by William Boyd
I was completely bewildered, the script changed daily, and I remember taking Ruben aside two weeks into the shoot and politely enquiring why was I armed and who, exactly, was I looking for? Why you asking me these stupid questions, Alec? Ruben said, patiently, kindly – you know the answer inside. He tapped my forehead with a finger. Of course, I said, chastened, of course I do. We completed the movie after five weeks; it just fizzled out after my torrid affair with the Fioralba Tizzi character – Ruben called an abrupt halt one day, he seemed to have lost interest – and I didn’t even shoot anyone. We won a prize at the Karlovy Vary film festival. The career boost I was expecting never quite materialized.
As I drove down from Clachan Mor I felt a similar conflicting stress of emotions to those I’d experienced during Giorni di Mal: I knew what I was doing, or was about to do, but I didn’t know why I was doing it. Perhaps whatever I was about to provoke would provide some answers. I think this crucial uncertainty was responsible for my nausea.
I headed for a small heavily wooded promontory just south of Mallaig. Half an hour later I was driving through mature pine forest on a dirt track. Up ahead at the fringe of the plantation I could see the refulgent light of the ocean beyond. I pulled up, cut the motor, stepped out and walked into the pines looking for a small clearing. The trees were closely planted and it was difficult, scratchy going. It was a cool, breezy day, thankfully, not much sun showing between the hurrying clouds. I came across an outcrop of rocks – angled slabs of granite where no trees or shrubs could gain purchase – and I decided to look no further. This would have to do. I slipped off my rucksack and unpacked it.
First I set up the gas stove. Beside it I placed the roasting pan and filled it with white blocks of firelighters. Then I took my bent pieces of wire coat hanger and, pushing them into the fissures of the rock outcrop, managed to suspend three of the distress flares that I’d bought in the ship chandler’s above the roasting pan, fixed in my rudimentary wire armatures. I had bought half a dozen of these flares. If I’d had a neat bit of turf I could have fixed the lot of them over the pan, but three was all I could manage now.
I looked at my watch. Hurry up, Dunbar, they’ll be coming after you.
Now came the tricky bit. I found some thin slabs of shale and gaffer-taped them together to form a kind of rocky stand by the gas stove. Then I gaffer-taped the kitchen timer to the flat rock on the top, the timer’s face upwards. Tearing off thinner strips of tape I managed to fix securely a ten-inch wand of wire coat hanger to the finger-grip on the timer face. I twisted the clockwork dial back and reset it to twenty minutes. It began to tick and, as the mainspring unwound and the timer face revolved as the seconds elapsed, so did the wire wand attached to it.
I eased the gas stove back an inch or so, positioning it carefully, and then lit it, setting a pebble under its base, to make it unsteady and therefore relatively easy to tip over once it was nudged. As the clock ticked down on the timer, the wire wand would approach the gas stove. It would touch the uneasily balanced stove, the clockwork pressure would increase, the stove and its lit burner would fall into the roasting pan and set fire to the firelighters. The fierce, near-immediate blaze that ensued would ignite the wire-suspended distress flares. Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh! At least that was the plan. Heath Robinson would have been proud of me.
I was sweating. This device had been used as a primitive time bomb in my last film, Die Standing, though not by me. I had been killed in the vast explosion it had caused – all of which explained how I knew how to construct it. I looked at the slowly revolving timer. I had fifteen minutes left. I made my last, vital phone call. Voicemail. Leave a message. I swore vilely, profanely. I prayed to the gods of luck and left the message and pushed my way back through the pine forest to the track, jumped into KT-99 and drove out on to the promontory.
I turned the Land Rover 180 degrees so it was facing the track and then, very carefully, door open, leaning out, I backed it inch by inch up to the turf margin of the cliff face. The rear tyres were a foot from the drop. I peered down. Sixty, seventy feet to the surging waves on the rocks below.
I looked across the sound to the islands of Rum, Eigg and Muck and beyond them to the Cuillin hills of Skye. A brief flash of sunshine appeared and for a moment the scene was typically, heart-rendingly beautiful – blue mountains on the islands, scudding clouds, hammered silver-foil sea, the wash of waves and the cry of gulls. I felt sick again.
