Whirligig (30 page)

He took a breath. There was a cough from somewhere in the audience.

‘Well, I am a little man. I am concerned with little things. That's why I became a local councillor. Because I like little problems. And yet here I am faced with a big decision. And I cannot say “maybe”, as Mr Claypole advocated. There is only “yes” or “no”.'

He sighed.

‘Here it is. If I am wrong, then I'll have to be forgiven…'

He looked around the hall, blinking seriously behind his thick spectacles.

‘I would like to vote in favour of the application.'

On this lonely road, trying to make it home.

Doing it by my lonesome – pissed off – who wants some?

I see them long hard times to come.

‘Long Hard Times To Come‘, Gangstagrass (feat. T.O.N.E.-z)

I
nside the Loch Garvach community hall, the news that the wind farm had obtained planning permission was greeted with a set of differently intended yelps. Peregrine's hand curled into a tennis player's victory fist, and he muttered ‘yes, sir' as he pumped his elbow tightly; Coky, whose initial reaction was more of surprise than celebration, uttered an ‘oh‘; and one or two other supporters muttered ‘good‘, or ‘whoa‘, depending on the relative triumphs of expectation and hope. Those against the wind farm gave whimpers that were more deflatory, naturally. Bonnie just puffed her cheeks and made a ‘puh' noise as if she had been punched in the stomach; some of the audience could be heard ‘oh no-ing‘; and an overtired ten-year-old began to cry along with her mother. But whether they
were pleased, disappointed or indifferent, they almost all shared in common the urgent need to get over the road to the bar of the Loch Garvach Hotel as soon as possible.

In every old-fashioned bar in Scotland – the ones that haven't yet substituted focaccia and Pinot Grigio for the traditional ‘heavy' and crisps – there is Daddy-Drunk's Chair. Nearest the till for easy pestering of the bar staff, in a corner with plenty of bar to lean on, and normally with arms to the chair to pin the encumbent in, Daddy-Drunk's Chair is where the oldest and baddest alcoholic in the neighbourhood sits, or leans, during the sociable (and very often also the unsociable) hours of opening. He must be a particular kind of drunk, of course. He must have money for a start. A worker's injury compensation cheque, a scratchcard lottery win, or a life insurance policy on the late wife normally suffices. When this man's liver gives out with a violent pop, or the use of a motility scooter means he must choose a spot nearer the door, Daddy-Drunk's Chair is inherited by the next-worst drunk in the place, who inherits the title of Daddy-Drunk, and all the regulars move up the line of succession.

Perhaps the Loch Garvach Hotel bar was in a period of interregnum, because this night it was Claypole's pleasure to occupy Daddy-Drunk's Chair. Despite theoretically staying in the hotel, he had never been into its bar. Now he slumped as if he had been there fifty years, wearing an indelible frown that would not be erased by either a positive or a negative result for the wind farm. He had done his best to be truthful, and without betraying anyone. Thus, assuming he'd shortly be cursed by antis and pros alike, he was in the pub to drown his sorrows with the last of his
cash. Having spent all night writing his speech, he needed the caffeine and sugar provided by a pint of Coca-Cola. He was just contemplating, if he could afford it, adding a measure of the hotel's cheapest brandy, when celebratory voices outside announced the arrival of the victors in the Loch Garvach Wind Farm war. Claypole listened. Was it the ayes or the noes chirruping? He heard Peregrine's raking laugh, breathed a sigh and slumped further in the chair. Peregrine, Coky and Tommy Thompson came into the saloon bar. Peregrine's guffawing, and his long stride, were checked somewhat when he caught sight of Claypole, but he saw that he could not avoid the occupant of the Daddy-Drunk's Chair if he wanted to order a drink.

'Evening, partner,' said Peregrine, pronouncing the words with sodden irony. The old man's face was a filthy cocktail of triumph and disgust. Claypole regarded him with weariness. He caught Coky's expression out of the corner of his eye – he could not bear to look at her directly – and saw that she too thought her uncle's swagger distasteful.

Peregrine bent towards Claypole and whispered, for his ears only, ‘You're a bankrupt and a blackmailer.'

‘Yup,' said Claypole, also
sotto voce
, ‘and you're a fraud and a thief.'

Peregrine's grey eyes were icy, but he chortled as he slapped Claypole on the back for everyone to see. ‘Ha! Never mind the hiccups now.' But he leaned in again to Claypole and whispered, ‘I win, old boy. Ker-ching!' Then he shouted, for the whole bar to hear, ‘Champagne, I say!'

The other occupants of the bar turned to look at Peregrine, some with surprise, but most with silent irritation. But the hotelier and barman, a bumptious
Glaswegian with teeth like a freshly creosoted fence, came scurrying over.

‘Did I hear the magic word?' he said.

‘You certainly did, Gareth,' said Peregrine. ‘A magnum of your finest, and as many flutes as you can fit on the bar.'

The bar was beginning to fill, and Gareth's smile was broad as he scuttled away into a back room with a feudal duck of his head. Peregrine pronounced, to no one in particular, ‘God knows what this'll be, or what we'll have to drink it out of. I don't imagine he's got a magnum of anything, or any champagne flutes. Bloody Scots. So joyless.' Tommy Thompson gave the weakest of possible smiles.

‘Perry,' said Coky, and raised her eyes to heaven. This simple gesture diffused the tension. They all watched in awkward silence as Gareth poured some very fizzy wine into some wine glasses with laborious and inexpert care. Peregrine turned to Tommy Thompson and began to mutter inaudibly and giggle.

