by Ian Todd
The Lost Boy and The Gardener’s Daughter
By
Ian Todd
The Lost Boy and The Gardener’s Daughter is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
The pain seemed tae creep up oan him until a ferocious wave seared through his brain like a bolt ae lightning and hit him wae the force ae a sledgehammer. It wis pitch dark and he wis staunin upright, balancing oan they toes ae his, the same way that a ballet dancer dis. He couldnae hiv fallen doon, even if he’d tried. His erms wur stretched above his heid and the pain fae under each ae his oxters wis making it hard fur him tae breathe in a steady rhythm. The rope cutting intae his wrists felt as if it hid first been dipped in car battery acid. Although the gag wis tied tightly, it didnae stoap him fae letting oot a muffled terrified scream every time he lost control ae his balance and swirled roond in a slow painful 360 degree circle. He wisnae sure where he wis or how he’d goat there. Apart fae the smell ae his ain fear, the place hid a stench ae dampness, which managed tae find its way up his nostrils and catch in the back ae his throat. Efter whit seemed like ages, bit wis probably only a few minutes ae him trying tae suss oot where he wis, he heard footsteps in the distance. They sounded like they wur walking alang a tunnel, growing louder as they came closer tae where he wis. He strained his ears while still concentrating oan trying tae keep his balance. The footsteps stoapped and he heard the distant jangling ae keys and the groaning ae whit sounded like a metal door being swung open slowly, efter being loudly unlocked. The footsteps continued their journey, only this time, they wur coming doon whit sounded tae him like bare concrete steps…like the wans ye goat running up the side ae the multi-storey car parks, in the toon centre. He tried tae work oot how many ae them wur oan their way, bit never came up wae a number before a door jist tae the right ae him swung open, singing the same tune as the wan at the tap ae the stairs. He let oot a muffled yelp when a bare light bulb jist above and behind his heid lit up the cellar. Nobody spoke, although he noo realised that there wur three ae them there. The shadow ae somewan hinging oan a rope fae a crossbeam appeared oan the white paint-flaked brick wall in front ae him. Two shadows stood tae the right ae it, while another wee wan stood tae the left. Wan ae the twin shadows wis haudin whit looked like a jerry can. He could hear the wee wan wheezing tae the left ae him and watched it slip a haun intae its jaicket pocket, pull oot a packet ae fags and light wan up. He watched the shadow taking a puff and blowing oot a stream ae smoke that turned intae a cloud above its heid. It then bent forward slightly and let oot a nasty sounding chesty cough.
“They’ll stunt yer growth, wee man,” wan ae the shadows said.
“Fuck, so that’s why Ah’m only four feet nothing then?” Tiny said, letting oot a wee echoing guffaw.
At the sound ae the familiar voices, he lost his balance and let oot a muffled groan as the pain shot rapidly up and doon his erms and across his chest. When he opened his eyes again, he jist managed a glimpse ae the remaining shadow, before it disappeared, as he slowly swung towards the voices.
“Well, well, fuck me wae a stick. Wid ye look who’s hinging aboot doon here in the dungeons, aw oan his lonesome,” Horsey John sneered, looking straight at him.
Horsey John put the jerry can oan the flair between himsel and Mick Murphy and lit up a fag fur himsel, before limping across the dungeon tae shut the door that they’d left open when they’d first entered.
“It widnae be that Paul McBride wan…the basturt that widnae gie me a haun oot ae the invisible water tank across in Pinkston and left me tae droon, wid it?” Tiny asked, raising they bushy eyebrows ae his in mock disdain, before grinning.
If it wisnae fur the excruciating pain in his wrists, shoulders and chest, he wid’ve put this doon tae some sort ae horrible nightmare. He stared at the three ae them. He tried tae say something, bit nothing legible came oot through his gag.
“Whit wis that? Whit did ye say? Whit’s he saying?” Mick demanded, turning tae the other two, feigning interest in the sound coming through the gag.
“Ah think he’s trying tae tell ye that it wis nothing tae dae wae him,” Tiny, the wee midget scoffed.
