In Strontian itself, daylight was fading and the shops had shut. Half a dozen regulars leaned on the bar counter of the Argyle Hotel with grim purpose and gave determined weight to trivia. Eyes flicked towards the door as Munro stepped in.
Munro was small and thin and overcompensated with a furious carriage of self-importance. He was the Commission’s head forester for the entire Lochaber region and regarded Strontian as being indebted to him for the employment that his great organisation gave. Subordinate to him, Euan Mackinnon, the local forester, followed into the bar.
“I’ll have my usual,” Munro said, “…a Laphroig”, the brand emphasised testily as the barman offered a blank look in response to the initial order.
Mackinnon spoke quietly, “Bell’s is fine for me. I’ll get this, eh?”
Several of the regulars nodded to Munro, “Good weather we’re having.”
Munro jerked his head towards a scrubbed wooden table near the door and Euan Mackinnon picked up both whiskies, following the Regional Chief to his chosen spot.
“Now then,” Munro first made a lengthy epic out of nosing his Laphroig then shook a bony finger, “we need to take full advantage of this spell of weather. You’ve seen the forecast? More of the same for at least another week. Tell Alex and whatsisname, the skinnier one, the ex-officer…”
“Noel.”
“Noel, that’s the one…tell them they can forget doing the saw course at Torlundy until this dry spell is over. No, make that until August. I want maximum production out of that planting squad of yours. Could break records this year if the weather keeps up.”
“And if the squad stays together. The hard core is only four. The others may not stay. You might have given in to their claim that the bundles of Sitka average well over the assumed hundred. It was a fair shout.”
Munro eyed him sharply. “Just keep pushing them,” his mouth attenuated in prim distaste as he articulated the pronoun, “all of them.”
Munro’s expensive tweed jacket came under Mackinnon’s scrutiny. More than seventy men worked under his direction; the felling teams, a fencing squad, the planting squad, extraction men, sundry supporting staff. Many were settled locals, but a significant proportion were incomers drawn to the Commission by the prospect of employment in the wilds.
“All of them?”
“You know who I mean. Your planting people. Never mind those others. Good bonuses will keep felling going in all weathers. As to the fencing gang or odds and sods, no need to bother with performances there. Just keep these green socialist noses to the grindstone. That old ganger coping? Should retire, for God’s sake.”
“Robbie’s doing fine; tough as leather. Anyway he’s fit and years short of sixty five.”
“Just keep pushing that planting squad. Another dram?” Munro always pronounced ‘dram’ as if he held sacred some memory of quaichs sipped in a Jacobite cause. An accent strove to be associated with Gordonstoun or Fettes and his voice was thin, like himself.
“No thanks, need to be getting back,” Mackinnon drank his whisky and stood up. “Safe home.” He walked outside.
Munro ran a finger around the rim of his empty glass. With a sigh, the Regional Chief rose and brushed vaguely at his tweed jacket. The door swung slowly behind him but remained ajar.
The barman lifted the flap and went over to the table, clipped the two empty glasses between three fingers then returned to station. He heard the sound of car gears being engaged as Munro began his drive to Salen, further along Loch Sunart, where his residence and wife both awaited.
The door creaked. Several customers looked around but no-one entered. The barman wagged his head in annoyance, lifted the counter flap once again, crossed the scrubbed wooden floor, and closed the door properly. He sighed and returned to the array of bottles and regulars that adorned the bar just as the Regional Chief Forester’s car left the hotel carpark.
The Commission’s Regional Chief took his responsibilities seriously, or made his many subordinates presume that he did. He believed power to be useless unless used oppressively, the stick that beat a dog rather than being thrown in the desired direction of travel. He smiled and tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
A kilometre distant, Silas quickly laid down his binoculars and ran down the slope, the brown paper parcel held across his abdomen. As he crossed interrupted white lines at the middle of the road, he ripped the parcel in a violent movement then dropped it. Reaching the kerb, he slid into clumps of dead grass and lay still.
In the half light of early evening, Munro had just begun to speed when he saw the broken paper bag too late.
The white Audi spun sideways, traction gone as both front tyres ripped on large nails and pointed metal staples strewn on the asphalt. It crashed through the section of white wooden fence that highlighted an oncoming bend and rolled down an embankment, windows splintering.
Munro hung upside down, dying in his seat belt, the airbag immediately deflating. The wheels of the capsized Audi slowed. There was the sound of a following car braking to a shocked stop.
Prone beside the road, Silas saw a driver emerge from his BMW and run towards the ugly gap in white fencing. Quickly he got to his feet, crossed the road, and subsided into bracken, stretching out once again beside the bicycle. He felt for his binoculars and pulled their strap over his shoulder. Hidden, he felt the power of an actor liberated behind a mask.
The evening deepened and vehicles formed a growing queue behind the BMW. Silas peered through the fern and thrilled to a dramatic two-toned approach by the police first response vehicle. People passing through the break in the fence paused at the sound before continuing to climb down to where the upturned Audi lay.
The gloom quickly deepened into night. The road filled with a tailback of vehicles and people talking in loud voices. A wailing ambulance arrived, blue light swivelling. People were clustered near the broken fence, none looking behind. Elongated shadows fell bizarrely in front of headlamps.
An unremarkable figure of average height and build, Silas arose from the patch of bracken, wheeled his pushbike downhill to the road and pedalled smoothly into darkness. The set of binoculars hung freely at his neck. He swallowed away an exultant thickening in his throat.
I am quiet water, he said against a light breeze. I am quiet water whose undercurrents run deep.