Tim Leary wanted answers.
He’d put aside his curiosity all day, had kept himself busy in the pub making little repairs and improvements he’d put off forever; with all this time on his hands he knew he needed to keep busy, or go mad.
But since that morning when the glaziers had arrived unannounced, and he learnt of his secret benefactor, he’d been consumed by curiosity as to what possible motive this Arnott character could have for paying for his fecking front window.
In the end he needed to talk to your man Arnott in person. So he called the hotel in North Berwick where somebody had told him the American was staying. They told him Mr Arnott was out for the evening. Out where, Tim had asked them. They were not at liberty to divulge that information. So that was that, then.
So the first the star that night found Tim standing in the doorway of the Silver Darlings, pondering his next move, when two females stopped in front of the pub.
Now this had been happening all day: a stream of people, delegates to the Witches of Lothian Conference, some strangers, some Tim recognized from previous years, had stopped by the pub. Tim had spent the better part of the day explaining why the pub was closed to people he was gratified to see were disappointed. True, he was gnashing his teeth at the thought of the lost revenue the conference always brought in, but it was nice to know the nightly session in the Silver Darlings was considered a high point by regular delegates.
But these two ladies Tim was especially sorry to disappoint. They were Irish themselves, and as first-time delegates had been told about the Silver Darlings and it’s traditional Irish landlord. Tim was just going to invite them in for a wee dram on the house, when one mentioned a knees-up at the “gypsy camp”.
“What gypsy camp would that be now?” asked Tim, puzzled. “I don’t know of any ’round these parts at the minute, and anyway, they’re not the kind of places nice girls like you would want to visit at the best of times.”
The older of the two women, Sally was her name, told him, “Oh, it’s what they’re calling the campsite where a lot of the ‘non-academics’ are staying. You know, the druids, wiccans and that lot.”
“They say the craic is brilliant – music in the dunes, dancing on the sands – ” began the younger woman, Maeve.
“- fornication in the waves,” cackled Sally, completing the list of attractions.
Tim joined the laughter, but didn’t miss the look Sally gave him as she made her little joke. Come hither was in her clear green eyes, and Tim was never shy about going thither after such a clear invitation.
When they finally started the long walk out to the camp, Tim had persuaded them to accept some of his hospitality, so their journey was a merry one. It turned out that, like many another academic, they were staying at the Chalet Park. The campground was part of the same complex and hid behind a barrier of dunes that separated it from the sea.
They heard the music and laughter from the campground before it came into sight, and young Maeve went twirling down the road ahead of Sally and Tim, who brushed arms as they walked close together in the gloaming.
“She’s such a young thing, you forget sometimes,” sighed Sally, watching her junior colleague skipping ahead in her cups.
“You should talk, you’re just a pup your own self,” said Tim with a smile in his voice.
“Flatterer,” scoffed Sally coyly, bumping him with her shoulder. She brushed the hair from her face. “Low light and strong drink can take years off a woman in a man’s eyes.”
“Well, none of us are spring chickens any more,” agreed Tim. “Except maybe her.”
“A spring chicken is not always such a fine thing to be,” said Sally with a laugh. “Sometimes it’s all you can do to survive until the summer. Spring chickens tend to end up in the pot unless you’re careful. I intend to be a tough old bird for a very long time.”
“Here’s to tough old birds,” said Tim, raising an imaginary glass.
Sally leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, then linked arms with him as they walked. Tim smiled in the encroaching gloom. He liked forward women.
Fiddle music, laughter, a rhythm of drums. Voices rising in a cheer. A sleek luxury car sat parked on the verge where a rough track led off the tarmac into low grassy dunes. Maeve, a spirit of wild abandon taking her, raced ahead to where a crackling glow shone through a break in the dunes – a gateway to the sea framed with sea buckthorn, olive-leaved and decked with orange berries. Now the sound of waves on the shore could be heard as a low bass note under the other sounds.
“So, the campground is on the beach?” asked Sally. “That doesn’t sound very sensible.”
“No,” explained Tim. He stopped and pointed. “The campground’s up the road there. You can’t see it properly because there’s a hedge in the way. But it sounds like the party’s moved from the camp down onto the beach. Quite sensible, really, if you think about it. Some of the old pagans need their sleep, after all.”
“You’re horrible, so you are,” grinned Sally, nudging him with her elbow.
“Sure, I’m an awful man,” agreed Tim. He suddenly pulled her against him and kissed her, a proper kiss, none of your cheek-pecking business. And Sally kissed him back, willingly and hotly. She put her arms around his neck. “Well, you’re a man anyway, I’m not so sure about the awful part,” she said, locking eyes with him, still grinning.
