I drove back to Glasgow on the fifth of January. After New Year’s Eve, watching Fergus show off his new plane, I hadn’t visited the castle again.
Two weeks later, after I had had my abbreviated conversation with Lachlan Watt in sunny Sydney, I set off for Lochgair at nine that Friday morning, listening to the war on the radio for as long as I could, until the mountains blocked out the signal.
War breaks out amongst the oilfields and the price of crude plummets. From being an ally so staunch he can missile American ships and it passes as an understandable mistake, and gas thousands of Kurds with barely a gesture of censure (Thatcher promptly increased his export credits, and within three weeks Britain was talking about all the lovely marketing opportunities Iraq represented; for chemicals, presumably), Saddam Hussein had suddenly become Adolf Hitler, despite more or less being invited to walk into Kuwait.
It was a war scripted by Heller from a story by Orwell, and somebody would be bombing their own airfield before too long, no doubt.
From Glasgow to Lochgair is a hundred and thirty-five kilometres by road; less as the crow flies, or as the missile cruises. The journey took about an hour and a half, which is about normal when the roads aren’t packed with tourists and caravans. I spent most of the time shaking my head in disbelief at the news on the radio, and telling myself that I mustn’t allow this to distract me from confronting Fergus, or at the very least sharing my suspicions with somebody other than Ash.
But I think I already knew that was exactly what would happen.
And Ash ... God, the damn thing may be just muscle, merely a pump, but my heart really did seem to ache whenever I thought of her.
So I tried not to think about Ashley Watt at all, utterly unsure whether by doing so I was being very strong, or extremely stupid. I chose not to make an informed guess which; my track record didn’t encourage such honesty.
Mum dropped her laser-guided bombshell over lunch that day. We were sitting in the kitchen, watching the war on television, dutifully listening to the same reports and watching the same sparse bits of footage time after time. I was already starting to get bored with the twin blue-pink glowing cones of RAF Tornadoes’ afterburners as they took off into the night, and even the slo-mo footage of the exciting Brit-made JP-233 runway-cratering package scattering bomblets and mines with the demented glee of some Satanic Santa was already inducing feelings of weary familiarity.
On the other hand, such repetition left one free to appreciate the subtler points in these reports that might otherwise have gone unnoticed, such as the fact that the English could pronounce the soft ch sound, after all. The little rascals had only been teasing us all these years, saying ‘Lock’ Lomond and ‘Lock’ Ness! Why, it must be something genetic, we’d all thought. But no! Places like Bah’rain and Dah’ran were rolled confidently off the tongue by newsreader after newsreader and correspondent after correspondent as though they’d been using the technique for years.
Unfortunately, rather like a super-gun, there appeared to be a problem traversing such a sophisticated phonetic delivery system, and while the Arabian peninsula obviously lay in the favoured direction, nowhere unfortunate enough to be located to the north of London seemed able to benefit from this new-found facility.
‘Oh,’ mum said, passing the milk across the kitchen table to me, ‘assuming we’re all still alive next Friday, Fergus has asked me to the opera in Glasgow. Is it all right if we stay with you?’
I watched the lines of tracer climb above Baghdad, impotent spirals of light twisting to and fro. I felt frozen. Had I heard right? I looked at my mother.
She frowned. ‘Prentice, are you okay?’
‘Wha-?’ I said. I could feel the blood draining from my face. I put the jug down, feeling as white as the low-fat it contained. I tried to swallow. I couldn’t talk, so I settled for clearing my throat and looking at mum with a interrogatory expression.
‘Fergus,’ mum said tolerantly. ‘Invited me to the opera in Glasgow, next Friday. May we stay with you? I assume there’s room ... I do mean separate rooms, Prentice.’ She smiled. ‘Are you all right? You’re not worried about the war, are you? You look white as a sheet.’
‘I’m fine,’ I waved one hand weakly. Actually I felt sick.
‘You look sick,’ mum said.
I tried to swallow again. She shook her head. ‘Don’t worry, Prentice. They won’t conscript you; you’re far too Bolshie. I really wouldn’t worry.’
‘Hg,’ I said, almost gagging.
‘Is that all right? Are we allowed to stay with you? Does your lease, or whatever, cover that?’
