‘The town that never sleeps . . .’
‘Who could sleep in Stornoway with all these freaks and weirdos wandering around The Narrows every night?’
‘Great Stornoway with its castle.’
‘Look, can I ask . . .?’
‘Do you know this? I have dreams about the town of Stornoway.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘The nearer you are to Stornoway, the nearer you are to the Lord.’
‘I don’t know. I spent two years there . . . one night.’
‘Have you been there right enough?’
‘Many times.’
‘Oh, how lucky you are!’
‘I go over there on business now and again.’
‘What kind of work do you do?’
Murdo paused before answering. ‘I’m an actor.’
‘Goodness! One of the guests in the hotel is in the same business.’
‘He may be. I don’t know him in any case . . . Can we . . .?’
‘The pair of you will have a great deal in common.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘I’ll need to try and get the pair of you together.’
‘Don’t bother.’ Murdo said. ‘Whenever I meet a halfwit, I’m as sick as a dog.’
6
Murdo pricks up his ears
24 August 2010, 11.30 a.m.
‘You’ll get on well together,’ Morag said. ‘His company’s called Etive Television. He seems to have a lot of money.’
‘I’d rather mutilate myself than meet with someone like . . . What did you say?’
‘What about?’
‘About money.’
‘He gives the impression he’s not short of a bob or two.’
‘How do you know?’
‘He made Mr Barrington-Smythe an offer for this place. Barrington-Smythe and his wife – if that’s what you call her – they wanted a hundred and fifty thousand for it. The man from Etive Television would only give seventy thousand. I just hate it when people haggle over prices. It’s not polite, is it?’
‘Er, well, no.’ Murdo paused. ‘Tell me more about Barrington-Smythe and his wife.’
‘He’s as mad as a hatter. Into pottery. He makes mugs out of clay . . . and statues.’
‘What kind of statues?’
‘Two kinds.’
‘Who does he model them on?’
‘Jesus Christ and Frank Bruno.’
‘Is there some connection between them?’
‘They’re almost identical in every respect.’
‘Jesus and Frank Bruno?’
‘Our Saviour is as black as pitch with beads of sweat all over his body. Thick lips and large nostrils. All he’s wearing is a pair of shorts.’
‘Jesus has become a boxer?’
‘Oh, no. The only difference between them is that our Lord doesn’t wear boxing gloves. Frank Bruno does.’
‘Okay. Barrington-Smythe doesn’t have both oars in the water. Does his . . . the live-in have a bank book?’
‘Och, Barrington-Smythe ordered her from a J.D. Williams catalogue,’ Morag said. ‘Just as soon as they sell the hotel, she’ll take her whack and before you can say “Missing you already” that’ll be her off on a plane to Bangkok or Barra. No, sorry, she’d be stoned to death in Barra. She’ll head for the Far East. She’s obsessed with anything from China.’
‘Things don’t look too promising.’
‘Don’t say that, son. There is one who will come to your aid.’
‘If it’s a black man wearing boxing shorts, I’m not in the slightest bit interested.’
‘What a numpty you are! The man from Etive Television.’
‘I don’t want to hear another word about him.’
‘You’re asking me about people who’d maybe buy your van, and I’m telling you that the man from Etive Television has got money.’
‘I don’t know . . .’
‘Irrespective of the value of the thing, he’ll only give you half of that. That man would go to He— He’d go to the Devil himself for a bargain . . . on wheels!’
Murdo was silent for a couple of seconds. ‘Hmmm.’
‘Go and have a word with him. He’s in Room 3.’
Murdo produced a pen and notebook with a flourish. ‘Wait a second, wait till I get something down on paper.’
‘Do you write as well?’
‘Oh, yes . . . You know, little sketches . . . and stuff like that. Torlum was the school I went to.’
‘In Donald Macleod’s wee blue bus.’ Morag sniffed. ‘I have to go. I’ve got real work to do.’
