In Polloch’s bothies, men had taken their evening meal and were whiling away time, each after his inclination.
Silas opened the throttle on his motor bike and roared off to Strontian. Since his arrival at Polloch in October, six months before, he had taken his machine for a spin at least twice a week. He was a man who kept his own counsel and regular use of the bike isolated him further, particularly since Louis had departed to leave him the solitary tenant of No4 Polloch.
In No3, Noel sat on the edge of his cot bed studiedly oiling a dull black 9mm Browning pistol, illicit souvenir of distant days in Afghanistan. It weighed a compact kilogram. Every military had used this weapon. One had been carried by Saddam Hussein. Muammar Ghadaffi’s gold plated Browning had been waved over his corpse when rebels found and killed him. The British army were replacing it with the Glock semi-automatic. He laid the weapon on a thick cloth beside six thirteen round magazines and in his mind the smell of barrack room mixed with the smell of gun oil. “For form’s sake, Ordnance have reported it decommissioned,” his sergeant had said, “just like you, sir.”
Downstairs, Alex lounged in one of two ancient armchairs that boxed the fireplace, hearing his small radio without listening to it. He was not only aerobically fit, he reckoned, but also carried sufficient physique to enter for caber tossing at the local Highland Games. He had been surprised to learn that the event was decided on the caber overturning to lie at twelve o’clock from the thrower, the distance thrown an irrelevance. It was said that in his youth Robbie had been practised in the technique. Perhaps the old ganger could coach him.
In their bothy, No2 Polloch, George and Blue were being entertained by Ruairidh’s reminiscing “…old style sub. One cub reporter got flayed for having two dangling participles and a misplaced gerund in his copy. He was reporting a cup match between Greenock Morton and Raith Rovers. Imagine the distress of punters reading these appalling solecisms.”
The next bothy, Number 1, was last in the row. There, Roland squatted on the floor with a large sketch pad. With unconscious theatre, he flourished a soft lead pencil, compensating for his disconnection with past existence by sketching wild Lochaber. A fantastical landscape, grim and grand, was forming, and he hummed to himself, the pad propped between his knees.
His partner, Guy, leaned against the wall staring at the shaded landscapes leaning on the mantelpiece. Roland’s absorption continued. A resentment simmered and began to boil. “Old Robbie is still giving George the best ground,” Guy said angrily. “I should have been on that flat stretch today. We both got a turfed area instead. It’s cutting our bonus.”
“George is so competitive,” Roland remarked from the floor. “You can’t blame our dear old ganger for that. Difficult to argue against the numbers that George is planting. He is making the best of good ground, and that is exactly what Robbie wants.”
Guy was not to be easily pacified. “George and the others in No2, they have only been here for a few months. I’m going to speak to the ganger about this. You should, too. How can we plant good scores in the ground we’re getting?”
“I don’t mind that much,” Roland said; then, mischievously playing with the lead pencil, “very athletic type, that George.”
“A dullard,” Guy had dropped into a near whisper. “A rat racer.”
“Ex-rat racer,” and Roland paused, refusing to be diverted from his art. “I can’t get proportion; the composition is unbalanced. Perhaps if I add a bit more foreground…”
Guy retired to the kitchen and made coffee, noisily stirring, rubbing at his tattoos.