‘Ah,’ I said at last. ‘Yeah.’ I nodded, finally swallowing successfully. ‘Yeah, I think so. I mean, of course. Yes. Why not? Loads of room. What opera? What are you going to see?’
‘Macbeth.’
Macbeth! ‘Oh,’ I said, trying to smile. ‘That’s Verdi, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ mum said, still frowning. ‘Would you like to come? It’s a box, so there should be room.’
‘Um, no thanks,’ I said. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, which seemed to want to shake. Finally I shoved them in the pockets of my jeans.
‘You sure you’re all right, Prentice?’
‘Of course!’
Mum tipped her head to one side. ‘You’re not upset because I’m going out with Fergus, are you?’
‘No!’ I laughed. ‘Why, are you?’
‘We’ve partnered each other at bridge a couple of times. He’s a friend, Prentice, that’s all.’ Mum looked puzzled.
‘Right. Well,’ I said. ‘Yes, of course there’s room. I’ll ... no problem.’
‘Good,’ mum said, and clicked a couple of sweeteners into her tea. She was still looking at me strangely. I turned and watched the war for a while. Jumping Jesus, now what?
I sat at dad’s desk. It took longer to write down what I suspected than I’d thought it would. I started with pen and paper, but my writing looked funny and I kept having to dry my hand. Finally I used the computer and printed out what I’d typed. I put the sheet of paper in an envelope and left it lying in the top right drawer of the desk. I wished dad had had a gun, but he hadn’t. I settled for the old Bowie knife I’d had since my Scouting days, sticking the leather sheath down the back of my jeans. I changed into a T-shirt and a shortish jumper so that I could get at the knife quickly, feeling frightened and embarrassed as I did so.
Mum was in what had been a spare bedroom, constructing the harpsichord. When I stuck my head round the door, the room stank of varnish and the sort of old-fashioned glue you’d rather not know the original source of. ‘I’m just going up to the castle, to see Uncle Fergus,’ I said. ‘You reminded me: there are some pieces of Lalique in the house I’m staying in. I thought I’d have a talk to Fergus about them, see if he fancied bidding for them when the contents are eventually auctioned.’
Mum was standing at the work-bench, dressed in overalls, her hair tied back. She was polishing a piece of veneer with a cloth. ‘Pieces of what?’ she said, blowing from the side of her mouth to dislodge a wisp of hair that had escaped the hair clasp.
‘Lalique. René Lalique. Glass; you know.’
‘Oh, yes.’ She looked surprised. ‘Fergus’ll see them on Friday, won’t he?’
‘Well, they’re in storage in the cellar,’ I said. ‘I haven’t actually seen them. They’re in the inventory. I took a note of them. But I thought if he did want to look at them, maybe I could look them out in time for Friday.’
‘Oh.’ Mum shrugged, tipped oil from a bottle onto the brown-stained cloth. ‘Okay, then. Say hello from me.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. I closed the door.
I walked away thinking I should have said more, should have said ... well, the conventional things you tell people when you’re going in fear of your life. But I couldn’t think of a way to say them that wouldn’t sound ridiculous and melodramatic. I’d closed off the letter I’d left in the desk with quite enough of that
sort of thing, I thought.
I took the Golf out of Lochgair, along the Gallanach road. The Bowie knife was an uncomfortable lump down and across the small of my back, its wood and brass handle cold on my back at first, then warming.
I stopped and made a phone call in Lochgilphead.
‘Mr Blawke, sorry to trouble you at home -’
Ostensibly I was just checking out whether it was all right for me to mention the Lalique to Fergus, before the expensive French glass-ware was included in any auction, but really I was making sure the lawyer Blawke knew where I was going.
It wasn’t until I was at the foot of the castle driveway that I realised all this time I’d just been assuming Fergus would be there. As I hesitated, hands shaking on the wheel, it occurred to me there was probably a good chance he wasn’t. I hadn’t checked, after all, and Fergus frequently went away for the weekend; maybe he wasn’t at the castle. Relief coursed through me, along with an annoying current of shame that I felt so relieved.
I took the Golf up the drive.
The gravel circle in front of the castle held five cars, including Fergus’s Range Rover. ‘Oh God,’ I said to myself.