I took the flask of River Jordan water out of its cool box and climbed up on to the roof of KT-99. I sat down at the rear, my back to the sea and the beetling cliff, and waited.
They came far too early. Two minutes later I heard the sound of the engine and there was still around ten minutes to go on my timer in the woods, I realized. I swore again and stood up on the roof, flask cradled in my arms.
Slowly, bumping over the ruts in the track as it emerged from the pine forest, the big black saloon edged forward and stopped. It sat there for a moment, squat and still, engine running. I could imagine the occupants in some perplexity, wondering what was going on as they looked at a man on the roof of a Land Rover, backed up perilously close to the edge of a high cliff over the sea.
I glanced round and inched backwards and held out the flask over the drop. I heard pulsing wave-surge below me – I didn’t look down. They would get the message.
The engine was switched off in the car. Both doors opened. A woman stepped out – and then a man. The man had an automatic pistol in his hand.
‘Don’t be a fool, Mr Dunbar,’ the woman called in an eastern European accent. ‘Just give us flask and you will be free to go.’
Part Eight: The Edge of the Cliff
The woman and the man slowly approached. Now I could see that the woman was, in fact, the feral girl in white, though she didn’t look feral any more. The hair was smooth and glossy, she was wearing black designer jeans tucked into black boots and wore a soft mushroom-coloured leather jacket. She looked corporate and sternly pretty but still with the generic eastern European accent.
The man, thin and limber, wiry hair gelled back into corrugated waves, wearing jeans and a blouson jacket, was carrying a big Desert Eagle .50 AE, one of the most powerful handguns in the world. I knew a lot about guns – I’d used and been killed by many specific brands during my career in action movies. A Desert Eagle .50 had slotted me in Entry Wound, it so happened. I hoped this wasn’t a bad omen.
‘Give us flask. Don’t be stupid, Mr Dunbar,’ the woman repeated. ‘We’ll leave you alone.’
‘Oh, yeah, sure,’ I said. ‘Just stop right there.’ They were about ten feet away. ‘I know exactly what’s going on,’ I said, bluffing somewhat.
Gratifyingly, they both stopped advancing on me and stood there. The man held his Desert Eagle down. The woman, the feral girl turned corporate maven, took half a step forward.
‘You are innocent party,’ she said. ‘We have nothing against you, no grievance. You didn’t know what you were getting into.’
‘I know it’s a drug,’ I said. ‘Some new pharmaceutical product, worth a dozen kings’ ransoms. My bet is that Stella and Ronaldo used to work with you, at whatever Big Pharma company you represent. They stole this drug and were going to sell it to someone else. But you were on their trail trying to get it back.’
‘I don’t know any Stella or Ronaldo,’ the woman said, not very convincingly, as if caught out by my analysis. She put on a pair of sunglasses – the sun was lowering in the west. More and more this scene was resembling some fraught denouement to a future film I might make. Or might not. I had to keep a grip on reality. One shot from the Desert Eagle could blow my arm off. My arm that was now beginning to ache, holding out the flask. I lowered it.
‘You are right in one thing,’ the woman said. ‘The fluid in that flask was stolen. We were hired to recover it. We weren’t sure what role you were playing. Which is why I subterfuge you at gas station.’ She allowed herself a smile. ‘Now I know you have nothing to do with th
e theft. So – let’s be sensible, Mr Dunbar. Hand it over. We leave. You leave. End of story.’
‘What happened to Stella and Ronaldo?’
‘I don’t know who they are.’
‘I found their dead bodies in a church. An hour later they had gone.’
‘You’re talking in mystery and riddles, Mr Dunbar.’
‘Have you buried them somewhere?’
She continued with her denials. I continued with my questions, conscious of my kitchen timer ticking away in the forest.
Then the man with the gun said something to her in a low voice and she shook her head slightly.
‘Listen. How about this for a scenario,’ I said. ‘It’s just struck me that the fluid in this jar is all that’s left of this pharmaceutical goldmine, whatever it is. Stella and Ronaldo not only stole it, they eradicated all trace of its previous life – that’s why it’s so precious.’
