by Ru Pringle
She takes the hand. It’s so big and rough it feels like the paw of a different species. ‘Hedge Trimmer?’ She motions to where her beard would be, if she had one.
He laughs, explosively. ‘No – although that would be fun!’ He makes a show of wiping his eyes. ‘It’s for … another reason.’ He doesn’t elaborate. ‘Ling, you already know.’
He motions to the green-eyed young man.
‘This is Pumpy. And this …’ he grasps a shoulder of the woman she has already guessed, somehow, is Pumpy’s partner.
‘Rumpy?’
Hedge Trimmer slaps the table, emitting another barking guffaw. His eyes flick round the room. ‘See? Told you she was smart!’
He nods at the fair girl, who is leaning against the radiator. ‘That’s Tish.’ It seems that nicknames are the rule here. His intense eyes swing expectantly back to hers.
‘And you are?’
She hopes he doesn’t see her swallow. ‘It’s … Curstaidh. Curstaidh MacIntyre.’
He nods, but the soft light in his eyes has turned into something steelier. ‘Curstaidh MacIntyre. Well, Curstaidh. Until you want to tell us your real name, that’s what we’ll call you.’
She opens her mouth.
‘And here was us now having a bet among ourselves that you were probably Coira Keir. Who’s currently the subject of a nationwide manhunt for some pretty dark stuff, including the attempted assassination of Prime Minister John Faulkner. Oh, and I almost forgot: with a bounty of no less than point three trillion of His Majesty’s – admittedly somewhat devalued – pounds, for information leading to her capture.’
Her blood seems to stop moving. It feels like it’s set inside her like concrete.
‘You’ve gone awfully white now there, Miss MacIntyre. In answer to your earlier question – no, we don’t get many visits. We keep ourselves to ourselves, and we’re far too backward and remote out here to get much attention from the government.’
She nods, very slowly.
‘We sure as fuck got a visit yesterday, though.’
Without shifting her gaze, which is locked on his, she begins cataloguing potential weapons in her peripheral vision. Cutlery, plates … it’s a kitchen: where the hell are all the kitchen knives? That wok is the best bet, she thinks. Escape route? From the light coming through it, the nearest door looks external. Unlocked? Why lock it, here? Besides, Tish must have just come through it …
She manages to push out the words ‘So, what did you do?’
‘Well, we gave them the tour, of course! The place old Orwell turned up his toes, and all that. ’Course, we couldn’t be having an unconscious person who may – or may not – be a terrorist lying around. What kind of attention do you think that would attract?’
‘We buried you,’ Pumpy informs her, with indecent glee. ‘In the manure heap. Nice and warm. Fools thermal imagers.’ This triggers a giggle from Rumpy, not very effectively stifled behind a hand. Her accent, when she speaks, is richly African.
‘We put you into a blanket first. Unfortunately, it was not very waterproof.’
‘Sorry.’ Pumpy looks anything but. ‘Had to wash you pretty thoroughly, after. But the girls got to do it, so I never saw your bits.’
Coira feels her cheeks flush. She licks her lips. Her next words, she realises, require great care. ‘Are you … separatists?’
Beard hair raised like a cat’s, Hedge Trimmer snorts, and hawks a great gob of spit on to the floor. There’s a ferocity in his eyes that wasn’t there before. For what seems an extended moment, everyone stares at the phlegm. It sits on the stone quivering slightly, like a beached jellyfish.
‘Separatists, Unionists, Fascists, Communists … All the fuckin same, you ask me.’ His fists are clenched. ‘That bloody independence movement, full of all that lofty pish … “Make Scotland a better place”, they said. “Let’s remove corporate influence from politics”. Then, soon as push comes to shove, as soon as pressure is applied …’ He shakes his head. ‘Our ideologically smug little business-friendly haven was starting to ape Westminster’s three-hundred-year-old cesspool by the third term of office! And now, we have the whole Robert Burns song all over again. How’s it go …? “We’re bocht an sold for English gold”.’
‘“Sic a parcel o rogues in a nation”,’ chorus the others, surprising her. It’s not just that they know the words, but their spontaneity and gusto. A couple are even harmonising.
