Marabou Stork Nightmares (12 page)

Old 'Fatty' Dawson looked absolutely beastly when we met up for a rendezvous and progress report at his secret guest lodge in the Jambola. His shifty, slimy eyes were blackened and his tanned flesh hung slack and wobbly on his jaw. He was not a happy man and it was more than obvious that we were the source of his disquiet.

Granted, we had failed to establish where our Stork was nesting. There were very few clues. In all frankness, Sandy and I had been rather treating it as a bit of a holiday and Dawson was not amused. There was no warmth in his greeting. He ushered us to sit down around a corner of his oak boardroom table. Then he left for a minute. Sandy turned to me and whispered: — Fatty Dawson's looking rather wild, he said, a little edge of panic creeping into his voice.

— Well, I'm blowed if I know what he's so steamed up about. It's not as if old Johnny Stork has . . .

At this point Dawson came back into the room and squeezed into a chair beside us. His doughy hands drummed the table, then he let out a sigh. — I'm surrounded by homoerotic prats who can't get it together to hunt those murderous beasts! he snapped contemptously at us. Sandy looked vaguely guilty. This irritated me, as we had done nothing wrong. I was about to say something when Dawson turned his blotchy face away from us towards his valet, Diddy. — Either that or incompetent malcontents. The short-arsed manservant mumbled something and shuffled out the room looking at his feet.

I considered that it might make for better sport to wind up Dawson rather than to oppose him outright. We still needed the fat oaf. There was little prospect of locating our Stork without his backing. — Take it easy, Lock, I smiled. — Unwind. Crack open a beer or two . . .

— How the hell can I be expected to relax when it's all caving in around me! he snapped. — This Emerald Forest park is rife with Marabous who only care for destruction, and here, in my own back yard, at the Jambola, the local natives are getting restless . . . SADIE! he screamed. – SADIE!

His black madame, the foreign lady, entered the room. — Yes Missah Dossan?

— What the fuck is happening, Sadie?
You
tell me. . . somebody tell me! It's Lochart Dawson this, Lochart Dawson that . . . oh yes, let's all put the boot into Lochart Dawson! Forget conveniently how Lochart Dawson saved this park from extinction!

Sadie shook her head sadly, — We all knows you our fren Missuh Dossan. We knows dat we don have nuthin till you comes heah an makes us all strong. All our people, dey respecks an loves you Missuh Dossan. Is only some of dem youth who is rebellious in de way dat young boys is. Dem boys will be punish badly for deh sins Missuh Dossan.

Dawson put both his hands behind his head and rubbed his neck. Then he gasped slowly. — I'm not a man who is intolerant by nature Sadie, but I am a great believer in examples being made and punishments fitting crimes and all that sort of stuff. Anything else sends signals to the bad eggs that they've won the battle. Well, my message to them is that they most decidedly have not. Those so-called rebels, when you round them up, see to it that I get to oversee their discipline personally. Baiting Lochart Dawson is becoming something of a thriving industry in these parts. Well, this is one enterprise I won't be encouraging thank you very much. You can tell them that Lochart Dawson has never run away from anything in his life and he doesn't intend to start now.

— Yessuh, Missuh Dossan.

— Of course, he bleated petulantly, — there may come a time when Lochart Dawson may just decide that it's all not worth the hassle and simply walk away. Then where would you all be, eh?

— Oh laud, Missuh Dossan, no go leave us, please no go leave us! You is speshul pehsun Missuh Dossan. We loves you veh much an we can no cope without you! Please no go!

Sadie was now at his knees, holding onto his legs. He ruffled her dark hair. — That's fine, Sadie. Thank you.

The woman rose and departed with tears filling her eyes. She deserved an Oscar.

— They seem to like you, said Jamieson, sycophantically stagey.

— Yes they do, Sandy. I can honestly say that, on the whole, I am a much admired and appreciated person. There are a minority, however, who seem to think that Lochart Dawson's a soft touch, a figure of fun. Well, when they are brought in as prisoners by my security forces, we'll see just how much a figure of fun I am after the questioning procedures.