Murdo scribbled furiously. ‘Go, go. I’ve got about half an hour left to get this down on paper . . . so that I’ll maybe save my life.’
‘If you were a good Christian, you’d understand that He alone can raise you on high.’
‘That’s a thing I always wondered about with Christians,’ Murdo said.
‘What?’
‘Why they had to keep going back to church every week.’
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Are they retarded or what? What goes on inside their heads? How does it go again? Jesus . . . good . . . Satan . . . bad? Maybe it’s the other way round. Jesus . . . bad . . .? Och, I can’t remember. I’ll go back to the church next week and I’ll listen real carefully.’
‘How dare you speak like that!’ Morag said.
‘I’m sorry if I offended you, but it’s just that I’m excited.’
‘You’re excited?’
‘Yes. The muse is sitting on my shoulder.’
‘What’s your muse saying to you?’
‘Go get him, tiger!’
There was a slight delay before Morag said, ‘I’ve got the toilet to clean.’
‘If you could leave me alone for a wee while, that would suit me.’
‘I’m off,’ Morag said.
‘I’m truly grateful to you. You’ve just given me tremendous encouragement.’ Murdo continued to write up a storm.
‘Look, I hope nobody’s going to get into trouble through me,’ Morag said.
‘You won’t, for sure, darling. Maybe trouble’s brewing, but not for you.’
‘That’s good. Every man for himself and God for everyone. Isn’t that it?’ Morag walked over to a mirror, hooked her fingers in the corners of her mouth and stretched her cheeks out wide to examine her teeth. ‘Is my hair looking okay? I’m going upstairs now to do Mr Etive Television’s room. He’s such a nice man. As kind as a seagull.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s always giving folk presents.’
‘Like what?’
‘Yesterday he gave me a photograph of Calum Kennedy signed by his own fair hand.’
‘That was a present?’
‘He even showed me a picture of his girlfriend.’
‘He’s married, is he?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Who’s he marrying?’
‘May the Lord forgive me for mocking His work – but she’s really ugly. If Moses had known about her there would have been one more commandment! Still, he’s thinking of getting engaged.’
Murdo stopped writing and looked at her. He carefully laid his pen down and thrust his hand into his trouser pocket then, reassured, picked up his pen again. ‘He hasn’t proposed to her yet, has he?’
‘He’s going to when they discharge her from the asylum and when she comes off the lithium. She had a nervous breakdown about eighteen months ago.’
‘She’s barking mad?’
‘Well, yes, but her people are rotten with money.’
‘Your man’s going to marry her for the sake of her money?’
‘How should I know why he’s marrying her. But there’s definitely going to be a wedding . . . just as soon as she reaches her sixtieth birthday.’
‘He’d prefer his women to be young, beautiful and intelligent, but he’ll take an old boiler who’s off her head, just so long as she’s well off?’
‘I don’t k
now about that. All I know is, they’re going to get engaged. I heard them talking about it.’
‘Who was talking?’
‘Himself and . . . you know . . . her.’
‘The loony? God be round about me, is there another psycho in the place?’
‘Do you know what, young man? You ask too many questions. You didn’t give a fig about that poor soul upstairs a while back. Now you can’t stop interrogating me about him.’
‘I’m just trying to understand what’s going on in the life of a poor unfortunate who’s in the same racket as me.’
‘Well, Sam, that’s the man from Etive Television . . .’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Well, Sam and . . . the woman of the house were talking and . . .’
‘You were listening.’
‘Yes. And I heard about the two-step deal.’
‘What?’
‘The two-step deal.’
‘What the hell’s the two-step deal?’
‘First of all, Sam will give them five per cent of the offering price to them. That’s three thousand five hundred pounds.’
‘And?’
‘They’ll have the espousals before the banns here, in the Tartan Pagoda, hundreds of toffs from all over, and we’ll have them for at least a fortnight, and if everything goes off all right and if the batty old bride is happy with the celebrations . . .’
‘What happens then?’