“Naw, it cannae be that. He wis definitely the basturt Ah clocked staunin there in front ae that Tally prick, Tony Gucci, pointing the gun at me in ma living room, so he wis. Ye widnae deny that wan noo, wid ye, Paul?” Mick mocked, glowering at him.
“And he wis definitely wan ae the basturts…being the big man in front ae aw his mates…when Ah wis floating aboot in that big water tank, freezing they auld hee-haws ae mine aff. Nae mistake there, is there, Paul? Guilty as bloody sin, so he is,” the horrible wee midget sneered.
“Oan ye go, wee man. Ye know whit tae dae,” Mick said, gieing Tiny the nod.
Paul watched, horrified, as Tiny unscrewed the tap ae the jerry can, then gripped the haundle wae his left haun and the arse ae it wae his right, while walking towards him. He could hear the liquid sloshing aboot inside it as the wee basturt stoapped right in front ae him, drew back the can and let fly, still haudin the can in baith hauns. He could smell the petrol even before it splashed aw doon his face and the front ae his body.
“Don’t be shy noo, Tiny. Make sure Paul here gets a good auld soaking. If a job’s worth daeing, it’s worth daeing well. Isn’t that right, Mick?” Horsey John squealed wae delight, drapping his fag end and quickly staunin oan it, in case ae an accident wae aw that petrol flying aboot.
“Throw me wan ae yer fags o’er, Horsey,” Mick said, as Paul struggled tae wriggle away fae the petrol that wis being doused o’er him.
By the time he’d twirled full circle in the course ae being drenched, Mick wis staunin wae a fag between his lips, fumbling wae his two hauns in his jaicket pockets.
“Here ye go, Mick,” Horsey said, enthusiastically, haudin oot his haun wae a lighter in it.
“It’s awright…Ah’ve goat ma ain, if Ah kin find the basturt. Oops, here it is,” Mick said apologetically, haudin up a Zippo, wae a big grin oan that ugly coupon ae his.
It wis at this point that Paul started tae scream like a banshee through the gag, losing his balance and rapidly picking up speed, the weight ae his wriggling body sending him swinging roond in an ever-increasing circle. The three laughing faces in front ae him disappeared, then reappeared, the mair he fought tae escape. He stoapped struggling, exhausted, and the twirling slowed doon until he faced them again. Mick flicked open the cap ae his lighter wae his thumb and hit the wheel. He saw the spark as the wheel scraped across the flint. The flame that appeared and lit the fag between Mick’s lips didnae seem that dangerous until Mick backhandedly tossed the lighter across the space between where he wis staunin and where Paul wis dangling. Everything seemed tae happen in slow motion. The Zippo, wae its open lid, trailed a flame like a Catherine wheel, as it flew through the air towards him. He squeezed his eyes tight shut, waiting fur the flames tae engulf him. It wis at that moment he heard the wummin’s voice. It came across quietly fae somewhere in the distance at first, and then it grew louder. He felt somewan grabbing him by the shoulders as he let oot a frightened wail and bolted upright in his bed.
“Paul? Paul? Are ye alright, son?” M
rs Mackay asked gently, concern in that strange accent ae hers.
“Er, aye, aye, Ah’m okay, Mrs Mackay. Ah wis only hivving a bad dream. Ah’m, er, okay,” he gasped, wiping away the drip ae sweat fae the end ae his nose wae the palm ae his haun.
“Are ye sure, laddie?”
“Aye, honest…Ah’m fine.”
“Well, if ye would want to join myself and Mr Mackay…Innes…we’re just about to have a sup of porridge.”
“Right, Ah’ll be doon in a minute then, Mrs Mackay…wance Ah get up and put oan ma troosers.”
“Oh, right,” she said, staunin up aff the bed where she’d been leaning o’er him, remembering tae dip her heid as she went through the wee bedroom door.
“Is the lad okay, Whitey?” he heard Mr Mackay…Innes…asking her, bit he never caught her reply o’er the sound ae the cutlery drawer being yanked open and the sound ae dishes being laid doon oan tap ae the table.
Chapter Two
“Have we managed to get through, Riddrie?” The Duke ae Kyle asked his secretary and former batman, as he spooned an excessively rich dollop ae Fortnum & Mason’s Auld English Hunt marmalade oan tae his toast.
