Flower of Scotland 2 Page 5

  Nick Bayliss was Tony’s rival for Isobel’s attention. Tony knew that if Nick left then the rest of them would soon follow. He was a sort of leader - the first to suggest anything which was liable to lead to trouble, the last to get caught. Granddad said he was ‘Tuppence short o’ a bob’ and Tony, although he didn’t quite understand the phrase, knew that it meant that Nick wasn’t one of life’s good guys. He trusted his Granddad’s judgement, but he couldn’t see what made Isobel so attracted to the boy. He supposed it was something he might understand when he got older.

  He had to reply quickly, otherwise, he’d lose them all - Ian was already trying to struggle upright. He firmly pushed his friend back down and turned to face the rest.

  "All right then. If it doesn’t work, I’ll give you all ten pence each."

  "Ten pence. That’s no’ goin’ tae break the bank is it? If ye want me tae stay, you’d better make it fifty at least."

  Nick was still grinning at him, that big cheesy grin that meant he knew he was on to a good thing. Fifty pence was all that Tony had, and if his trick didn’t work he’d have to pay out over three pounds. He was about to pull out when he caught Isobel looking at him, big lashes fluttering. He felt a warm tingly feeling in his stomach and had to lower his eyes. There was no way that he’d back down with her watching him.

  "OK then, let’s do it."

  After they had placed themselves around the prone figure, he started to chant.

  "He looks pale."

  "He looks fat, " a low voice replied and they all burst out laughing. All that is apart from Tony. He was furious.

  "OK. If you’re not going to take this seriously I’m off. I’ve got better things to do anyway."

  He looked around and felt a warm smile of pleasure inside which he daren’t let reach his face. He had their attention again - he was the magician once more.

  There were several protests, not the least of which came from Isobel. He permitted himself one small smile as he looked across at her.

  "All right then. I’ll try it again. But don’t blame me if this doesn’t work - I told you that you had to be serious for it to happen."

  He placed his hands on the side of Ian’s head, feeling heat at the ears underneath Ian’s hair.

  "He looks pale," he began.

  "He is pale."

  This time they all replied, not quite in unison, but the atmosphere of the occasion was beginning to get through to them. Even Nick Bayliss looked like he was taking it seriously. Tony permitted himself a quick glance at Isobel, but her eyes were closed and she was frowning in concentration.

  "He looks ill."

  "He is ill."

  Six voices replied. Nowhere existed except for that room, that moment. It was going to work, he could feel it.

  By now they were all caught in the special atmosphere, so much so that no one noticed the whitening around the lips of the boy between their hands.

  "He looks dead."

  "He is dead."

  "Dead?" whispered the lips in the head held tightly between Tony’s hands.

  "Sshh." Tony said, pressing his reddened palms even tighter against the large boy’s ears.

  "We are now entering the world of Illusion"

  Twelve fingers and one pair of hands lifted, but found the body already afloat, bobbing like a helium balloon on a piece of string.

  Tony looked down a double row of faces, a triumphant smile on his face, a smile which was wiped out by the sight of Nick Bayliss. The older boy grinned widely, the same old manic grin. Slowly, looking at Tony all the while, he removed his fingers from beneath the body. The grin never left his face.

  Time slowed for Tony, like a projector running down. He had a bad taste in his mouth, the taste of cold metal.

  Ian fell stiffly to the ground, head striking a corner of the large boiler with a loud crack. They all stepped back, first one, then two steps and then there was a moment of silence as they looked at the unmoving body at their feet.

  Tony stared at the ground, at the blood and grey fluid that was seeping from Ian’s head and at the red and white chalk dust in the boy’s blond hair.

  He opened his mouth wide, took in a lung full of air, and prepared to scream.

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  Just a Par to Win

  He was trying to calm himself for his last drive. Not that it really mattered, but he needed a four at the eighteenth to keep his score in double figures. He hadn't done the ton since he was a kid and he knew he wouldn't live it down if he did it here in Scotland, the home of golf.

  To make matters worse, he was sure that his partner was cheating. Nothing he could pin down - no, this guy was too careful for that. But there was definitely something shifty about him, and he hadn't lost that self-satisfied smirk since the second tee.

  Pete watched while John, his playing companion, knocked his drive straight at the hole, the ball bisecting the bunkers and dropping stone dead on the green less than six feet from the flag. This was getting embarrassing. John was supposed to be an eight handicap, just like Pete, but he had outplayed Pete all day, looked like getting a birdie, and, much to Pete's annoyance, was still smirking.