‘Maybe he’ll buy the place – as a base for his company, you understand? – and give our old man the rest of the money.’
‘That’s the two-step deal, is it?’
‘Yes.’
‘You could do with four eyes in your head if you’re going to be dealing with the bold Sam,’ Murdo said.
‘Oh, he’s certainly a smart cookie.’
‘Do you know if Barrington-Smythe’s agreed to this yet?’
‘It’s none of my business. And it’s none of your business either.’
Murdo patted an object in his pocket. ‘Has he bought a ring yet?’
‘What?’
‘DOES HE HAVE A RING TO GIVE TO THE HALF-WIT?’
‘Do you know this? I don’t know who’s the craziest in this place. You’re blasting my ears like a rutting stag. Manners, man, manners.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Morag went behind the bar counter and poured a generous drink for herself. ‘I know that you’re excited,’ she said, ‘what with all that talk about getting married and about love.’ She turned to face him with an understanding smile. ‘Will you take a drink?’
‘No, no, I don’t drink any more. I’m high on life. From now on, I don’t want to escape from it any more. My mind needs to be clear. A glorious future awaits me.’
‘A glorious future?’
‘Wonderful! Money. Love . . . Rachel.’
‘Who’s Rachel?’
‘She whose curling hair flows down in ringlets, like the strings on the fiddle, over her two shoulders.’
‘Well, maybe Mr Etive Television’s girlfriend isn’t quite like that, but he wants to marry her anyway.’
‘I want a woman to handle and to hold . . . to love and not love her . . . I want to feel her teeth in my kisses.’
‘I suppose that’s the way Mr Kerr is feeling too.’
‘Does the man have that amount of money? I mean, over three thousand pounds?’
‘I haven’t seen it . . . yet. I’m not a snoop. I’m a communicant.’
‘Do you think they’ll sell the hotel under these terms?’
‘He’d sell it for a lump of clay. I’m not so sure about her. She used to be one of those hippies.’
‘What was she?’
‘She smokes . . . er, that gear.’
‘And that means she’d sell the place to the first person who’d offer her cash?’
‘No. She’s from Harris, although she was brought up abroad. And you know how light-headed they can be.’
‘I can’t make head nor tail of this.’
‘She has no religion. Well, she has a sort of religion. She talks to the spirit that resides within her body.’
‘It’s acid rain from Chernobyl that’s caused this.’
‘As far as I am concerned, I don’t care who owns the place. But, to tell the truth, I’d be delighted to welcome the man who put Our Land on our screens.’
‘Did you enjoy it?’
‘It was splendid, wasn’t it?’
‘Pass the bucket. I’m going to be sick.’
Morag passed him the bucket. ‘Gracious me! Here! Go into the toilet!’
Murdo shook his head in amusement. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I cannot thank you enough for all your help today. I’m deeply indebted to you.’
‘You are?’
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to finish this script.’ Murdo turned his back on her and resumed his writing. He looked up as Morag gathered her cleaning materials and prepared to leave. ‘May my god give his blessing’ he intoned, ‘as I hatch this lying story, a story that will get me out of this fix and deliver my beautiful girl to me.’ He checked his watch. ‘Shit, nearly twelve o’clock already. Light of my life, the unrest of my spirit will depart when the skull and brains of Mr Etive Television go in splatters.’
‘Cheerie,’ Morag said.
7
A secret meeting in Room 3
24 August 2010, 11.45 p.m.
Sam was sitting on the bed surveying a dozen or so cases. He looked at his watch, picked up a brown leather case. He opened it and with evident pleasure viewed the contents.
Morag shuffled into the room. ‘Mr . . . er, Mr Etive Television? Sorry to bother you. Can I tidy your room for you?’
‘What are you doing here? You were going to send a fax to your boss, right?’
‘Fax?’ Morag said. ‘I wouldn’t know a fax from the leg of a cow. I just wanted to clean your room.’
‘Uh, who told you that Sam Kerr’s accounts were up here?’