Tim only smiled in reply. He took her arms from his neck, held her hand and led her down the path to the dunes. “I’m glad you stopped by the pub,” he said. “We can go back later and I’ll show you the rest of it – my private quarters.”
“That might be interesting,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“Yes, many many items of interest to be seen – and handling of said items of interest is encouraged.”
“You are awful!” Sally laughed, slapping him on the arm. “Are you saying you’re nothing but an old museum specimen now?”
“One of those living museums,” he retorted. “A throwback to a simpler time. A real caveman, me.”
Sally fluffed up her short hair. “I’m not sure there’s enough here to be dragging me along the ground by. Not that I’d let you, mind – atavistic mating habits will only get you so far with the modern girl, I’m afraid.”
Mating habits – Tim liked the turn of the conversation. And the fact that she brought up the subject herself. Sometimes he wondered if he still had it, and at other times – like tonight – there was no doubt that there was life in the old dog yet.
They pushed through the gap in the shrubbery, their bodies rubbing hard against each other, perforce, and emerged onto the beach to a scene of bacchanalian merriment that even startled Tim, who’d been to one or two conference parties in the past.
There was a fire, all right – a bonfire, in fact. Someone must have collected every stick of driftwood between North Berwick and Dunbar, by the looks of it. Massive logs were piled in the middle, and others were waiting to be put on the blaze – some would have to be winched by crane, by the size of them.
The crowd was a curious mix of the wild and the simply casual. From past experience, Tim could tell the academics dressed down – or not as they sense of dress dictated. Tim spotted a regular, a learned Oxford professor, in a full 3-piece tweed suit, with bow tie and gold watch chain dangling from his waistcoat pocket. Most others were in jeans and t-shirts and jumpers.
But the real pagans, the hangers-on who showed up uninvited every year, the ones who off their own bat had turned what years ago had originally promised to be yet another staid academic conference in an unusual setting into a totally unique mix of erudition and full-on pagan celebration – they were the majority here, and dressed in such a multiplicity of styles it would take a whole chapter to try and catalogue them.
Of course, those were the ones who actually dressed. The naked dance around the bonfire to the uproarious beat of a dozen drums, and pair of fiddles and a battalion of penny-whistlers was what caught the attention of Sally and Tim as they stared, gob-smacked, at the scene.
“Holy jumping Jesus on a pogo stick,” muttered Sally under her breath.
“I couldn’t have put it better meself,” agreed Tim.
Where was Maeve? She was standing just outside the circle of dancers, pretending to listen to an older academic woman who was speaking to her earnestly about something – probably the running order of the conference events the next day – but Maeve had such a fierce, wild look in her eye as she watched the dancers, sweaty flesh glinting in the firelight, that Tim half expected her to fling offer her clothes herself and join the revelry.
Sally spoke into Tim’s ear. “I better go rescue Maeve from that witch so she can give in to her baser instincts, as she so obviously wants to do.”
“Witch?” said Tim. “She doesn’t look that bad – a little bit staid maybe – “
“No, she really is a Witch. One of that San Francisco lot that organize the conference. Quite nice, but as you say, a bit boring.”
“Ah now, that reminds me,” said Tim, narrowing his eyes, “you must help me get in contact with someone soon, during the conference I mean.”
“Sure, if I know them myself I mean,” said Sally. “Who would that be then?”
“A fellow from San Francisco. Jeffrey Arnott. Ever heard of him?”
Sally laughed out loud. “This is a wind-up, it must be. You might as well go to Rome and ask someone at the Vatican if they’d heard of the Pope.”
“He’s that big, is he?” asked Tim, a little wary now.
“Oh yes, he is that that big. I mean, he is that well known. Quite a respected scholar of the East Lothian witches and their trials. In addition to being a practicing Wiccan himself, High Priest of the coven that organizes this. Her High Priest, as a matter of fact,” she said, indicating the woman still trying to get Maeve’s attention, even as the younger woman was trying to move away.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he was here tonight, seeing his wife’s here,” Sally continued, eyes now moving through the crowd.
“Oh, that’s Isabella, isn’t it?” asked Tim. “She was in the pub a couple of weeks ago, on the very morning it was shut down. Where is she, by the way, I can’t spot her myself.”
Sally laughed again and shook her head in disbelief. Tim followed her pointing finger to the circle of naked dancers, and suddenly, like one of those optical illusions where a hidden pattern resolves itself with a shift of perspective, she was there – naked like the others, long blond hair unbound (dyed, definitely), now holding hands and stepping slowly, almost sedately – now dropping hands and spinning with the other dancers in the circle’s line of movement.