I raise an eyebrow in Dawson's direction.

— It's a vice of mine, Roy, Dawson explained. — Questioning. I love to question. It's in my nature. I question everything. I question why so much is spent on state benefits to the unproductive while grants for business development for the go-ahead are so low. Indeed, I question why state benefits exist at all.

I smile at him. — Extremely visionary stuff, Lochart, not at all the type of questioning based on perpetuating the narrow economic interests of an already wealthy but spiritually impoverished elite at the expense of their more financially disadvantaged bretheren. Truly the type of questioning which will help enable mankind as a species to self-actualise and fulfil its cosmic destiny. There's a real sense of deep philosophy underpinning it all.

Dawson studied my expression to see if I was mocking him. It seemed as if he couldn't quite tell, but decided to give me the benefit of the doubt. — That's it, Roy! You're a true philosopher! He smiled, flashing pearly teeth and presenting expensive bridgework for my examination.

— You'll sort out those ungrateful malcontents, Lochart, I said encouragingly.

— They forget that they asked me to come here, Dawson said. — The same as those people in the Emerald Forest. I did this for them.

— Oh, Emerald Forest invited this takeover bid, did they? I asked, intrigued.

— I can't say any more about it now, Roy. Unfortunately I've not got the same freedom as the hot-heads to go around making all sorts of accusations. Lochart Dawson doesn't have that luxury; I'm bound to be silent by the dictates of company law and my position as a board member of Jambola Park PLC. Now, onto other business. What progress on the Stork problem?

— We've not located the nest yet, as I indicated to you last night on the telephone. It's all not bleak though . . . Sandy, I turned to Jamieson who rose and went to his rucksack and, on producing a large map of the area, spread it over the table.

Putting on a pair of steel-framed spectacles, Sandy began, — This map indicates the principal flamingo colonies in the area, and the patterns of flamingo migration.

— So what? We're talking about Marabous here! Dawson boomed.

— Please let me finish, Sandy retorted with a touch of cocksure assertiveness which filled me with a quick flush of admiration. I watched Dawson grudgingly defer. Sandy continued, — The pattern is emerging of rapid movement of the flamingo colonies from the area around Lake Torto up towards the border.

— We can't afford to lose our flamingos . . . Dawson gasped.

— Yes. But there's more. The only thing that could cause mass desertion of flamingo colonies on that scale is the presence of large numbers of the scavenger-predator we know as the Marabou Stork.

— Yes . . . but . . .

— The Storks have routed every flamingo colony they've come across. The next undisturbed ones are up on the north-eastern banks of Lake Torto. That's where the Marabous are headed next.

Dawson raised an appreciative eyebrow.

— And so, I said with what I thought was a rather dramatic pause, — are we.

FUCK OFF!

— Just turning this up for you, Roy. The Doctor says as loud as we can have it. Patricia's back.

—You certainly have some family, don't you Roy? Ha ha. I was propositioned last night by your brother. Tony.

Don't do it, Patricia.

— He's not my type, though. The married type, if you know what I mean. Good-looking, though. Can't really see much of a resemblance to you . . . oh God, I didn't mean it that way. Still, you seem to do alright. Your girlfriend was in. Doesn't say anything. Still, it must be upsetting for her to see you like this.

Who the fuck is that? Surely not Dorothy. Surely she's found another fat boyfriend, had her first fat kid even. Settled into a Wimpey or Barratt number in Fathell, Midlothian, or even Fathell, Fife. No. It would be Fathell, Manches . . .

NO. IT WASNAE DORIE.

Her that mentioned Dempsey. That's who it'll be. Her. Who the fuck is she?

— At least she stuck by you, Roy. She obviously doesn't believe that you're the bad one they're all making out. That's how I feel too. I can see the good in you, Roy. When I shine the torch into your eyes I know I can sometimes see something and I know it's good.

Aye, aye, Patricia. How the fuck would you ken?

