Crisis

by Ken McClure

  ‘I had a bit of an accident on the hill,’ said Bannerman weakly.

  The woman called her son Euan to help Bannerman into the bar where there was a roaring fire. She herself went to run him a hot bath. Euan handed Bannerman a glass of whisky and smiled at his reaction to the burning sensation as the spirit trickled down his throat. Bannerman handed him the glass and nodded at the suggestion of another.

  When he finally eased himself out of the bath water to towel himself down — somewhat less than vigorously, Bannerman felt the back of his head where it had struck the rock. There was a lump but nothing serious, he reckoned. Amazingly that seemed to be his only injury apart from a sore right arm and a weal on his right wrist where he had been suspended from the loop on the ice axe. He rubbed it gently, knowing that a few hours ago it had been his only link with the land of the living. He shuddered and put on dry clothes.

  ‘I really think we should call the doctor from Killin,’ said Vera, the owner, but Bannerman insisted that it was unnecessary, thanking her for her kindness. ‘All the treatment I need is in there,’ he smiled, nodding at the bar.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure …’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Bannerman.

  Bannerman had another whisky, then ate the biggest mixed grill he had ever seen. There were only two other guests staying at the hotel, an English couple from Carlisle who planned on climbing Ben Lawers on the following day.

  ‘I hear you had a rough day,’ said the man.

  ‘I had a fall,’ said Bannerman, his mind rebelling at how innocuous the words sounded. All that fear, all that terror, all that living nightmare, dismissed as ‘a fall’.

  ‘Happens to the best of us,’ said the man.

  Bannerman smiled weakly and nodded. He didn’t want to continue the conversation. He left the dining-room and returned to the bar to sit down by the fire. Filled with warmth and well-being, he felt himself quickly become sleepy. After one more drink he thanked the owner and her son for their kindness and went up to bed. As he pulled the covers up round his ears he was aware that rain was battering off the window. He remembered the weather forecast for the day… fine settled weather. ‘Incompetent bastards,’ he murmured before drifting off into a deep sleep.

  ‘A deep depression centred off Iceland has moved south to bring rain and …’ Bannerman clicked off the car radio. He didn’t need anyone to tell him that it was raining cats and dogs as he headed for Kyle of Lochalsh and the ferry to Skye. Being on his own, he could indulge himself in the soothing sounds of Gregorian chant. The sonorous sound from the cassette player seemed appropriate for the forbidding darkness of the mountains and was only interrupted by the occasional slap of water against the floor pan as the Sierra’s wheels hit puddles at speed.

  There was only one unscheduled interruption in the journey, when traffic was held up by a landslide near Glen Garry for about forty minutes. Eventually, lumbering yellow mechanical diggers cleared the road and policemen, wearing fluorescent waistcoats, waved the traffic on.

  Bannerman constantly found himself thinking back to what had happened up on the Tarmachan ridge. The fact that he had neither reported the affair to the police nor consulted a doctor afterwards had acted in a positive sense to minimize the seriousness of the incident in his subconscious, but he still felt the need to analyse it in terms of his personal behaviour. Very few people are tested to the limit in their lives. Consequently, many die without ever finding out how they would behave under extreme pressure. Bannerman found himself examining his behaviour in relationship to the very reason for his getting away from the hospital for a while. He had been worried about his performance under stress.

  When seen in this light, he found that he had reason to be pleased. True, he had been physically sick with fear but this had happened after he had coped with the situation, not during it. This in turn reminded him that the shake in his hands at the hospital had happened after he had made his decision on the emergency section, not before it. Maybe his mental condition was better than he feared.

  It was six in the evening when he reached the village of Ralsay on North Uist. He had crossed on the ferry from the Kyle of Lochalsh to Kyleakin on Skye and caught another from Uig, in the north of the island, to Lochmaddy on North Uist. An ancient saloon car, masquerading as a taxi, had brought him to Ralsay.

  ‘Can you drop me at the hotel?’ Bannerman asked the driver.

