his remote box.
At first I couldn’t believe it, folk circling round, then I saw their plastic forks, their paper plates. The huge shire horse in the middle of them.
‘Charlie?’ I squints. Then I see the forester and as I walk up I’m even more astounded.
‘Aye-aye, young lady, the nights are fair drawing in and especially for you I think,’ says the brother, first-spoken as always.
‘Hello, you two,’ I smiled, not feeling so good for ages.
‘You made off without saying bye to us . . .’ says most baldy brother.
‘Or Father.’
I held out both hands and First Spoken took and smiled. It was then I saw it, beside forestry worker: a coffin, towed behind the horse, and the coffin filled full of steaming, red-sauced spaghetti that forestry man was dishing out to the ravers and collecting money.
‘Good little earner,’ smiled First Spoken. ‘After Dad went, we had the joiner at Far Places knock up a seven-footer in pine with a walnut veneer.’
‘The boy from the forestry came up with the idea.’
‘We’ve done all sorts, Round Table, Rotary . . .’
‘Weddings, parties; we can fill it with anything.’
‘After trekking the hills with Papa . . .’
‘Where did you have him buried – eventually?’ I goes.
‘We met some cattledrovers who had their lead beast tow father right out for us, with my brother clung to the beast’s neck. The mobile phone was going all the way till it started to sink, then he cut him free and the current carried him out to the giant whirlpool . . .’
‘Mariners tell us things can be caught in the whirlpool for years then spun out . . .’
‘We may not have seen the last of the old fellow yet . . .’
The forestry worker called my name and came striding towards me.
‘I’ve got something of yours,’ I says as he kissed me on my cheek. I felt in my pocket, removed the knife and handed it to him.
‘Oh no! You keep it. My God . . .’ he nodded at my lump. ‘C’mon let’s go to the fairground later . . . coconut shy,’ he says.
‘All right, I’ve things to do though.’
‘Me too. Coffin-loads of Vongole to sell.’
‘How’s your wife?’ I goes.
‘Now there’s another story. Come say hello to Charlie.’
I walked up and clapped the big horse’s snozzle. It looked with one black eye.
I leaned to the forestry worker and says, ‘Stay away from the hotel; meet me at the graveyard, midnight.’
Down by the shore, on the far side of the tent with John Kelly giving it his greatest, I met these two tribester lassies, utterly beautiful, looking about fourteen and wanting to touch my tummy. They took me in their tent and rubbed my belly-button a bit, sooking down lovely-smelling northern lights.
‘Och, why not, wee baby is almost there,’ I goes and took a big sook.
‘I felt a punch,’ says the pierced-lip one.
‘Kick,’ I smiled.
‘Does that mean it’s a boy?’ giggled the other.
Pierced-lip put her ear down to my tummy that looked all a-shine in the candlelight and says, ‘I talked to her and she’s a girl.’ She smiled, then went, ‘I’ve had my contacts in for two days.’
‘Got any trips?’ I goes.
When they give us them I fired two down and the one with the tattoo says, ‘You’re fucking far-out.’
‘Wait to you see this.’ I goes, and took the Advocate’s gun out of my pocket.
Down by the water it was still loud enough. People were dancing as I saw the spray of water, the two horns moving forward in the black water, thrashing up spray, the High-Pheer-Eeon clinging to the horns, kicking aside to sink down to his waist level, walk ashore and pick up a discarded burger that he just ate. The new lead beast came ashore lazily and more cattle began to make landfall along by the jetty; the boat carrying the cattledrovers pummelled into the shore, beardy jamp into the shallows and instantly shot his crossbow up into the sky. Macbeth’s aircraft, trailing and spluttering a firework, fell into the Sound waters, momentarily aglow from random seabed phosphorus burnings.
I watched the headlights cross the Sound waters; the girl one of the drovers filming the amphibious landing on what a male correspondent would call the beach head – the girl, dashing up and down, right enough, as if dodging gunfire as the DUCK amphibious vehicle came up the stones. Superchicken was driving and called out. ‘I bought it; perfect vehicle for me, ya can’t sink it!’
Whelk-pickers began to drop from the sides of the craft, halogen lamps waving and probing everywhere as they danced, immediately, some up to thighs in the water.
I stooped. The rower’s back was hung with drying trout, his wide-shouldered sweep guntering shore-forth. The rowboat bumped over the seaweed onto the stones. I saw the rope behind suddenly lose its tautness as whatever the rowboat was towing sailed on in the darkness. I peered over the ridge and saw the Knifegrinder, hung with smoked fish, step ashore then I heard the thuddering beat of the kit as into the bonfires’ cage of light came the drum kit on a raft, each transparent tom-tom filled with seawater and a small morsel of burning phosphorus – there even seemed to be some unfortunate goldfish inside the water-filled drums. The Argonaut, shirtless, flourished a final drum-roll, then, as the raft hit the stern of the rowboat he stepped off the drum kit, held his arms up and powered himself ashore.