‘You have been in too many bad movies,’ the woman said, allowing a little contempt to creep into her voice.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ I said. ‘But you’ve no idea what an education bad movies provide when it comes to understanding the ways of the world.’
I smiled at her and held my arm out again, dangling the flask over the cliff edge. I thought Wiry-Hair was losing patience and just wanted to blow me away.
‘How about this movie?’ I went on. ‘Stella Devereaux has stolen the drug. She knows you’re on her heels so she takes elaborate pains to find the perfect patsy to transport her precious cargo to a place of greater safety. That patsy was me. I was meant to meet her in St Mungo’s Church in Alcorran – but you got to her and her partner first. Killed them. What was it – injection? Gas? There was a funny smell in that building.’
‘You are fantasist,’ the woman said. ‘Just give us flask before we lose all patience.’ She nodded at Wiry-Hair, who raised the Desert Eagle and pointed it at me. I shuffled backwards to the very edge of KT-99’s roof. I conjured up an image of my makeshift rescue device in the pine forest. The wire wand attached to the timer making contact with the teetering gas stove. Tick, tick, tick. The stove tumbles, the firelighters burst into flame under the wire armatures holding the distress flares. How long before the licking flames detonate the propellant in the flares and –
BANG! Silence. Then – BANG! BANG!
The woman and the man looked round in pleasing incredulity as three cherry-red distress flares rose hundreds of feet in the air behind them, launched from the fastness of the pine forest.
Wiry-Hair swore foully in a language I didn’t understand and swivelled his gun back at me.
‘Don’t be stupid, mate,’ I said. ‘Now the police know exactly where you are.’
On cue – sometimes life works like that: life works like a movie – distant police sirens sounded from within the forest. My voicemail message had been picked up – swiftly, obviously – and now seeing the flares the police had switched their sirens on. The flares were now dropping slowly, fizzling out, trailing their puce contrails. Here, they were saying, here be villains.
The woman had lost her composure, I could see.
‘Give me flask!’ she said in a shrill, strangled voice.
‘You know what?’ I said. ‘I don’t like you people. You’ve been very tiresome. So I don’t think I will.’
As casually as I could, I tossed the flask over my shoulder, over the cliff. We could all hear the crash of shattered glass as it hit the rocks below and, at the same moment, two police cars roared out of the pine forest, blue lights flashing, sirens wailing, and lurched to a stop.
Sergeant Callum Strang stepped out of the first car. Three other policemen followed. I noticed that the Desert Eagle had abruptly disappeared, back in its shoulder holster. Now was the time for my master stroke.
‘Sergeant Strang,’ I called. ‘Very good to see you.’
‘I got your message,’ Strang said, taking in the other two. ‘You said it was very urgent.’
I was in full acting mode now: being cool when in fact I was in a state of trembling shock, so closely run had events been.
I jumped down off the roof of the Defender and pointed at the woman and Wiry-Hair.
‘These were the two playing dead in the church.’
‘Really?’ Strang said.
‘I don’t know who is this man,’ the woman said, insistently. ‘We were just admiring view when he arrive with his Land Rover. He’s being most objectionable.’
‘I recommend a thorough search of this gentleman,’ I said, pointing at Wiry-Hair. ‘You might find it interesting.’
Strang turned to the woman.
‘I think it might be best if you accompanied us to the station in Mallaig, madam,’ Strang said, all official politesse. ‘Please follow this car.’
The woman protested, huffed and puffed, but she and Wiry-Hair were shepherded into their car. Strang turned to me.
‘What’s going on, Mr Dunbar?’
‘I would put an officer in the car with them, Sergeant,’ I advised.
‘Why?’
‘I think he may be armed.’
‘Right …’ He turned. ‘Malky,’ he shouted. ‘You go with them.’
One of his constables climbed into the back of the saloon.
‘I’ll repeat my question. What’s going on, Mr Dunbar?’
‘I don’t know. I recognized these two in a ship chandler’s in Mallaig. They were buying flares. And I followed them.’
‘What about those flares? Why would they let them off?’