  There’s no hotel,’ said the driver.

  The pub then.’

  ‘No pub,’ said the driver.

  ‘Where do visitors stay in Ralsay then?’

  They don’t get many.’

  Bannerman, who was tired after a long journey, found himself irritated at the driver’s unhelpful attitude. There must be somebody who takes in visitors,’ he ventured.

  ‘You could try Mistress Ferguson along there on the left,’ said the driver, who had decided that, as far as he was concerned, the journey was over.

  ‘On the left?’

  The house has lions at the door,’ said the driver, holding out his hand. Bannerman had a mind not to tip him but relented and gave him an extra pound. ‘Have a drink on me,’ he said. The driver smiled wanly and drove off. ‘And please God it chokes you,’ added Bannerman. He walked along the dark street until he came to the door with the lions. There was a sign saying ‘Accommodation’ in the window. It was a welcome sight.

  ‘Eleven pounds fifty including breakfast,’ said the severe woman who answered the door. ‘One pound extra if you want tea and biscuits at bed time.’

  ‘Sounds like heaven,’ smiled Bannerman.

  The woman looked at him as if he had blasphemed. ‘Does that mean you will be wanting tea and biscuits?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes please,’ answered Bannerman meekly. He followed the woman up a narrow flight of stairs and into a room where the slope of the roof prevented him standing upright anywhere other than on a one-metre wide strip of carpet at the foot of an old brass bed. The room felt cold and smelt musty, but it was a landlord’s market. Bannerman said it would be fine.

  ‘In advance,’ said the woman holding out her hand.

  ‘Of course,’ smiled Bannerman getting out his wallet and paying her. The woman examined the English ten pound note with a look of mild disdain.

  ‘Actually, I’m a bit hungry at the moment,’ began Bannerman tentatively. ‘I don’t suppose you could …?’

  ‘I could do you bacon and eggs.’

  Bannerman waited for the mention of an alternative but none came. That would be wonderful,’ he said. ‘I’m most grateful.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said the woman. ‘We like to make people feel welcome.’

  Bannerman’s attempts at holding a conversation with Mrs Ferguson, during his meal, all failed. It wasn’t that she was hostile, just uncommunicative. She did it in such a natural way that Bannerman concluded that he should take nothing personally from the monosyllabic replies. This was the way the woman must behave towards everyone. Tiring of fruitless attempts at small-talk, he got round to the purpose of his visit. ‘I’m looking for a woman called Shona MacLean,’ he confessed. ‘Have you any idea where I might find her?’

  ‘Follow the crowd, I should think,’ snapped the woman.

  I’m sorry?’ replied Bannerman.

  That woman is never short of visitors.’ Mrs Ferguson swept crumbs from the table as if they were an invading swarm of killer ants.

  Bannerman felt uncomfortable, as he always did in close proximity to domestic frenzy. ‘Does she stay near here?’ he ventured.

  The white house with the red door. Appropriate if you ask me.’

  Thank you,’ said Bannerman, excusing himself and going upstairs. He tried to see outside from the small window but inky blackness cloaked the village. He would have to wait until morning.

  A cold, uncomfortable night was followed by a shave in tepid water and a greasy breakfast of more bacon and eggs. Bannerman packed his bag and said his goodbyes to Mrs Ferguson.

  ‘I
trust we’ll be seeing you here again some time,’ said the woman with as near as she ever came to a smile.

  ‘I hope so,’ smiled Bannerman, thinking it would be shortly after hell froze over. He walked down the street to the white house with the red door. His knock was answered by a good looking woman in her late twenties; she was wearing jeans, which emphasized her narrow waist and rounded hips, and a shapeless grey tee shirt with a dolphin on it. Her fair hair tumbled round a smiling face that made Bannerman want to smile in return.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re a new face round here.’

  ‘I’m looking for Shona MacLean,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘You’ve found her,’ replied the woman. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I hope you can help me find Lawrence Gill,’ said Bannerman.