Sally tapped him on the shoulder. “I bet you’d like to see me out there,” she suggested half-jokingly, but Tim pulled his eyes away and scanned the dark crowd gathered round. Arnott might be here, a foot away, if Tim only knew who he was looking for.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, Sunshine!” She grabbed his collar and pulled his face around to hers. She spoke with her face close to his, only millimeters between their lips. “I asked if you wanted to see me dancing naked around the fire.”
Tim blinked. In an instant he knew this was more than poteen-fuelled lust. It wasn’t just Sally talking – an outgoing girl who liked a drop and a laugh and her share of the old rumpy-pumpy – it was like she’d become possessed by some spirit at large on the beach, a spirit conjured by the ritual of movement, music and the sea’s rolling basso profundo underlying it all.
“Sally, my dear, there’s nothing I’d like better, and I hope to God you hold … that … thought,” he said slowly and deliberately as he turned slowly from her. “I know this sounds mad, but I really need to see this Arnott character before we join the Wild Chase tonight. So if you think you could help me spot him … “
If Tim had been looking at Sally he’d have seen a frustrated anger grip her features, but it passed as quickly as it came. “Yeah, ‘course I will,” she muttered, and she sounded so defeated that Tim did turn back to her. She had a hand to her forehead and seemed to be swooning. He gripped her shoulder, and together they sat in the sand. “Hey, what’s the matter?” Tim asked softly. “You all right there, Sally?”
Maeve appeared, flinging herself on the beach beside them. “What’s up with her?” she asked no one in particular, her eyes still glued to the dance.
“I’m all right, I’m all right … really, I’m okay. Just the drink and … all this. I’ll be fine in a second.”
“Mmm. Did you see that Linda Parker, her from America, that was bending my ear over there?” Maeve looked around. “Jesus and Mary, here she comes again, ’scuse me folks.” With that she leapt up and pelted through the crowd. A second later, in the distance, Tim heard a wild laughter and feet splashing in the waves. Maeve must have made it to the safety of the dark foreshore.
That Linda Parker, her eyes peering out to sea in the direction where Maeve had trotted off, came up to where Sally and Tim sat in the sand. She looked down, a bottle of Sol in her hand.
“Sally?” said Linda, still peering. “Is that Sally Bloom?” She kneeled next to them. “And you’re – the bartender at the Silver Darlings, aren’t you?”
“Landlord,” Tim corrected her. “Subtle difference there, Missus.”
“I’m Linda,” she said, reaching her hand out to Tim, who reluctantly shook it.
Sally leaned against Tim, who put his arm around her protectively.
“Did you ever see the like? It gets worse every year. More and more of the non-academics, it’s a regular Woodstock, next they’ll set up giant stages and amplifiers.” Linda didn’t seem to notice that Sally wasn’t quite all there. She, like Maeve, had her eyes glued to the dancers. “‘Course, you and Maeve are newbies here, aren’t you? It’s a good year to come, a good programme. Jeff’s going to give the keynote tomorrow, some big plans for developing the conference in the future. Pity about her though.”
She lifted her chin at the dancing Isabella.
“I don’t know what he sees in her, I really don’t. You think he’d be mortified to be seen in the same place, but he follows her around like a little puppy sometimes. An odd couple … ” She trailed off, her attention wandering, sipping her beer. “Where did Maeve get off to, did you see?”
Tim thought quickly. “I think she went off with some man, didn’t see him myself.”
“Oh.” Another swig of beer.
“But listen Missus – “
“Linda, please.”
“Linda, did you say that Jeffrey Arnott fellow is here tonight?”
“Sure, right over there.” She gestured with the neck of the beer bottle.
Knowing he would regret this, he said, “Can you look after Sally for a minute, I need to talk to Mr Arnott.”
“What do you mean?” Sally and Linda asked simultaneously.
“Which one is he?” asked Tim, ignoring their protests.
“Who are you exactly?” asked Linda, perhaps regretting pointing out the leader of her coven to a stranger.
“Tim Leary.”
A blank look, then raised eyebrows. “Are you trying to be funny, buster?”
“The Silver Darlings?”
Something clicked behind Linda’s eyes. “Oh, yeah, the bartender.”
“Landlord!” said Tim, exasperated. Bloody Yanks, you’d think they’d have learned by now.
“Whatever,” said Linda. “Anyway, your call, I guess. That’s him, over there, sitting on the blanket. Young Latino beside him? They’re signing to each other.”
“Signing?”
“Sign language. Jeff’s has a hearing a speech impairment.”
“You man he’s deaf and dumb?”
Linda glared at him.
