Saturday dawned cloudless, another brittle blue day. A bright sun washed in white light the shades of brown on the hills and deepened the shadows of forest fringe.
Although it was not a working day, Polloch stirred early. Men appeared, visited a louvred cold store behind their bothy, and hurried back to their kitchen. Bacon sizzled and kettles blew steam. By nine thirty, the entire workforce would be leaving the cantonment to shop for the week ahead.
This exodus was officially characterised, with unintended humour, as a ‘Recreational Trip’, and the Commission provided their landrovers with drivers to carry the workforce to civilisation.
The squad would spend several hours in Fort William, a town created at the head of Loch Linnhe in order to implant a military presence into the 18th century Highlands, and known to Gaelic speakers as An Gearasdan (The Garrison). So, each Saturday, ‘The Fort’ was stormed to buy beer, groceries, and cigarettes. All remaining time would be squandered in a main street pub.
A black figure crouched over his motorbike, the activist passed all three landrovers and Silas’ Enfield in a sweeping overtake on the journey from Strontian to his hotel. Housekeeping there was understaffed and his room never cleaned earlier than eleven thirty. Nevertheless, he was anxious to return before ten thirty a.m., pretending an early spin on the Ducati. He would miss breakfast, not unusual for a Saturday morning, and arrange the bedclothes as though the bed had been slept in the night before.
His arrival at the hotel car park went unremarked. Two elderly sisters were tiresomely checking out as he walked through the foyer. Distant clinks of cutlery came from the restaurant. The passenger lift awaited emptily. He encountered no-one and entered his room. He dented the pillows, disturbed bedclothes and took a morning shower, his second. When housekeeping arrived, with apologies, to refresh his room he parried the intrusion with a resigned smile.