  The smile faded, and the woman said, ‘I haven’t seen Lawrence for years. Who are you?’

  ‘I’m Ian Bannerman. I’m a pathologist and I’m trying to pick up the pieces of what Gill was working on when he ran off.’

  ‘Ran off?’ exclaimed Shona MacLean.

  ‘Frankly, Miss MacLean, Gill’s wife told me that he had run off to be with you.’

  Shona MacLean’s mouth fell open and she looked genuinely shocked. This came as a surprise to Bannerman. Up till now he thought that Shona MacLean was lying.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

  Bannerman was shown into a pleasant room that was furnished brightly with an emphasis on pine and chintz. He sat down on a long sofa that lay along the window wall. Shona perched herself on the arm of a large matching chair.

  ‘Can you prove you are who you say you are?’ asked Shona MacLean.

  Bannerman took out his wallet and extracted credit cards, his driving licence and his hospital ID card, which carried a photograph of him. Shona MacLean leaned forward to examine them and handed them back. ‘Do you have a connection with the Medical Research Council?’ she asked.

  Bannerman was surprised at the question. ‘It was they who asked me to carry out this investigation,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’ He could see that Shona MacLean was hiding something. ‘You have seen Lawrence Gill recently haven’t you?’ he said.

  Shona MacLean nodded.

  ‘He did come here?’

  ‘Yes, but not for the reason you suppose. Lawrence and I had an affair years ago, but that was all over. He came here because he needed a place to hide.’

  To hide?’ exclaimed Bannerman.

  ‘He was terrified. He said that people were after him and that they would kill him if they caught him.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘But he’s on the island?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  Shona nodded. ‘He’s hiding on a neighbouring island. It’s uninhabited.’

  ‘But surely he can’t stay there for ever,’ exclaimed Bannerman. ‘Won’t he be in just as much danger again when he comes off the island?’

  ‘Lawrence said not. He gave me a parcel to send to the Medical Research Council in London. He said that once they had it, the game would be over and there would be no point in hounding him any more.’

  ‘A parcel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he say what was in it?’

  Shona shook her head.

  ‘Describe it.’

  Shona indicated a squarish box with her hands. ‘About a foot square I’d say.’

  ‘And you sent this parcel off?’

  ‘I took it to the post office in Cairnish.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘The nineteenth.’

  ‘Can I use your phone?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Bannerman called the MRC in London and asked to speak to Milne. He asked about the parcel.

  ‘It hasn’t arrived,’ said Milne. ‘What was in it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ replied Bannerman. He put down the phone and said, ‘It’s had plenty of time to get there.’

  ‘I’ll check with the post office,’ said Shona.

  Bannerman sat down again while Shona called the post office in Cairnish. She began by exchanging pleasantries with someone called Kirstie. ‘If s about the parcel I brought in on the nineteenth,’ said Shona. “The one for London.’

  Bannerman watched the expression on Shona’s face change to one of concern. ‘Dr Gill did?’ she exclaimed. ‘But that’s impossible … No, no, nothing wrong Kirstie. I must have misunderstood something. Don’t worry about it. See you soon.’ Shona put down the phone slowly and Bannerman waited with baited breath for her to speak. The post office say that Lawrence came in later that day to recover the parcel. He showed them proper identification and Kirstie returned the parcel to him.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ asked Bannerman.

  Shona shook her head and said, ‘Lawrence went to the island that day and he’s still there. The boat hasn’t come back, so it couldn’t have been him … but whoever asked for the return of the parcel had Lawrence’s ID … How could that happen?’

  Bannerman felt sure that Shona was as capable as he of answering that question.

  The implications of what they had just learned hung above Bannerman and Shona like a guillotine. Whoever had been after Gill had found him.

  ‘You know what was in that parcel don’t you?’ said Shona, thinking she could read the look in Bannerman’s eyes.

