Part 4 (1/2)

John Wetherby was glowering at his breakfast. He was wearing a V-necked pullover over a blue s.h.i.+rt and a tightly knotted tie, grey flannels, and walking shoes, his idea of suitable wear for a hiker.

Jane rose and addressed them at the end of the meal. ”This will not do,” she said gaily. ”There is a nasty atmosphere and we should all be having a lovely, lovely time.” She lifted a box and put it on the table. ”I have here a supply of balloons, thread, and pencil and paper. Now, I suggest we each write down our resentments, blow up our balloons, and carry them outside and watch them all float away!”

”Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Jane,” snapped her ex-husband. ”Be your age.”

”Don't be stuffy,” said Heather. ”Sounds like fun. Come on, Sheila, get your head out of that trash.” She gave that laugh copied from Jane. ”It's like watching a rather nice little pig with its head in the trough.”

”Watch your mouth, you rotten b.i.t.c.h,” shouted Ian.

”I know what it is,” cried Jane, holding up her hands. ”We need some fresh air to blow the cobwebs away. Forget about the balloons. Where's your Christmas spirit? Get your coats and off we go.”

They all meekly rose to their feet. ”I don't think I can bear this,” said Harriet to Hamish.

He smiled down at her. ”I have to go over to the village this morning, and maybe there's a bar there...”

”I'll come with you,” said Harriet. ”Don't tell the others. We'll just join the end of the crocodile and then veer off.”

Jane set out at the head of the group. Her voice floated back to them. ”Let's sing! All together now. 'One man went to mow...'”

”Come on,” said Hamish to Harriet as the group straggled along the beach behind Jane.

The air was warmer than the day before, but a howling gale was still blowing. s.n.a.t.c.hes of Jane's singing reached the ears of Hamish and Harriet as they made their way inland and onto the road that led to the village; The rising sun was low on the horizon, curlews piped dismally from the heather, and seagulls crouched on the ground, occasionally taking off to battle with the gale.

They tried to talk but at last fell silent, for the shrieking wind meant they had to shout. Harriet was wearing a tweed jacket and matching skirt. Her short brown hair streaked with grey was crisp and curly. She walked with an easy stride by Hamish's side. Hamish was happy. The silence between them was companionable, tinged with a conspiratorial edge prompted by their escape from the others.

They turned a bend in the road and in front of them stood a very battered old Fiat truck, parked in the middle. They made their way around it and stopped short. A small man was sitting at the side of the road in front of the truck, weeping bitterly.

”Hey,” cried Hamish, crouching down beside the forlorn figure. ”What's your trouble?”

”It iss him,” said the man, raising a tear-stained face and jerking a gnarled thumb in the direction of the truck. ”He iss out to kill me.”

Hamish got up, and motioning Harriet to stand well back, he went quickly to the truck. There was no one in the cabin and nothing in the back but barrels of lobster.

He loped back and sat down on the road beside the man and said coaxingly, ”Now, then, there's no one there. Who are you talking about?”

”Him!” said the little man pa.s.sionately, and again that thumb jerked at the truck. ”Can't you see him, sitting there, watching me?”

The truck-driver was probably only in his forties, but hard weather and a hard life made him appear older. Like most of the islanders, he was small in stature. He had a weather-beaten face. Spa.r.s.e grey hairs clung to his brown scalp.

Harriet bent down and shouted above the tumult of the wind, ”But there is not a soul about except for us.”

”Wait a bit.” Hamish held up his hand. ”Do you mean the truck is trying to kill you?”

”Aye, the beast! The beast. Wa.s.s I not loading the lobsters and did he not back into me and try for to tip me into the sea?”

”And did you not have the brakes on?” said Hamish cynically. ”What is your name?”

”Geordie Mason.”

”Well, listen, Geordie, stop your havering. I am Hamish Macbeth, and this is Harriet Shaw. We're going into Skulag. I'll hae a look at your truck and drive it for ye.”

Geordie rubbed his eyes with his sleeve. ”Wid ye dae that? Himself will no' mind. It's jist me he cannae thole.”

Hamish drew Harriet aside. ”It'll save us a walk,” he said. ”I'm sure the wee man is harmless. Probably been at the methylated spirits.”

Hamish climbed into the driving-seat, Geordie sat next to him, and Harriet on the other side. It was an old-fas.h.i.+oned bench seat, and so it could take the three of them comfortably.

Hamish turned the key in the ignition. The engine gave a cough and remained silent. ”Ye've got to tell himself it's no' me that's driving.” Geordie had recovered from his grief and seemed almost proud of demonstrating the b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness of his vehicle.

Harriet stifled a giggle. ”All right,” said Hamish amiably. ”Does he have a name?”

”He's an agent o' the deil, no' a pet.”

”Why he?” asked Harriet. ”I mean boats and planes and things like that are she.”

”I jist ken,” said Geordie, folding his arms and glaring through the windscreen.

”Oh, Fiat truck,” said Hamish Macbeth, ”this is your friend speaking. This is not your master, Geordie Mason. We're going to Skulag, so be a nice truck and get a move on.”

He grinned as he turned the key in the ignition, a grin that faded as the old engine roared into life.

”I bid ye so, but would yis listen?” demanded Geordie with gloomy satisfaction.

Hamish drove steadily down the road, reflecting that he should be taking better care of Harriet. Perhaps Geordie would start seeing green snakes or spiders before they reached the village. And yet the man did not smell of drink.

”Is there a pub of some kind?” he asked.

”Aye,” said Geordie. ”Down at the hotel, The Highland Comfort, next tae the jetty.”

The village of Skulag was a small cl.u.s.ter of low houses standing end-on to the sea, some of them thatched in the old manner with heather. There was no one to be seen as they rattled down the cobbled main street. Hamish parked neatly in front of the hotel, which was on a small rise above the jetty. It was a two-storeyed white-washed building, originally built in the Victorian era as a holiday home for some misguided Glasgow merchant who had survived only one holiday summer before putting the place up for sale. It had been an hotel ever since.

Inside, apart from a hutch of a reception desk, the rooms leading off the hall still bore their Victorian legends of 'Drawing-Room', 'Smoking-Room', and 'Billiard Room'.

Hamish, who had been in such hotels before, opened the door marked 'Drawing-Room' and there, sure enough, was the bar along one wall. Along the other wall was a line of gla.s.s-and-steel windows overlooking the jetty.

”What are you having?” asked Hamish. ”I'd sit at a table over at the window, Harriet. I doubt if the natives are friendly.” He nodded towards the line of small men in caps who were propping up the bar. They looked back at him with sullen hostility.

”A whisky and water,” said Harriet.

Hamish ordered two whiskies and water and then carried mem over to a table at the window.

”There's that poor mad truck-driver,” said Harriet.

Hamish looked out. The truck was where he'd left it, parked on the rise. A little below, at the entrance to the jetty, stood Geordie, leaning forward against the force of the wind and trying to light a cigarette.

And then, in front of Hamish's horrified eyes, the truck began to creep forward and Geordie was standing in a direct line of its approach.

Hamish struggled with the rusty catch of the window and swung it open. ”Geordie!” he yelled desperately. ”Look out!”

Geordie looked up, startled. The truck stopped dead.