I'm mad about the boy

MAD

DEEPLY MAD

DEEPER– – – –Aw aye, this yin. Ah mind ay ma Ma givin it laldy wi this yin. She sang it to me on my birthday. I was embarrassed, surprise, surprise. The daft party we had in my hoose. The funny thing was that when we came back tae Scotland the council housed us in the same maisonette block, on the fifth floor instead ay the fourth one. This was regarded as a come-down in status for my Ma. The poorest families tended to be at the top floor. The funny thing was, neighbours told us, they had only just re-let our old flat after it had been standing empty for the best part of our eighteen-month African safari.

Dexy and Willie, the two mates from school and scheme; I had just started the secondary; they were there. They were scruffy cunts glad to be let intae some cunt's hoose, even if it wis the Strangs. My mate Pete never came, he made some excuse. Brian was there, though. He'd just come back tae the scheme n aw; tae stey wi his auld man eftir being in Moredun wi his auntie. His Ma had left them and his auld boy had sort ay cracked up. They all looked nervous and furtive as Ma belted it out, half-pished . . .

Even though there's something of the cad
About the boy . . .

The new school.

Ma's intervention blew my cool, ruined my plan to be free from embarrassment, to take no shite from any cunt who would try to brand me a freak. By and large, though, things went well. I could, of course, have played up to being Tony Strang's brother, but that would also have identified me with Bernard, and that raging poof was two years above me at school. He was a constant source of shame, but was never tormented as he had no scruples about playing up to being Tony's wee brother. I hadn't wanted any of that shite though. I was into doing what people expected me to do least. At the school, as a Strang, they had expected me to be a basket case, so I was bright. Because I was bright, they expected me to go to university. The drab consensus that I was 'university material' had followed me all the way from Johannesburg. There was no way. No cunt told me what to do.

I arrived at the secondary school heavily suntanned from South Africa; my ugliness now mildly exotic. There were loads of kids from the primary and from the scheme who remembered Dumbo Strang. In particular, there was a fat kid called Tarn Mathews.

That poor cunt Mathews. All the time he was watching swotty Strang from the back of the class, he must have been totally unaware that I was psyching myself up for that moment. Mathews became my first victim. I was glad it was him; glad because he was big, tough, loud and stupid. This time it would be mair than just the spike on the compass.

He spat on the back of my neck as we were leaving the classroom. At school we used to kid on we were gobbing on the back of each other's heids, like blowing out compressed air. This cunt really did it but. I felt the thick spittle run under my collar, down the back of my neck.

I could see a flicker of disbelief, then hesitancy in his eyes as I squared up to him. He said something which brought a few laughs from the kids who had gathered round to witness Dumbo Strang's humiliation, but the laughter turned to gasps, to ooohhhss as I produced a small hunting knife from my pocket, one which I'd bought from Boston's of Leith Walk, and stabbed Mathews three delicious times; twice in the chest and once in the arm. I then went to the next period class.

The teachers and the police got involved, although Mathews, to be fair, didn't shop me, he just collapsed in the playground and was taken to the hospital.

I simply spoke nicely to them all. After all, I was now Roy Strang, a hard-working, intelligent pupil; university material. Thomas Mathews, the teachers fell over themselves to testify to anyone that would listen, was not a hard-working, intelligent pupil. He was a bully and a thug. Yes, the police knew the Mathews family. They also knew the Strangs, but I was far too convincing in my mummy's boy role for them to make that association. The consensus was that, obviously, the Mathews boy must have put the fear of god into poor Roy Strang for the boy to be so scared he had to carry a knife. Nobody remembered the compass back in primary. No charges were brought: Ma and Dad never even found out.

Life at school was easier after that, once that basic principle was established: you didnae fuck aroond with Roy Strang.

Out of school, it wasn't so easy. I remember one Saturday night I was sitting in reading a new
Silver Surfer
I'd got from Bobbie's Bookshop. It was late and I cringed inside as I always did when I heard my auld man ask my auld girl: — Fancy some chips, Vet?