  "At least a laugh would be more bearable than that horrible smugness," Pete thought as he teed up his sixth ball of the day - the other five having disappeared over or into various cliffs or gullies.

  He swung at the ball and it felt absolutely right for the first time that day. The ball flew straight as a die and he smiled - a small thing, but more than he'd been able to manage in the last couple of hours. It didn't last long. The ball hit the fairway just short of the green and took a sharp bounce to the left, disappearing straight into the face of a deep bunker. There was a small puff of sand - it looked like it had plugged down hard.

  "Bad luck," John said, and, not for the first time, Pete fought off the urge to punch him in the mouth. "Never mind. It could have been worse - you could have been down in Old Jack's hollow."

  Pete followed the path of the ball. He hadn't noticed the gravestones, he had been too intent on his shot, but there was a graveyard only ten yards from the green. He had indeed been lucky.

  He didn't talk as he walked up the fairway towards the bunker - he was afraid that he might lose his temper. It was just as he expected - the ball was plugged tight against the face and he was going to have to play out sideways.

  He got into the bunker and lined up the shot. And that was when the chill hit him, a shiver that ran all the way up his spine.

  There was someone in the graveyard watching him. He could feel it, but he wasn't about to turn round. The chill got deeper, threatening to ice up his veins, and his hands began to shake.

  "Control," he muttered. "Head steady, hands fast."

  He played his shot hurriedly and was lucky that the ball stayed on the fairway. He hit a beautiful chip and holed out for a four and a total of ninety-nine shots, but the chill stayed with him and all he wanted was a long stiff drink.

  "Don't worry, Pete," John said as they entered the clubhouse. "There's always tomorrow."

  The last thing he wanted to think about was another round. First he wanted a drink - no, make that three drinks, enough to chase away the memory of that chill.

  "I thought you'd been taken with Old Jack's shakes," John said, but Pete wasn't listening, he was already heading for the bar.

  "Whisky - double, on the rocks," he said. "And what will you have, John?" he asked, turning towards his opponent.

  But the other man had already moved further along the bar to stand with a huddle of other men. There was a sudden, sharp, peal of laughter, and Pete felt his ears burn. To hide his embarrassment he turned to speak to the barman, and was surprised to find that he had already emptied his glass.

  "Another double, Mr Rogers?" the barman said. "Ye look like ye need one - I ken I would after a round wi' the likes o' him."

  Pete accepted the drink gratefully - he was beginning to regain his composure but the chill seemed to have settled permanently in hi
s spine.

  "That man needs close watching," Pete said, unwilling to voice his suspicions completely. He needn't have been so circumspect.

  "Aye. That's one way tae put it," the barman said, smiling. "Had ye not wondered why he was the only one free tae play ye? Naebody else will go round wi' him. Never mind - ye'll ken better in the morning."

  Tomorrow. Pete hadn't thought about that yet. Another round, another chance of humiliation. He tried to change the subject.

  "What did he call the graveyard? Old Jack's hollow?"

  The barman smiled again, but Pete saw something in his eyes, something that looked like fear, and he took a long time to reply.

  "Aye. That's right. Auld Jack was a regular here a few years back. Then, in the last round o' the club championship, needing a par tae win the trophy, he knocked his ball against the graveyard wall. He took three shots tae get it out o' the grass, and it proved too much for him. He had a heart attack and died - right next tae the graveyard. And your friend John there won the trophy."

  Suddenly Pete had the shivers again, a cold draft which crept up his back and raised the hairs at the nape of his neck.

  "You had better give me another double," he said, "I think I'm going to need some stiffening to get me back out there tomorrow."

  One thing led to another and it was several hours later before Pete weaved his way back to his hotel and fell into a fitful, uneasy, sleep.

  The night served its purpose in one respect - by the time he woke the chill had finally gone, to be replaced by a hangover. Two cups of coffee shifted the bulk of it, and by the time he got to the first tee he felt almost human again.

  The sun was shining from a clear blue sky and there was only a slight breeze. Not even the ever-present smirk on John's face as he approached could dampen Pete's mood. He felt good. Today was going to be much better.

  He was proved right as early as the first green. He had left himself with a long, up-hill putt for a birdie - more than thirty feet, but as soon as he hit it he knew it was in. He allowed himself a smile as the ball rattled into the cup.

  He managed to match John hole for hole, and was even thinking that he might take a few off the other man, when John spoke for the first time since that first hole birdie.

  "Say Pete. How about making it more interesting? Fifty pounds on the match?

  Pete didn't even think about it.

  "Make it seventy and you've got yourself a deal," he said.