“Anyway, thanks Linda, I think I’ve spotted them now. Sally are you all right for a minute? I really have to talk to Mr Arnott about some urgent business.”
Pausing long enough to make eye contact with Sally, but not long enough to read the mixed emotions welling there, Tim circled the fire and until he approached a little group of three men sitting on a blanket on the sand, watching the dancers.
One of the men was tall and black, with a shaved head and a gold earring. Pirate, thought Tim for no logical reason. This man sat furthest away from the fire and deepest in the shadows of the almost full night now.
Two men closer to the fire: one small, lithe and dark, a Spaniard, thought Tim. Next to him was an obvious Anglo – pale, shock of ginger hair going white, soft and flabby looking. Someone’s been missing his morning jog, thought Tim, pausing before making his advance.
Without warning, Tim threw himself onto the sand by the blanket where the two men closest to the fire sat.
“Hi,” he said, extending his hand. “The name’s Leary – and you must be Mr Arnott.” He thrust his hand in the direction of the ginger-haired man.
There was a moment when the three men on the sand seemed in a state of shock. Then the black man behind rose to his feet – that’s all, just stood up – but carrying an aura of menace and threat that caused Tim to withdraw his hand and – although later he would never admit it, not even to himself – actually cower. But Jeffrey Arnott gently raised his hand in the air, first to make a subtle gesture for the benefit of his bodyguard, who lost his air of threat immediately and sank back into the sand almost indolently, and to extend it to Tim to shake. After a split second of indecision, Tim took Arnott’s hand. It was cool and dry, and the grip was firm and steady. Arnott made a series of movements with his hands. Adolpho, watching him, then said, “Mr Arnott asks that you call him Jeff, and that he’s pleased to meet you – you must be the landlord of he Silver Darlings.”
Tim was fascinated. He’d known Arnott was deaf and dumb – you couldn’t be around WOL conference delegates for as many years as he had without picking up that sort of basic information – but it hadn’t registered with him until now. Why should it, indeed? He hesitated, then spoke to Adolpho: “So, how does this work, then, do I talk to you or to him?”
Before Adolpho could answer, Arnott reached out and laid the tips of his fingers on Tim’s arm. Then he patted his chest with his other hand, smiling.
“Okay, that suits me. Well, really, two things – I wanted to thank you for paying for the window at my pub, and to ask you why you did it. I mean, we aren’t exactly bosom buddies, if you see what I mean.”
To Tim’s surprise, this caused a flurry of gestures to pass between Adolpho and Arnott, that went far beyond translating what Tim had asked. Besides, Tim had the impression that Arnott could read his lips and got the gist of what he was saying just fine – and now they were discussing the response. Hell, they almost seemed to be arguing about what to say. Arnott had a grim look on his face, Adolpho an almost pleading one.
In the background, the bodyguard sat, watchful, the reflection of the bonfire glinting in his eyes.
Tim hated not knowing the gist of the argument he had touched off. He kneeled and raised his hands in a gesture of peace.
“Now hold on just a minute, would you? I’ve only asked why you’ve helped me with me pub window – I’d not have it be a cause for the two of you to fall out. Let’s just say it was from the goodness of your hear and leave it at that.”
Adolpho and Arnott listened to this, then Arnott nudged Adolpho with his elbow. Adolpho looked away, angry it seemed to Tim. Arnott nudged him again.
Tim decided to come to his rescue. “Listen, Adolpho is it? I may have said something to offend you and if I have, will you accept my sincere apologies and my hand of friendship?” Once again he extended his hand to the young man.
Adolpho stared at him, looked at the hand extended to him, then seemed to compose himself. “Mr Leary,” he said in a soft voice, “You’ve only been the soul of courtesy and respect. You haven’t offended me in any way.” He gathered his thoughts, sighed, and continued.
“The reason Mr Arnott paid for your pub window is because he would like to acquire the Silver Darlings from you. He is prepared to make you a handsome offer, way above the market value.”
Time stood still for Tim. He thought that the liquor had finally caught up with him – he couldn’t believe he was hearing it. Then it dawned on him. It was all a joke – these two Yanks were pulling his leg. Tim grinned.
“You’ll not be fooling me as easily as all that,” he said with a wink. “Buy the Silver Darlings!” He barked out a harsh laugh. “Why, I’d rather sell me old Granny’s bones to a witch doctor – no offence, Mr Arnott, I’m sure … Well, it was nice meeting you boys, to be sure, but I’ve got a warm, willing woman waiting for me – at least I hope she’s still waiting …” His eyes started to wander away from them, when Adolpho gripped his arm firmly.
“Mr Leary. Mr Leary!” Tim looked the earnest, almost desperate-looking young man in the eyes, and his heart sank.