I parked the Golf behind a Bristol Brigand which sat half on the gravel and half on the grass. I walked up to the doors and rang the bell.
‘Prentice!’ Mrs McSpadden roared. ‘Happy New Year to you.’
‘Happy New Year,’ I said, realising only then that I hadn’t seen Mrs McS since the turn of the year. I was permitted to kiss the formidable ramparts of one of Mrs McS’s cheeks. ‘Is Uncle Fergus in?’ I asked. Say, No, I thought, Say, No!
‘Aye, he is that,’ she said, letting me into the castle. ‘I think they’re playing billiards. I’ll take you up.’ She stood aside to let me into the entrance hall with its glassy-eyed audience of stags’ heads.
‘Actually, it’s sort of personal,’ I said, smiling faintly, aware I was blinking a lot.
Mrs McS looked at me oddly. ‘Is that a fact? Well, then, would you wait in the library?’
‘Ah ... all right,’ I said.
We walked through the hall. ‘Isn’t this Gulf thing terrible?’ Mrs McSpadden shouted, as if trying to be heard there. I agreed it was terrible. She showed me into the library, on the other side of the lower hall from the kitchen entrance. I stood in there nervously, trying to breathe normally, letting my gaze flick over the ranked rows of impressive, dark leather spines. I wished my own was half so noble and upright. The room smelled of leather and old, musty paper. I went to look out one of the room’s two small windows, at the garden and the wood beyond. I adjusted the knife down the back of my jeans so that I could get at it easily.
‘Prentice?’ Fergus Urvill said, entering the library. He closed the door behind him. He was dressed in tweed britches and a Pringle jumper over a checked country shirt, with thick socks and brogues. He brushed some grey-black hair away from his face. His jowls flexed as he smiled at me, lifting a little from the collar of his shirt.
I cleared my throat.
Fergus stood there, his arms folded. After a moment he said, ‘What can I do for you, young man?’
I moved from the window to the large wooden table that filled the centre of the room, and put my hands lightly on its surface to stop them shaking. A seat back pressed into my thighs.
‘Fergus ...’ I began. ‘I wondered ... I wondered if you knew where ... where my Uncle Rory might be.’
Fergus frowned, then one eye closed and he sort of cocked his head. Still with his arms folded, he leaned forward a little. ‘Sorry? Your uncle -’
‘Uncle Rory,’ I said. Maybe a little too loudly, but at least my voice didn’t sound as shaky as I’d expected. I lowered it a little to say, ‘I thought you might have an idea where he is.’
Fergus stood straight again. The frown was still there around his eyes, but his lips were smiling. ‘You mean Rory, who disappeared ...?’
‘Yes,’ I nodded. My mouth felt dry and I had to fight to swallow.
‘I’ve no idea, Prentice.’ Fergus scratched behind one ear with one hand. He looked mystified. ‘Why do you think I might know?’
I felt myself blinking too much again, and tried to stop it. I took a breath.
‘Because you got a man called Rupert Paxton-Marr to send match-book covers to my dad.’ My hands were shaking even though they were planted on the surface of the table. I pressed down harder.
Fergus rocked back a little on his brogues. His frown-smile intensified. ‘Rupert? Sending your dad ... what?’ He looked a little amused, a little confused, and not nervous in the least. Oh God, what am I doing? I thought.
Of course, I hadn’t thought to bring any of the match-book covers with me. ‘Match-book covers,’ I said, my dry throat rasping. ‘From all over the world, so that dad would think Rory was still alive.’
Fergus looked to one side and unfolded his arms, sticking his hands in his pockets. He looked up at me. ‘Hmm. Would you like a drink?’ he said.
‘No,’ I told him.
He moved to the other end of the table, where there was a small wooden desk like the top of a lectern. He opened it and took out a squat decanter and a crystal glass. He took the glittering, faceted stopper out of the decanter and poured some of the brown liquid into the glass, frowning all the time. ‘Prentice,’ he said, shaking his head and mating stopper and decanter again. ‘I’m sorry, you’ve lost me. What are you ... what is ... what do you think is going on? Rupert’s sending, or was sending Kenneth ...?’