‘Nobody! I’m the housekeeper!’
‘Mmmm . . . Sam Kerr has many enemies. When you’re King of the Castle in the world of Gaelic television, there are a lot of people who want to sling you on to the rubbish tip.’
Morag moved towards the bed. ‘Well, I’d better get on with cleaning this tip up. I’ll just put your briefcase . . .’
‘DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH THAT BRIEFCASE! HAND IT OVER!’
‘I just want to . . .’
‘GIVE ME THAT BRIEFCASE!’
Morag clasped the briefcase against her bosom. ‘Won’t you let me help you?’
‘LET GO THAT BRIEF—’
Sam grabbed the briefcase. As he grunted and Morag squeaked a tug-of-war ensued. The unlocked briefcase opened and was dropped. Bundles of banknotes cascaded to the floor.
‘Goodness me!’ Morag said. ‘Where did all this money come from?’
Sam screamed, ‘FROM EVERY OUNCE OF FLESH, OF BLOOD, OF BONE AND MARROW IN MY BODY!’
‘Now, don’t get excited,’ Morag said. ‘I’ll help you.’
‘When you . . . almost kill yourself . . . making programmes like Our Land . . . you’re worth every penny.’
‘Our Land . . . Our Land . . . Oh, Mr Kerr, I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed that programme! Our own ancestors . . . people without flaw or blemish . . . deceived by greedy men . . .’
Sam looked at her and realised he had a real fan before him. ‘Mmmm . . . maybe you’re not telling lies.’
‘No! I swear I’m not telling lies!’
‘Well, in that case, maybe you can help. I’ll give you a contract. How would you fancy four hundred pounds at the end of every month?’
‘Oh, bless you, son! Yes, I’ll help you all you need! I’ll put all this stuff away first.’ Morag quickly packed the money in the case.
Sam looked at her approvingly. ‘That’s more like it.’ He arranged himself on the bed in languid pose, watching as Morag closed the case. She deposited it by his side. He wriggled over to the en
d of the bed, taking the case with him. He patted the vacant space with the palm of his hand. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you.’
Morag didn’t hesitate. She scooted over to the bed and listened attentively.
‘You know I’m about to be married, don’t you?’ Sam said.
‘That’s right.’
‘And you know that we intend to have the espousals in the Tartan Pagoda?’
‘Oh, I was so pleased to hear that!’
‘Well, if that’s to happen, I need you to help me.’
‘Me?’
‘I want to buy the hotel.’
‘If . . . if you do buy it, you’ll never get an employee as loyal as me.’
Suki’s voice was heard from outside. ‘Morag?’
‘Who’s that?’ Sam said.
‘The Bitch! Suki!’ Morag hissed.
‘Listen, I’ve got a proposition for you.’
‘She’s always creeping about . . . guarding that furniture of hers that’s supposed to be so precious.’
‘Does she ever leave the place?’
‘Very rarely. She can turn up anywhere.’
‘And Nigel . . . the husband?’
Suki’s voice was heard again. ‘Where are you, Morag?’
‘Coming!’ Morag called. Then she turned to Sam. ‘We don’t see very much of Nigel.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Oh, he’s an artist. He’s involved with “creative work”, as she calls it.’
Sam opened the briefcase and allowed Morag to look at the entire cache of money for fully five seconds. ‘I have a great interest in art too. I prefer pictures – pictures of the Queen.’
‘Aren’t they gorgeous!’
Suki shouted again, ‘Hurry up, Morag. Nigel will be starving.’
Morag said under her breath, ‘Let him eat hay.’ She turned to Sam. ‘I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this ever.’
‘Do you think the artist would like to cast an eye on my picture collection?’
‘How much money have you got there?’
‘Three and a half grand.’
‘Nigel’s never seen that amount of money in the one place before.’
‘I’d like to meet up with Nigel.’
‘He’ll be in the studio all day.’
‘Can I pay him a little visit?’
‘You won’t get in. She locks him in first thing every morning.’