‘Another of their pranks? Perhaps. Lure out the fire brigade. I don’t know.’
Strang didn’t really believe a word I was saying but he knew the tip of an iceberg when he saw one. He asked me to give him my address and contact numbers. I did with great pleasure – a new worry was creeping up on me and I wanted as much proximity to the police as I could muster. The more they knew the better.
‘Got your phone back?’ Strang asked.
‘Ah, yes. It dried out.’
‘Returning to London?’
‘Not immediately. I’ve a friend in Mallaig I want to see,’ I said, thinking of Isla MacNab and how I owed her a proper thank you.
‘Good,’ Strang said. ‘I’ll let you know what our search of the gentleman unearths. I’ll call you later.’
‘Have a good look in their car, as well,’ I suggested. ‘I’ve a feeling they’re not quite who they’ll claim to be.’
Strang gave me that look again – shrewd, askance – shook my hand and we made our farewells. I was thinking. They’ll find the gun. They’ll find all their GPS tracking paraphernalia – and goodness knows what else. They would be detained in Mallaig a good few days at the very least answering charges for possession of a deadly weapon. Carrying a gun – let alone a Desert Eagle .50 – in Great Britain was a serious offence. There might even be terrorist issues – Special Branch, MI5. And who knows, maybe Stella’s and Ronaldo’s bodies would be discovered, though I doubted that – there were too many remote, deep lochans in this part of the world. Still, I reckoned I had some time on my side but I couldn’t ignore the little keening note of worry. Who were they working for? Would they forget about me or come seeking retribution? Surely I was small fry, not worth bothering about, causing more trouble for them – a tiny random player in this global pursuit of billions? … I held on to that thought. It consoled me. And what to do about KT-99, I asked myself, as I climbed into the front seat? Was she mine now? Or should I turn her in as evidence? I’d think about that tomorrow, I told myself, happy to procrastinate, looking for the number of Ardenthill College on my phone. Isla would know a good restaurant and I hadn’t seen a wedding ring on her finger.
I saw Strang’s car bump across the grass towards me, his window winding down and his hand beckoning me over. Oh God, no. What now? I stepped out, throat tight, pocketing my phone.
‘Were you in Die Standing, by any chance?’ Strang asked.
‘I was,’ I said, disguising my relief. ‘
I was indeed.’
‘Thought it was you,’ Strang said with a smile. ‘Good movie.’
He drove away into the pine forest, following the saloon, and I climbed back into KT-99 and called Ardenthill, asking to be put through to the science block. I was safe, I considered, as safe as I could reasonably expect to be, given the circumstances. But for how long?
Yes, I said, I’ll wait, no problem.
Then another unwelcome idea infiltrated itself into my crowded brain. Maybe Stella, Ronaldo, Feral and Wiry-Hair were all working together. Maybe it was their collective plan – they had stolen the drug together but some dishonour amongst conspirators had meant that two of them had been eliminated. It made more sense somehow – explained how I was followed so easily, how Stella and Ronaldo were killed in St Mungo’s with no apparent struggle. Maybe I was the one meant to be identified as the thief, the fall guy. The man on the run, heading north to Scotland with the crucial flask. Maybe I was the one meant to be caught and served up – but I’d made it all go wrong for them …
I didn’t understand much, but I knew that I had been the unwitting part of an elaborate conspiracy of some sort – an innocent passing asteroid drawn into the gravitational pull of a larger malevolent planet. I was to be used in some way in a plan concerning the theft of a prototype pharmaceutical drug and its resale. That was all I could possibly allege with any kind of confidence; I could have no idea of the full ramifications of this scam – what was at stake or how much money was involved. The fact that I had managed to extricate myself was the crucial achievement.
No, I thought: stop thinking, Dunbar, it’ll drive you insane. In this instance ignorance really is bliss. You’ll never know what was really going on. Ever. Just be glad you’re parked here on this promontory on the west coast of Scotland watching the sun set over the Atlantic Ocean and your enemies are secure in Mallaig police station.
I sat still, waiting, my phone to my ear.
Then Isla MacNab came on the line and I relaxed.