Coky approached Claypole as the bar began to fill up with people coming from the community hall. He could not look at her. ‘Listen, I just wanted to say'
–
she was blushing
–
‘that I think what you did in there was brave.'

Claypole nodded carefully. ‘Fanks.'

‘But what did you say to Perry to shut him up?'

‘I… It's all… It doesn't matter.'

‘Hm. Well. Anyway, there's some detail that you might find interesting…' Coky continued, but was interrupted.

‘Cheers!' barked Peregrine at everyone, and they all dutifully sipped the urine-coloured fizz, grimacing or raising eyebrows.

‘What detail?' Claypole asked Coky quietly.

‘Christ,' barked Peregrine, eyeing his glass. ‘Smells like furniture polish. Tastes of old fish.' Gareth frowned, but was not paying attention to Peregrine. His gaze was fixed on Claypole.

‘Are you Mr Claypole?' asked Gareth.

‘Yes,' said Claypole, still looking at Coky.

‘Could I have a word in the lounge, sir?'

‘Awright,' said Claypole, but there was something in the man's tone, and the paleness of his face, that put Claypole on alert.

In fact, as Claypole made his way through the building crowd, he detected the pungent odour of Impending Punch-Up. The snatches of conversation he was able to pick up told him that the subject of the wind farm was allowing the pent-up tensions and suppressed animosities that had formed over the last few months – or the last few decades, for all he knew – to ferment quickly. They would shortly bubble over. It could not, Claypole calculated, be longer than another half-hour before a fight broke out. Worse, someone might turn their attention to him with a grievance to air. He needed to be far away and alone. Since he had first been able to get into pubs aged sixteen, he had always managed to be targeted early during bar fights, and had never yet talked his way out of one. After several beatings, he had learned to smell when they were imminent and to be somewhere else when it all kicked off.

Gareth was waiting for him in the lounge, and was holding Claypole's rucksack.

‘Oh, er, thanks,' said Claypole, reaching for the rucksack.

‘Not so fast, sir,' said Gareth, placing the bag on the
floor and stepping in front of it. The hotelier smiled threateningly. ‘You can have your bag back when you pay the bill for your room.'

Lachlan and Milky had sat in the airless camper van and watched the steady stream of people crossing the road into the hotel. What they were engaged in could not be said to have reached anything so lofty as debate, but they were taking different perspectives on Claypole's speech in the community hall.

‘Nothing's changed,' said Milky in his gloomy drawl.

‘Yeah, it
has
, Milky,' said Lachlan, observing that Milky's fingers were shaking as he rolled a cigarette.

‘Hasn't.'

‘Has.'

‘No. We still need to fuck him up,' said Milky as Lachlan stared at the lights going on around the harbour.

‘Why are you talking like a gangster?' Lachlan said with a snort, and looked at his old friend in confusion. ‘Milks, the game's off.'

Milky lit his cigarette and inhaled sharply. ‘When I was shaving his stupid ginger head, I should have cut his throat.'

‘Whoa,' said Lachlan in genuine shock. ‘Don't be daft.'

Milky reddened. Lachlan had always been able to cheer Milky up or to change his mind, but this was a struggle.

‘We've got the wrong guy here,' Lachlan continued. ‘Claypole's not the villain. He's an idiot, and he can't
tie his shoelaces outside a city, but… didn't you think that was quite a speech in there? Anyway, we were supposed to do it
before
the meeting. It's too late now. There's going to be a wind farm whether we like it or not. Eh? Milky?'

Lachlan opened the door to the van, ignoring the expression of fury on Milky's face.

‘I'm going to get some air. Just stay here,' said Lachlan, ‘and don't play with the handbrake.'

Milky watched Lachlan heading towards the harbour wall. Milky was in turmoil, trying to understand why the resolve had disappeared from his friend and idol. They had seen the wicked fat man going into the Loch Garvach Hotel. Why didn't they just have him away when he went for a piss? He looked in the wing mirror of the old van, saw the doors of the hotel, and fumed. He watched as the last of the attendees of the public meeting emerged from the community hall, texting and phoning. He cursed and punched the steering wheel a glancing blow.

At Milky's feet was the bat with holes in that had been his weapon for the dispatch of many seagulls. He picked it up. ‘The wrong guy‘, Lachlan had said. Well, Milky could think for himself. He played with the bat in his hand. Suddenly he sat up, stunned both by the arrival and the brilliance of an idea. With complete clarity, Milky suddenly knew what he must do. It was simple, and perfect, and required little adaptation of their previous plan. His frustration was replaced with excitement. Milky would show Lachlan that he could be useful and righteous. The rest of the world would never know. He smiled, showing his blackened teeth. Never mind what Lachlan said, he thought. There would be violence tonight yet.

Outside the Loch Garvach Hotel's back door, the wind was salty. A soupy westerly had got up, but Claypole pulled his suit jacket around him as he emerged onto Harbour Street at the front of the town and regretted that he had not pleaded with Gareth the hotelier to at least let him have a jumper from the sequestered rucksack. He headed towards the hill, past Peregrine's boat moored in its usual spot. He heard a burst of laughter coming from the hotel behind him and turned round to see Peregrine emerging with a cigarette in his mouth. Peregrine lit it and caught sight of Claypole simultaneously, quickly stepping back away from the light and into the shadows. The smoke billowed out from the darkness, and Claypole snorted wrily.

He turned and began to make his slow way up the hill that led out of Garvachhead. He had a notion that he would take a walk into the woods, which no longer held any fear for him, before turning back and getting the midnight bus to London. Eighteen pounds, one way – although he would have to beg some of the money from Coky. Perhaps in the forest he would find a nice spot to sit down, rest his head against a tree and sleep for a few hours.