  ‘No,’ replied Bannerman, truthfully, but his mind was lingering over the missing brains. Is that what had happened to them? Had Gill tried to send them to the MRC in London? But why? And who had stopped the parcel being collected? And why, again? All of a sudden he felt afraid. The questions were coming thick and fast and he could think of none of the answers.

  SIX

  Bannerman followed Shona down the stone steps leading from the harbour wall to the water. He held the little white boat while she got on board and clambered up to the stern to prime the outboard engine.

  ‘I hope you’re a decent sailor,’ she said. ‘It might be a bit rough out there.’

  ‘I’ll do,’ replied Bannerman.

  Shona pulled the cord for the fourth time and the engine spluttered into life. She gave it a moment or two to warm up and settle down into an even rhythm, then cast off the securing ropes. Bannerman pushed the boat clear of the side and they were off. Gulls wheeled overhead as they cleared the harbour mouth and headed for the open sea with the boat picking up motion as its bow took the waves head on.

  ‘I didn’t ask you what you did for a living,’ said Bannerman, raising his voice to be heard above the sound of the engine and the sea.

  ‘I’m an artist,’ Shona replied, using her free hand to keep her hair from her eyes.

  ‘An artist?’

  ‘Why so surprised?’

  ‘I suppose I assumed you had some connection with medicine or science,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘Because of Lawrence,’ said Shona. ‘In a way you’re right. I trained as a physiotherapist before chucking it up to go to art college in Dundee. I met Lawrence when we were both working in a hospital there.’

  ‘And you had an affair.’

  That’s what the world would call it,’ said Shona.

  ‘What would you call it?’

  ‘We loved each other, but he was married,’ replied Shona.

  ‘So why didn’t he leave his wife?’

  ‘Are you married?’ asked Shona.

  ‘No.’

  ‘I didn’t think so, somehow,’ said Shona.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Some things aren’t as simple as other people imagine. Lawrence had two small children and a wife who was entirely dependent on him. He simply married the wrong person. Lots of people do and they don’t all rush off to the divorce courts. People like Lawrence grin and bear it; it’s in their nature.’

  ‘People like Lawrence?’

  ‘Nice people, but weak. Lawrence wouldn’t have hurt a sparrow let alone another human b
eing.’

  ‘Who ended the affair?’

  ‘I did, but we stayed friends. We write once or twice a year and if he needs a soul mate, he calls me.’

  Bannerman nodded. He changed the subject. ‘Can you make a living as an artist?’ he asked.

  ‘Depends what you call a living,’ smiled Shona. ‘I illustrate children’s books and get the odd commission from Mammon. It’s a bit erratic but it allows me to do what I want to do.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To live on the island, paint, take the boat out when I want to, feel the wind, see the sky.’

  ‘Sounds all right,’ said Bannerman.

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Are you doing what you want to do?’

  Bannerman found himself caught unawares at the question. ‘I suppose so,’ he said, ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

  ‘You should,’ said Shona, steering the boat head on to the shingle beach they were approaching. At the last moment she swung the motor out of the water so that it wouldn’t foul the bottom and waited until the boat had grounded before leaping out into the shallows and pulling on the bow rope. Bannerman got out with a deal less elegance and helped her pull the boat up on to the shore.

  ‘The cottage is up at the top on the western edge,’ said Shona as they looked up at the cliff towering broodily above them.

  The wind, which had been quite strong at ground level, increased as they made their way up the narrow cliff path, and was positively fierce at the top. They kept well away from the edge as they battled up to the cottage to find the back door flapping open and banging against the wall. They entered, discovering the groceries that Gill had brought to the island lying on the floor. They appeared to be untouched. A search of the cottage yielded no signs of Gill or any indication that he had been staying there. Bannerman found some footprints in the grime on the kitchen floor and deduced that more than one person had walked on it recently. ‘I think someone must have been waiting for him when he arrived,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe they took him back to the mainland,’ suggested Shona.

  ‘Maybe,’ agreed Bannerman, but the doubt he felt showed in his voice. If Gill had been caught by his pursuers near the top of a cliff … He said that he was going to take a look around outside.