“Not as yet, m’lord. Mrs McTavish, down at the exchange in Ardgay, has been trying to get a reconnection ever since the last break at seven o’clock last night. She’ll let us know as soon as she gets through.”
“Thank you,” The Duke replied, feeling irritated at the thought ae talking tae his estranged wife, Beatrice, or Bea as her friends called her…Archduchess ae Austria –Este and the current Duchess ae Kyle, who noo stayed and partied wae the playboys oan Seventh Avenue in New York and who’d been trying tae telephone him fur the past two days. They’d parted four years earlier efter he’d informed her that he intended tae take up permanent residence in Culrain Castle, overlooking the Kyle ae Sutherland, the beautiful estuary that separates Ross-shire fae Sutherland in the Scottish Highlands. He hidnae been too bothered aboot them gaun their separate ways at the time, as she’d always preferred tae stay in the city toonhoose residence in London, whenever he made his way north fur the summer. Despite her regal background in Belgium, she jist hidnae been cut oot for the quiet life ae the country shooting set up north.
“But darling, those little mosquitoes, or whatever it is you call them…”
“Midgies.”
“…are no respecters of royal blood. You go, and I’ll stay here in London until you get back. There’s a darling,” she’d purred, showing her impatience tae get rid ae him so she could run aboot getting rogered by every film star and Italian count between London, Madrid and Hollywood.
Whit hid really gied him the pip wisnae the fact that she’d buggered aff and left him, bit she hid taken their only child and daughter, Saba, wae her. He’d stoapped reading the papers, apart fae The Financial Times, because he wis sick tae the back teeth ae seeing her gloating at him fae the William Hickey column every other week, partying like it wis gaun oot ae style. He’d even stoapped visiting his mother, the auld dowager, who anchored in the Blacklands country estate in Staffordshire, soaking up aw the gossip fae a posse ae similarly redundant nineteenth century countesses, who gloried in their male offspring’s marital miseries.
“In my day, your father, God bless the poor darling, would have taken a horsewhip to me for even reading a newspaper, let alone being in one, showing off one’s latest lover to the whole world and one’s unfortunate cuckolded husband. I mean, how are the tenants coping with all this shame and scandal, John?” she’d lectured him, enjoying every minute ae his squirming.
“Your concern for the moral and spiritual welfare of my tenants is all very well, mother, but this is nineteen sixty nine, after all. Times have changed,” he’d said tae her miserably, a few months earlier.
“Your father would have been down on Hampstead Heath at dawn with Earl Spencer as his second, demanding satisfaction for the insult to his good name, instead of putting forward an argument supporting the breakdown of civil society as we know it today.”
He’d refused tae be drawn oan the amorous antics ae Bea efter that barbed jibe. He remembered wondering tae himsel at the time whit the sentencing tariff wid be fur a Duke who strangled his doddering auld dowager ae a mother. Wance his business hid been completed and he’d signed aw the necessary legal papers, he’d left fur Scotland.
“Ah, Riddrie? Tell me your endeavours to track down and make contact with my darling wife have been successful?” The Duke demanded, as Riddrie reappeared in the breakfast room.
“Yes and no, m’lord.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, m’lord, that Mrs McTavish, down at the telephone exchange, has sent word that she is continuing in her endeavours. She claims to have requested an engineer to make haste forthwith from Bonar Bridge to Ardgay to try and fix her switchboard, as she thinks it may be faulty. That was yesterday morning.”
“And has the engineer appeared?”
“No, m’lord, but she is hoping that he’ll be with her no later than tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning? Bonar Bridge is just the other side of the Kyle and there’s a bloody bridge connecting it to Ardgay,” The Duke fumed.
“Yes, m’lord, but I understand that Mrs McTavish has had difficulty filling in the triplicate docket required for all such requests and has had to wait for her husband, Police Constable McTavish, to return from a serious crime scene up on Loch Shin, five miles north of Lairg, to assist her with the task. Mrs McTavish has also said that permission to send out an engineer requires to be approved by the General Post Office Faulty Switchboard – Rural Affairs Bureau Manager in George Square in Glasgow.”