‘Aye! Principles bought and sold, for gold. Twice. I take it you’ll be familiar with our dirty wee colonial secret, the Darien Scheme? A shower of eighteenth-century toffs brokered the sale of a nation just to cover losses on their own failed overseas investments, despite national riots. Sound familiar? Because, eight years ago, those Judases we elected to represent us in that concrete folly at Holyrood’ – he jabs a thumb in the approximate direction of Edinburgh – ‘did the same. Spinelessness and greed, each time. You think it was the threats that made our shiny new government roll over? The bombers and armed units crossing the border were just sabre rattling – to underscore a deal that was already paid for. Have you noticed how many ex-ministers involved in signing the transfer of power agreement are trillionaires?’
She realises she hasn’t, but she can guess.
‘All but five, including the deposed PM. Who, strangely, no one’s heard of for eight years. Half are now Westminster peers! What does that tell you about this erstwhile nation of ours? People complain their options are to riot and get shot at, or to vote for the next profiteer who’ll sell them out – when half the folk who voted in our referendums on independence only bothered because they thought they’d lose or gain a few hundred pounds each year. A country’s future, for the price of a ’phone?’ He snorts. ‘Principles my hairy arse! There’s no more here than in any corner of this shite-hole planet of ours – and the sooner all borders are obliterated, the better.’
Coira opens her mouth.
‘But aye, I know what you’re about to say. Not going to happen. In fact, over the last twenty years, our betters around the world have been redrawing them, reinforcing them, like there’s no tomorrow. Forgive the unfortunate expression.’ Straightening, he spreads his arms. ‘And so, here we are. Forty-six of us, making the best we can out of our own wee portion of shite. To which we welcome anyone, within our means – any creed or colour – as long as they’re prepared to contribute.’
She can’t stop herself. ‘The Second Hanseatic League is still taking refugees. From here as well as Africa and southern Europe. Some governments still have enlightened …’
‘Have you been to Scandinavia lately, Curstaidh MacIntyre?’
She suspects her lip is curling. ‘Have you?’
He nods.
‘When?’
‘Last time, eight years ago. I’ll grant you it was probably better than here, in a sanctimonious kind of way. But even then, they had their quotas. Sure, the Scandis take migrants, despite the riots and neo-Nazi marches they try so hard to keep quiet about. But most are cherry-picked for their “value”. And they can afford to sit on their arses being smug. They get a fraction of the pressure Scotland does, let alone poor old fuckin England – oh forgive me, we’re official property of England now, aren’t we? – and that’s not to mention what’s faced by the Italian states, or Catalonia, or most of Europe, come to that. And why?’
Coira folds her arms as he flips his palms towards the ceiling.
‘The Scandis are the world’s biggest owners of foreign real estate! And they don’t tolerate anyone screwing with their investments – governments and militias included. They built an empire without anyone noticing. On oh-so-sensibly invested oil money. They avoid complaints mainly because Scandi business is often the only reliable income. That’s how they kept fuckin borders to patrol with their shiny new navy and air force; how they got away with dynamiting the Øresund Bridge to keep the southern barbarians out. Add to all this how hard they are to reach – the sea blockades, the climate, the im
penetrable languages, the mingin lutefisk for fuck’s sake – it’s enough to make all but the most determined or desperate refugees choose almost anywhere else. Oh, it’s easy being a paragon of virtue when you’re in a position like that.’
‘Some of that may be true. But they still support things like welfare. Not to mention free speech and basic fucking human rights!’ She’s very aware how much she should just be shutting up right now. ‘How long is it since we had any of these things?’
‘They’ve been damn lucky. And for how much longer, the way things are going?’
‘Dammit – we were INVADED!’
She has slammed her hand down on the table, she realises. Everyone is staring at her. She clasps her hands tightly together, sets her jaw and looks doggedly at the table.
‘Indeed,’ Hedge Trimmer says quietly, his chair creaking as he leans his bulk back into it. His beard seems to have stiffened, somehow. ‘Like most of the places the people on this farm came from, before they came here. And now, here they are again. In another invaded country that’s at war, in all but name. Facing the same old shite.’