I turned and shuffled through the dancers back towards the hotel. Brotherhood had issued me with a key to the front door. I let myself in, the beats of the Big One faint. I did my work in the kitchen, knelt and says a wee prayer.
Aircrash Investigator wasn’t in his room. I shouted ‘Hoi, Houlihan, Warmer, Failed Screenwriter. I don’t care what you’re called, only what you are. Come on.’
I was having difficulty reading my watch. As I locked the front door of the hotel I looked up towards 96-Metre Hill, saw the solitary fire ablaze. Holding my arms out before me I walked towards the graveyard.
A bonfire was burning amongst the graves and Brotherhood stood beside it smoking a cigar as a harassed-looking Macbeth excavated a grave using the council digger. ‘What in Christ’s name are they up to?’ hissed the forester’s voice out to my side. I was about to answer when I think my waters burst – anyway, all hell went loose in my guts.
The forester was helping me back to the hotel which was on fire. ‘Too bad, too bad, it’ll have to be here,’ I snapped, as he let me droop to the ground in the turning place.
‘No way, no fucking way,’ and he dragged me to the garage and kicked in the door with real spectacularness.
Next thing, Dad, I’m being lifted somewhere: it’s the rear of a Volvo hatchback that’s been filled with hay. Worst of all it’s a M reg!
The garage doors were wide open. I noticed, in my confusion, cause the drugs I’d taken were really getting busy with me now, a New Age family seemed to be living in our old staff caravans, they were ushering kids out the door. I was sure Quiet Life by Japan was playing on a radio somewhere but I couldn’t remember the lyrics.
Smoke was swirling around and buggered if this one wasn’t pulling off my Levi’s.
‘Hey, it’s like a shag on the beach. You only need to take one leg of your jeans off.’ I laughed, then I felt this weirdy muscle stuff and I pushed to high heaven.
An oily slab of smoke purled and whipped past the garage doors. A massive sheet of flame whipped up into the sky and some beams collapsed in the long extension corridor, the lights flicked on insanely, responding to the inhuman movements.
A window exploded then the curtains in the dining room tore outwards and erupted. The fire burned along the roof towards the pine plantation and through my tears I saw a string of trees lift up in a rush of fire, windows burst out and the roof tiles curled above the kitchens where I’d turned on the deep-fat friers earlier: full power, wet tea-towels over.
Soon, all the way down, the block
ade of pine plantation was alight and, as my child was born in a burst of blood and the forester whirled her free, the smeared face of an ancient prophet or seer came close to mine, smearing a mucousy blood across one of my tits, nipple erect in smoke-driven breeze while the inferno of trees fell, some of them across the airfield, some of them collapsing into the graveyard, swiping down the grievous angels, the prudent crosses covering the grave of Brotherhood’s father, his dream of torching the hotel complete, and of Carlton’s now-robbed grave and the bright red hair of the mummified horror Macbeth had dug up – the random grave I had told Brotherhood was Mum’s – the grave that yielded nothing, and the fire covered Mum’s untouched headstone.
The forester took the knife he’d lent me and popped the umbilical, handed the knife back to me.
Sure enough, Devil’s Advocate on the hill above had jerked open his eyes and screamed as he rose from his lair, white eyes wide; departing, as he arrived, in a plume of flame. He ran, sucked by the beat down that hill Carlton had once ascended: down into the burning enclosures and outhouses he came to the garage.
I was lying in the back of the car, my daughter under my chin. The Argonaut stood, hands held high, shaking. I had the big revolver pointed vaguely at him as the Advocate stepped in, scowled at the Argonaut and says, ‘Who fired the hotel? Brotherhood?’
‘Me.’
‘Where’s Brotherhood?’ goes the Advocate.
‘He was digging up in the graves.’
‘So that’s where he . . .’
‘He’s gone,’ went the Aircrash Investigator who stepped in. ‘He had it hidden in Carlton’s grave, must’ve put it there ten years ago. Inside the rotted ribcage no doubt.’
The Argonaut spoke, ‘Just like the old resurrection men: dig up the graves of the unknown sailors and visitors washed onto shores, get them sealed in a barrel of brine then sell them to the Glasgow medical schools.’
‘You shut your mouth,’ growled the Advocate.
‘She’s crazy, man, already let loose one bullet.’
‘You best give me that back. I’ve let you keep it long enough. You’re safe with this man here.’ The Advocate took the gun out of my hand.