“Are you trying to tell me that for Mrs McTavish to get a fuse changed by the GPO on her switchboard, a request has to be approved two hundred miles south in Glasgow?”
“That seems to be the case, m’lord.”
“Bloody fascist communists! No wonder the country has gone downhill since Winston was last in power. And the serious crime?”
“I believe PC McTavish and Mr Sellar, the factor, were lying in wait to apprehend a notorious local poacher, m’lord. Mr Sellar believes this is the person who is responsible for clearing the salmon and brown trout from the river.”
“Good God, man! Did they catch the bounder?”
“No, m’lord. I believe he gave them the slip after one of the Land Rovers got stuck in the peat and blocked the other one from pursuing the scoundrel.”
“In my great grandfather’s day they would just have strung the poacher up, along with any teenage sons in the family, if they were caught stealing from their laird and clan chief. How the world has changed for the worse, eh, Riddrie?
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Right, you said there was a positive outcome, other than the failure of the GPO, or should I say, the NKVD. What is it?”
“A telegram has just arrived from Mrs McLeish, the sub-postmistress in Bonar Bridge, m’lord.” Riddrie replied, haudin up a silver tray wae a broon envelope sitting oan it.
“Aha! Now we’re getting somewhere. It’s probably from those bloody communists in Glasgow, saying they’re on their way,” The Duke exclaimed, ripping it open before letting out a shriek.
“M’lord?” Riddrie asked, concern in his voice.
“Riddrie, what day is it?”
“I believe it to be Wednesday, m’lord.”
“I can’t believe it. It says here, ‘HAVE HAD ENOUGH – STOP – CAN’T TAKE ANY MORE – STOP - SABA ARRIVES LONDON WITH PINKERTON AGENCY ESCORT TUES – STOP - WILL STAY WITH THE DOWAGER OVERNIGHT – STOP - ARRIVES CULRAIN CASTLE WED – STOP – THE DUCHESS – STOP.’
“Lady Saba? Your Lady Saba? Coming here, m’lord?”
“That’s what it says. Right, Riddrie, please inform the entire household to prepare for the arrival of my daughter. This is a Class A exercise. Inform them this is not…I repeat…not a drill. It doesn’t say what time she’s expected to arrive, but I want everyone and ever
ything prepared before she arrives. This is a great honour for them and a great day for me.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Riddrie said, turning tae take his leave.
“Oh, and Riddrie?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“Contact Sellar and tell him to make haste here straight away. Poachers, you say? Well, we’ll soon see about that.”
The Duke sat back and looked oot across the expanse ae the Kyle. His mind wis in turmoil. The last time he’d seen his daughter wis when he’d arrived at his estate in Martha’s Vineyard efter his trip tae Chile wae Sir Frank Owen, the proprietor ae The Glesga Echo. When he’d turned up, Bea hid been aff chasing efter some Z-listed actor who’d starred in some trendy artist’s silent movie. He tried tae remember the artist’s name and then it came tae him. Andy Arsenhole or something that sounded like that. He’d become famous fur painting a can ae Campbell’s tomato soup, before selling it tae some rich idiot like Bea who’d run oot ae ideas oan how tae spend their money. He’d seemingly made a mint selling his ‘works ae art’ and wis laughing behind their backs, aw the way tae the bank. It hidnae been the best ae greetings when he’d turned up at The Vineyard either. He’d arrived unannounced, which hid sent everywan intae a panic. When Saba hid eventually been found and paraded in front ae him, he’d gone forward tae gie her a kiss and a cuddle bit she’d stoapped him in his tracks.
“Take one more step towards me and I’ll scweam,” she’d threatened.
“But darling, Saba, it’s me, The Duke of Kyle…your father,” he’d said tae her soothingly, bit tae nae avail.
“I’m warning you,” she’d replied, opening and closing that wee mooth ae hers, taking a deep breath, stoapping him in her tracks.
And wae that, she’d aboot turned and scampered fae the room. The next thing he knew, the child, who must’ve only been aboot nine or ten at the time, hid been whisked aff tae New York tae join Bea and he’d been served wae a writ, threatening his arrest and imprisonment if he ever came near the child again, withoot the explicit permission ae her mother or the court…in his ain hoose as well.