There’s silence around the table. She takes an unsteady sip from her – now tepid – tea.
‘So what do you recommend we do?’ she inquires, acidly.
‘We survive,’ Hedge Trimmer tells her. ‘We live.’
‘You mean’ – she realises she is sneering, but can’t help herself, – ‘like the French collaborators did? In the Second World War?’
‘I mean’ – little warmth is left in his eyes now – ‘like the Roma in Europe. Or Native or African Americans in America. We endure. We do our thing, as best we can. But we don’t accept their agenda, or live by the rules they want us to.’
She studies the cracks in the bottom of her mug. ‘Well. Good luck with that.’
‘You think our aim is more futile than yours? Seriously? I think you have a hard lesson coming, miss … whoever you are.’
He scans the room, as if seeking consensus. He seems to find it, because he continues: ‘Look – sorry to curtail this fascinating political conversation, but delightful as it’s been, the fact is we’ve already put ourselves at considerable risk having you here, and we can’t allow you to stay. We don’t want their filthy reward money, and I don’t know how much of what’s being said about you to believe – but if we’re searched again, we’ll need to tell them exactly what happened to avoid … well, sanctions. And the truth is, I can’t speak for everyone. There’s one or two of us here might decide the King’s shilling could open up a few possibilities.’
‘Good to see every refugee’s welcome, regardless of creed or colour.’
‘Oh, please! If, in your head, trying to murder a head of state – or whatever it was you and your chums thought you were doing – makes you an asylum seeker, the assumptions our arguments are based on already parted company a long time ago.’
Coira drains her mug. ‘I need to be going anyway.’
He studies her, expression unreadable behind his now inert beard. His companions have become equally inscrutable. ‘Meeting someone, are we?’
She says nothing. He sighs.
‘We can’t spare much, but you’ll have food and water for a couple of days.’
‘Where’s my kayak?’
‘Your kayak. Ah yes, interesting. It’s quite a big old boat for someone so’ – his beard bristles – ‘petite, don’t you think?’
‘It’s fast.’ She has no idea if this is true, but it seems plausible.
‘Your wetsuit’s a tad on the “fast” side too. But we shan’t be asking about that.’ Her cheeks burn. ‘Someone should be fishing it out of the dung heap and hosing it off around now. I’m assuming you don’t want to be seen,’ he continues, ‘and there are lookouts at Crinan who tend to keep a beady eye on us. Checking we’re not up to anything untoward.’
This is alarming. She’s beginning to appreciate she may have been lucky in ways she hadn’t even considered.
‘We’ll take you to the north end of the island. Then you can cross the Strait of Corryvreckan and go round the west side of Scarba, where hopefully there’ll be no one to see you.’ Seeing her expression, he adds, ‘Don’t worry: we’ll get you there for slack tide, which is in’ – he stares at the incongruous pendulum-operated cuckoo-clock dominating the kitchen wall – ‘a couple of hours. As long as you don’t hang about, you’ll not see any of the mad stuff.’
Despite being highly doubtful, Coira nods.
RUMPY AND PUMPY guide her back to the room she awoke in not long ago, where she’s presented with her land-clothes, still stained and torn but dried and carefully folded, along with her shoes. She’s also given a serviceable-looking old oilskin jacket. It looks almost her size. The couple bounce banter off each other in a way she suspects is for her benefit as much as theirs. It’s like being escorted by a couple of puppies. She wonders how old they are. They’re acting as though the discussion over breakfast had never happened.
She’s led to a courtyard at the back of the house, sheltered by wings of the building which clearly function as barns. Smelling of manure, damp soil and diesel, the courtyard’s half-filled with polytunnels of mismatched and patched polythene stretched over frames of recycled iron, steel or aluminium. She can identify marquee poles, hoops of rebar and rusted car exhausts welded together. Most of the makeshift greenhouses are tended by small gangs wearing anything from jeans and knitted jumpers to brightly patterned robes or pastel-hued shalwar kameez. There’s even a man in a filthy kilt. Some wave greetings. The rest watch with blunt interest. Most look north African or Caribbean, though there are Middle-Eastern and European faces too.
