Chapter 9

 

    Roddy Morrison stubbed out a hand rolled cigarette with heavily stained brown fingers. Outside, the light gradually faded in the evening sky. He gazed out over his kitchen sink piled high with greasy dishes and unwashed pans at a rusty broken down tractor further down his croft in a field long gone to seed. His gaze returned to the sink piled high with dirty dishes.
   'Ach, I'll deal with you tomorrow.'
   His eyes narrowed as he vaguely remembered having said something similar to his tractor when it had first broken down. That had been five years ago.
   Morrison was a daunting man, heavily built with dark set, brooding eyes. A few of his teeth were stained and others were missing. When he smiled you wished he hadn't. There was always a stale smell in his kitchen which he was sure was getting worse. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, pushed his chair back and got to his feet. Dusk was falling as he switched off the light and stepped outside.

   From a decrepit shed littered with rusty engine blocks, oil drums, broken bits of machinery, rotting pallets and much rubbish, he lifted a green army backpack hanging from a nail and hoisted it over his shoulders. Dark clouds were gathering over the hills. It was going to be a dirty night.
   Casting a furtive look along the road to see if there was anyone around, he quickly closed his gate and set off. A sheep lying by the verge struggled to its knees as he approached, but it wasn't quick enough. A hefty stone clouted its flanks and it bleated in pain. Morrison coughed up a lump of something from his lungs as the sheep jumped a ditch and limped off into the moor.
   A curtain moved slightly in the living room window of the next house as he approached and then the lights went out. With a secretive glance up and down the road, he jumped the ditch, clambered over a fence and stumbled over the uneven ground to the back door.
   'Don't you dare switch the light on!' hissed a scared woman as he let himself in.
   'Shut up,' sniffed Morrison, dumping his backpack on her floor. 'I'll do what I want. Isn't that the way you like it?'
   'Murdo will be home next week,' whispered the woman fearfully, backing away from the stale smell of drink on his breath.
   'Oh will he now?' smirked Morrison, ripping her dressing gown in his haste to get at her body.
   When he was finished, he wiped himself with a tea towel hanging by the side of her cooker and zipped himself up. He turned to the woman who was still lying on the floor.
   'Ach, you're a good ride, Janet.'
   She got to her feet and wiped her eyes with her dressing gown.
   'Just go will you before you wake the children.'
   'Maybe I'll stop by on the way home and tuck you into bed.'
   'Don't you dare!'
   Morrison grabbed his backpack and stepped out into the deepening dusk. The door closed hurriedly behind him.

   The back door of the next house along the road opened silently for him just before he reached it, as it always did. It annoyed him that old Graham always knew when he was coming. No matter how quiet he was or what time of day it was, the back door always opened for him just before he got there. It gave him the creeps. He stepped into the dim yellow light of a warm kitchen as Graham, a retired soldier, was pulling on a pair of boots.
   'You ready?' growled Morrison.
   Graham grunted.
   Graham always grunted. Some said it was shell shock that had affected his speech. Others, preferring more fancy terminology, said it was post traumatic stress disorder. One or two whispered that it was because he'd been in the SAS and had killed a lot of men. But whatever the reason, no one really knew for sure why old Graham only spoke in grunts. Morrison didn't particularly like him either. Though he would never have admitted it to anyone, deep down, he was scared of the man. However, he was useful. No one on the island could carry as many salmon on his back as old Graham.
   'The fish are in the sea at the mouth of the river,' said Morrison dourly. 'They're waiting to get up. They can smell the rain.'
   Graham grunted and put his kettle on the stove.
   'I saw a few jumping this afternoon,' continued Morrison, sitting himself at the rickety kitchen table and flipping open the lid of his tobacco tin.
   There was a tangible silence as old Graham busied himself making a pot of tea. Mugs chinked as they were set on the kitchen table.
   'When was the last time you had a woman?' asked Morrison, taking a thoughtful puff on a cigarette.
   Graham didn't seem to hear him as he poured boiling water into a blackened aluminium teapot.
   'I could set you up with a good ride,' said Morrison, smoke curling from his nose.
   Graham surveyed him darkly as he set the teapot and a carton of milk on the table and took a seat.
   'How come you never talk?' asked Morrison, flicking his ash.
   Graham stopped what he was doing and stared at him. Morrison couldn't hold his gaze and dropped his eyes to the ashtray. There was something in the man's eyes that unnerved him.
   Just after midnight, Morrison stubbed out another cigarette, got up from the table and slung his backpack over his shoulder. Old Graham grabbed a black jacket from a hook behind the door, picked up a black rucksack, switched off the kitchen light and pulled back his curtains to see if there was anyone walking along the road. It was clear and the two of them slipped outside and set off across the moor.

   Morrison kept his hood down and his eyes open. It was likely the water bailiffs would be about and he was taking no chances. Old Graham padded along silently behind him, never saying a word. Morrison pulled down on the straps of his backpack and stepped out to cover the ground more quickly. They skirted the trees surrounding John Brown's newly dug grave, headed for the loch and then followed the river downstream to the sea. If they had paused for a moment, they might have heard the hearts of the Thompsons pounding in their chests as they lay in the heather nearby.