“My God, you’re not joking, are you?” he whispered.
“You don’t have to worry, Mr Leary. Mr Arnott would keep you on to manage the bar, at a very fair salary, so nobody’s suggesting that you give up he place altogether.”
“Never!” Tim rasped hoarsely.
Adolpho and Arnott exchanged glances. Adolpho’s voice took on a hard tone as he said, “I’m afraid you don’t have many options here, Mr Leary. You see …” he glanced questioningly at Arnott, who nodded grimly. “You see, the local authorities here were – tipped off – about things like insurance and licences. Mr Arnott has the ear of influential men here in East Lothian and Edinburgh, and I think you’re going to find it very difficult, if not impossible, to reopen the Darlings on your own.”
Arnott nudged Adolpho and spoke with his hands. Adolpho nodded and translated: “Mr Arnott says that he will buy the Silver Darlings, whatever happens – either from you or at public auction. It just depends on whether you want to get anything out of it or not. And of course, if you decline to sell, I’m afraid Mr Arnott’s offer of employment will be withdrawn.”
A red mist filled Tim’s vision, and he felt his hair standing on end. “Why you …” he shouted and launched himself at Adolpho.
Sally heard the shout and saw a tumble of bodies in the direction Tim had gone. Her head cleared in an instant as she jumped up and raced over the sand. People from all around were doing the same – the circle of dancers broke up, and the music and drumming came to an abrupt halt.
Sally could just make out Tim on top of somebody – it looked as if he had his hands on someone’s throat, and Jeff Arnott and a large black man grappling with him. Then a large body pushed her aside, and she recognised Isobella Arnott, not with a hazy gown wrapped quickly around her, rushing over to the fighting men.
“Get away – get away from my stuffs!” she was shouting, and seemed to be fighting with all four men at once. The arrival of this female tornado seemed to stun them all, Tim not least, and he loosened his grip enough to be tackled and held down by the bodyguard.
At that moment Maeve came running up. She had somehow managed to lose her trousers and her pants were sopping wet as well – she’d obviously decided to go for an evening paddle in the sea.
“What’s up?” she asked excitedly.
Then an extraordinary thing happened. As both women watched, a small object flew through the air from the tussling bodies and landed at Sally and Maeve’s feet.
Maeve snatched it up from the sand. “Looks like some kind of ju-ju bag,” she said, peering at it in the gloom.
Sally only half-noticed. A good part of her attention was focussed on the méllee surrounding Tim. Isobella was now in the thick of it, shouting, “Where is it? What has you done with my thing?”
Meanwhile, Maeve gently untied the thong that held the small leather bag shut. “Maeve,” said Sally cautiously, “Maybe you shouldn’t be opening that. I think it might belong to that woman over there, that Mrs Arnott.”
But it was too late. Maeve tipped the bag’s contents into her hand. What looked like a small animal’s bone, a glittering stone and a wodge of cotton wool. A faint chemical smell rose from the objects.
“Christ almighty, what’s that pong?” snorted Maeve. “It’s diabolical.” Fascinated, almost against her will, Sally’s full attention was now on the small packet of cotton wool as Maeve picked it apart with her long fingernails.
Nestled inside was a small figure, no larger than Maeve’s little fingernail, wrapped in what looked like grey hair. It seemed to be made of hessian, with small features drawn in biro on the head end. The chemical smell grew stronger as the thing emerged from its wrapping.
“Hey! Hey you, what you go there?”
Both Maeve and Sally looked up at the shout. Isabella was crouched amid a whirl of men still struggling, but she was glaring straight at the two Irishwomen.
Sally was startled when Maeve shouted back, “No, the man you want is over there!” With these words Maeve flung her hand out to her left, and Sally saw the leather bag, the bone, stone, little hessian figure and cotton wool ball fly out into the night, all on separate trajectories into the thicket of sea-buckthorn.
The little figure lodged in the fork of a top twig in the shrub – if its little drawn-on eyes could see, it would have had a grandstand view of Isabella charging Sally and Maeve, a shouting match that would have come to blows had Leo not stepped in at the last minute, Tim bellowing and fighting long after the battle was lost, and him eventually being led away by Sally back to her own room at the chalet park. Maeve, Isabella, Jeffrey, Leo, Adolpho, Linda, … and all the revellers and combatants soon drifted off, their night of debauchery interrupted and spoiled by the fighting and shouting … and as it was held aloft by a buckthorn twig, the last wafts of chemical scent drifted away, blown by the cleansing sea breeze.
#
… And in the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, Fiona opened her eyes.
Posted by paulmilne 
Posted by paulmilne 
Posted by paulmilne 