A sheet of stratus has crept in from the south. With the sun obscured, it’s getting chilly. Behind the polytunnels a tiny vale rises to a gap in the skyline, sheltered from the sea to the east by a low ridge. Much of its floor is striped with late-season crops, although there are grassed enclosures where goats graze and chickens peck. What at first glance she takes to be separating walls turn out to be a beautifully constructed stacks of dark peats.
Some of the barn doors are open. Framed by one, a porcelain-white, red-headed man and a gaunt, olive-skinned youth in a shalwar kameez are gralloching a stag, whose entrails slop, steaming, to the concrete. Nearby an engine is revving, black smoke wafting from behind the half-closed adjacent door. The door bursts open, and from it lurches an eight-wheeled plastic buggy. Its original forest green has been augmented with spray-painted camouflage in khaki and grey.
‘An ArgoCat!’ She’s delighted despite herself as Hedge Trimmer hops out of the driver’s seat and walks over. ‘I’ve not seen one of these since I was wee. Grew up on a farm,’ she explains, in response to the question he seems about to ask.
‘Couldn’t do without it. We’ve a Land Rover, sixty years old now. But there are too many places it can’t go.’
Coira eyes the trailer the ArgoCat is towing. ‘Bet finding parts is a bitch.’
‘With the expertise here now, we’ve started making our own.’ Lashed to the trailer beneath a kind of heather toupée is a kayak-shaped green tarpaulin. ‘Satellites,’ Hedge Trimmer says, by way of explanation. He nods at the sky. ‘Don’t want to be watched aiding and abetting now, do we? Though we should be okay for now. Forecast says the cloud will thicken until another front comes through some time tonight.’
Great, she thinks. Then she looks at the ArgoCat, and has an idea.
‘Look, Hedge Trimmer … I know I’m really in no position to be asking anything, but I don’t suppose you have any of that paint left?’
CHAPTER 11
______________
Camp
YOU SIT IN YOUR CAR at the junction, staring through the windscreen at a projection of Google Earth.
Which way?
Right, to Tayvallich … or the minor road left, towards the east shore of Loch Sween?
You’ve studied the terrain as carefully as the imagery’s h
alf-metre resolution will allow. You’re fairly convinced the Keir woman won’t have gone north, despite your hunch that’s where she was headed before the crash. You did wonder if she could have been intending to drive south, down the length of the Kintyre peninsula. Taking a boat from Machrihanish or Campbeltown for the twenty-kilometre hop to Northern Ireland.
That doesn’t feel right, though. There’s too much coastguard and naval activity down there in the North Channel. And besides – why Northern Ireland? Why go to all that risk and trouble to enter a province like a religiously inflamed version of the one she was leaving?
That leaves a rough journey west for several kilometres, to the shore of Loch Sween. You suspect she knows of the harbour there, and she could have anticipated getting hold of a boat. But the awkward fact is that no boats have been reported missing, officially at least. Added to which, there was a police presence there that night. Nothing to do with the bombing, apparently, but a drugs and arms-smuggling tip-off involving a 3D printer in an old lockup with imported assault weapons and a couple of hundred freshly printed pistols. And so you imagine yourself, tired from flogging for hours through trackless scrub and bog, your last meal probably breakfast the previous morning, probably mapless, too, staggering down the trackless hill towards the loch, faced with navigating in poor light around a series of headlands separated by bays of unknown length. Or, conceivably, a swim of half a kilometre or more …
What would you do, Coira Keir?
You turn left along the minor road. What’s left of the tarmac here is little wider than the car. You find yourself driving through an intricate landscape of low ridges, small lochs and scrubland until you hit one of the fingers of seawater at the head of Loch Sween.
You study the satellite image.
No, not here.
You drive on. The road twists and turns. You pass stacks of rotting timbers and window frames where wooden cottages used to be. Again, it doesn’t feel right, so you turn the car around, picking your way between rubble-filled craters until you pass the gate to an old house.