   When they reached the sea loch and heard waves breaking against the rocky shore, they crouched down in the heather to watch for a while. Morrison didn't think he'd ever seen the sky so black.
   'What do you think then Graham?' asked Morrison, scratching his stubbled jaw as light rain began to fall.
   Old Graham grunted.
   'Was that a good grunt or a bad grunt?'
   With a grunt of his own, Morrison got to his feet and clambered down onto the shore.
   Dropping their backpacks, they crouched down among the seaweed and broken rocks and set to work. Suddenly, there was a flash of lightning followed by a distant grumble of thunder. The wind seethed through the heather behind them as the storm approached and the sea became agitated.
   'It's going to be a dirty night, Graham boy,' he remarked as the rain suddenly lashed down. 'I doubt the bailiffs will be venturing far from their cosy hut and their cards this night.'
   Old Graham wiped rain from his face and looked around him at the shadows.
   'Okay,' growled Morrison, lifting a net rolled up in hessian sack from his backpack. 'With this rain, the river will rise quickly and the fish will soon be running.' He waited for a reaction, but didn't get one. 'You okay?' he asked, turning to Old Graham, who was staring along the shoreline, his eyes furrowed.
   Morrison followed his stare for a moment, then unrolled the sack carefully.
   'We'll haul at three in the morning, that okay with you?'
   Old Graham checked his watch then nodded. Taking one end of a rope, Graham set off along the rocks and headed round the bay. With practiced fingers, Morrison carefully paid out the net and watched as the floats bobbed off into the choppy darkness. Inexplicably, a cold shiver ran down his back and for some strange reason he wanted to go home.
   'Ach Roddy man,' he scolded himself. 'Is it ghosts you are scared of now?'
   When the net was paid out and he was satisfied it stretched right across the bay covering the mouth of the river, he stuffed the sack inside his jacket and tied off the other end of the rope. The rain was pelting down so heavily it hurt the skin on the back of his hands. The tide was coming and it wouldn't be long before a salmon would hit the net. He crept a few yards along the bank, stole one last look back across the loch, then crawled up into the heather to watch and wait.
   'I hope your back is feeling strong tonight Graham my boy,' he muttered to himself as he settled himself down with a rub of his cold hands.
   A stab of lightning lit up the moor with a ghostly pallor and Morrison hunkered down in a ditch to get out of the wind and driving rain.

   It was about an hour later when the first salmon hit the net. There was a frenzied splashing close in by the bank. Morrison forgot all about the storm and sat up rubbing his hands expectantly. A few minutes later another salmon hit the net, this time further out towards the middle of the bay. Then his eyes bulged as three more fish hit the net at the same time.
   'Man oh man,' he whispered in awe. 'Will you look at all that beer money. Come to Roddy, you little darlings.'

   When it was time to haul the net, Morrison crawled on his hands and knees through the wet heather down to the shoreline. He lowered himself carefully over the lip of the peat bank down onto the rocks and made his way over to the rope. The net was so burdened down with fish the floats had sunk. It wasn't long before he felt the rope slacken as Old Graham untied his end. One hand over the other, he pulled on the jerking net. The white belly of a salmon gleamed dully under the dark surface. It arched weakly as he pulled it from the water, tangled up in the net.
   'Come to me you beauty!' he hissed, giving it a sharp smack on the back of the head with a rock.
   With deft fingers, he prised the net from the salmon's gills, untangled it and laid it behind him under the peat bank. The wind whipped his matted hair as he picked up the net and hauled again. His heart was beating wildly as two more salmon came in together.
   'Will you look at the size of that!' he muttered in awe, lifting a silvery fish of about 15 lbs from the water.
   A shadow loomed up behind him.
   'Give us a hand here, Graham my boy!' he shouted with glee as another salmon came ashore.
   'Is it a hand you are wanting Roddy Morrison?' growled a gruff voice.
   Morrison spun round.
   'Dundas!'
   'I had the feeling you would be up to no good this night,' said the water bailiff.
   Morrison bunched his fist as the bailiff approached. Dundas saw the blow coming, ducked and threw his arms around Morrison's neck. Locked together, they stumbled on the slippery seaweed and fell into the sea. Coughing and spluttering, their arms flailing wildly, they broke the surface together. Morrison dived on the bailiff and reached for his throat. Dundas stumbled on the slippery bottom and fell over, his feet hopelessly entangled in the net.
   'You bastard!' hissed Morrison, holding him under the surface, a blind rage clouding his reason.
   Dundas broke the surface and gulped a mouthful of air.
   'Roddy, for God's sake—'
   Morrison pushed the struggling bailiff back under and held him down. Dundas struggled desperately, his fingers clawing wildly at Morrison's legs. Just then, another shadow loomed out of the darkness. Morrison didn't see the blow coming. A rock smacked him on the side of his head and he fell over in the water, unconscious. The shadowy figure grabbed the net and hurriedly pulled the half drowned water bailiff ashore. Grabbing his jacket, he hauled the heavy man out of the water, knelt over him, compressed his chest a few times and thumped hard on his sternum with his palms. Water spluttered from the bailiff's mouth and he pushed down on his sternum again. Dundas vomited and turned his head to one side with a groan. Satisfied that he was going to be okay, the shadow stood up and shook a clenched fist at the black sky. Lightning lit up the surface of the stormy loch just as Morrison's body slipped under the water from where it did not reappear.

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