‘Match-book covers, from hotels and restaurants and bars in various parts of the world,’ I told him, as he stood, relaxed, one hand in pocket, one hand holding the glass, his face scrunched up in the manner of one trying hard and with some sympathy to understand what another is saying. ‘Somehow,’ I struggled on, ‘they were meant to convince dad that Rory was still alive. But I think he’s dead.’
‘Dead?’ Fergus said, drinking. He nodded at the seat I was standing over. ‘Aren’t you going to take a seat?’
‘No thanks,’ I said.
Fergus shrugged, sighed. ‘Well, I can’t imagine ...’ The frown came back again. ‘Has Rupert told you he was doing this?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘And are you sure it wasn’t Rory?’ Fergus shrugged. ‘I mean, was it his handwriting?’
‘There wasn’t any handwriting.’
‘There wasn’t ...’ Fergus shook his head. He smiled, an expression that looked to be half sympathy and half incomprehension. ‘Prentice, I’m lost. I don’t see ...’ His voice trailed off. The frown returned. ‘Now, wait a moment,’ he said. ‘You said you thought I might know where Rory is. But if he’s dead ...?’ He stared, looking shocked, into my eyes. I tried hard not to look away, but in the end I had to. I looked down at the table-top, biting my lip.
‘Prentice,’ Fergus said softly, putting his glass down on the table. ‘I’ve no idea where your uncle is.’ There was silence for a while. ‘Rupert is an old school friend of mine. He’s a journalist who goes all over the world; he’s out in Iraq at this moment, in fact. I haven’t seen him for a couple of years, though he used to come and shoot on occasion. He is a bit of a practical joker at times, but ...’ Fergus looked thoughtful. He shrugged. ‘Rory did tell me something once about setting fire to a barn on the estate once; accidentally, when he was very young. That might tie in with these match boxes ...’ He shook his head, inspected the contents of his glass. ‘But I don’t think I ever mentioned that to Rupert.’
I felt sick. ‘Nothing about ... some pieces of writing makes any sense, does it?’
‘Writing?’ Fergus said, tilting his head, one eye narrowing. He shook his head. ‘No. Whose writing?’
‘Rory’s. Based on something that you saw here; up in the roof-space of the castle, and which you told Rory when you were in that bothy together. The night you shot the rat.’
Fergus had leaned forward again. He looked totally bemused. Finally he jerked upright and laughed. He looked at the glass he
held. ‘Maybe I should lay off this stuff. You’re making less and less sense as you go along here, Prentice. Rory and I did spend a night in a bothy once, on the estate. But there wasn’t any ... rat.’ He smiled and frowned at the same time. ‘Or any shooting. I don’t think we even had guns with us; we were fishing some of the out-of-the-way lochans and streams.’ He sighed, giving the impression of patient weariness. ‘Is this something you’ve read?’
‘Yes,’ I conceded.
‘What, in your father’s papers, since his death?’ Fergus looked as though he felt pity for me.
I nodded, trying not to look down from his gaze. ‘Sort of,’ I breathed.
‘And who is meant to have seen what?’ He raised one finger to his mouth, bit briefly at a nail and examined it.
‘None of that makes any sense to you, does it?’ I said. ‘No ... confession, revelation? Nothing to do with Lachy Watt?’
Fergus looked hurt. He swirled the glass, drained it. ‘That was a very long time ago, Prentice,’ he said quietly.
He looked at me more sorrowfully than accusatorily. ‘We were only children. We don’t always appreciate the seriousness of what we do ...’ He glanced at his empty glass ... ‘when we’re younger.’
He put the glass on the table.
I couldn’t match his gaze, and lowered mine again. I felt dizzy.
I heard Fergus take in a breath. ‘Prentice,’ he said, eventually. ‘I was quite close to Kenneth. He was a friend. I don’t think we saw eye-to-eye on anything really, but we ... we got on, you know? He was a gifted man, and a good friend, and I know I feel the loss. I can imagine how you feel. I ... I’ve had my own ... What I mean is, it isn’t an easy thing to cope with, when somebody that close dies so suddenly. Everything can look ... Well, everything can look very black, you know? Nothing seems right. You even resent other people their happiness, and, well, it just all seems very unfair. It is a terrible strain to be under; don’t think I don’t appreciate that. And just now, when the world seems ...’ He took another deep breath. ‘Look, old son -’