  "OK," John said. Pete thought that the other man had answered suspiciously quickly, and was not surprised to see that the smirk was back. He was going to have to watch his opponent very carefully.

  They shared the next five holes, and Pete had the honour on the fifteenth. He stood over the ball, looked down the fairway, and froze. There, in the distance, only partially obscured by a fine mist, sat the graveyard. The chill was back and he hurried the shot, hooking it as far as the fifth fairway.

  He was lucky - he found a good lie and managed to half the hole in par, but all he could think of was the eighteenth tee, wondering if he was even going to be able to play a shot.

  He only managed to share the next two holes by sheer luck - some of his nervousness seemed to have rubbed off on John and they halved them both in bogey fives.

  Pete had the honour on the last. He was all square, scores even with just this one to play, but his legs had gone weak on him and he had to lean on his three iron to stop himself from falling. Lining the shot up was the toughest thing he ever did and as soon as he hit the ball he knew it was all wrong. His heart sank as he watched it fall and nestle, hidden in the long grass next to the graveyard wall.

  "May as well give up now," he thought. "No way am I going to play that one."

  He didn't really pay attention to John's shot - he didn't even look, but he was surprised to hear John swear and turned just in time to see the ball overshoot the green and bounce into the bunker at the back.

  Maybe he still had a chance - if only he could bring himself to get close to that graveyard.

  He bought some time by letting John play first - the bunker was slightly further away from the pin anyway. He saw the other man jump up and down, watched him swing, and saw some sand fly.

  "Just practising" John shouted.

  "The bastard fluffed it," Pete thought, but he didn't say anything. John swung again, and his ball popped out of the bunker, sweet as a nut, and rolled up to five feet from the hole.

  Pete strode over to the graveyard, adrenaline pumping, determined not to lose, but when he saw his ball his heart sank - it was lying amongst thick, tufty, grass and he reckoned he'd need at least two shots just to move it.

  He looked back towards the hole and John was standing by the pin.

  "Shall I take it out?" he said, and the smirk was back full force.

  "Yeah. You do that," Pete said, and bent over his shot.

  And that's when it happened.

  The chill came back. But this time it was more - it was as if someone had poured ice into his veins. The nine iron shook in his hands. Then his spine stiffened, as if someone had pushed him upright, pushed him from inside. He watched his hands draw back, saw the clubface go through the ball, and felt it hit the sweet spot. But none of it was him - something, or someone, was working through him. He could only watch as the ball flew straight and true, dropping, as soft as a feather, only six inches from the hole.

  John looked straight at him, stunned, and Pete felt the corners of his mouth rise into a teeth-baring smile.

  The colour drained from his opponent's face, and his jaw dropped a clear inch.

  Pete stayed where he was as John stood over his putt - he could see that the man's heart wasn't in it and the ball sailed wide to finish nearly two feet past the hole. John stomped off the green without looking back and headed for the clubhouse. It was only then that Pete could move.

  Something left him - he felt it pass through and out and the cold left, just like that. He stumbled forward, away from the wall and turned around, just in time to see a grey mist fade into a nearby headstone.

  He didn't have to look at the inscription to know what the name on it would be.

  Old Jack had finally got his par.

  ~-oO0Oo-~

  Bait and Switch

  "Are we there yet?"

  George Watkins sighed and turned to look downstream. His son Bobby was thirty yards behind, and dawdling.

  I guess we’re just too far from the TV and the video games for his liking.

  "Nearly," George shouted. "It’s just round the next bend."

  "You said that ten minutes ago," Bobby wailed.

  This trip up the Monongahela was supposed to be character building, a chance for George to bond with a kid he was rapidly losing to the enticements of the internet and games machines. He’d thought that a fishing trip would bring them closer together.

  So far it wasn’t going according to plan.

  "Come on son," he said. "There’s a big trout up there just waiting to be our supper."

  The boy kicked at some pebbles, sending them scuttling into the river. He never raised his head.

  But at least he’s following.

  When they turned the corner they saw the creek spread out before them, with the rock shelf and ruined cabins at the far end.

  "Why did people live out this far?" Bobby asked.

  George took this as an encouraging sign. At this stage even a simple question was progress.

  "Well there’s mine workings all over these hills and..."

  But the boy seemed to have lost interest already. He fished a cell-phone from his pocket and put his head down again.

  George sighed and set his sights on the rock shelf, their campsite for the night. Ten minutes later they pitched camp in the ruins of the Taylor and Nichols cabins. Rather, George got the tent up and started in on collecting firewood for later, while the boy moped around trying to get a signal on his phone. George resisted the urge to bawl the kid out, trusting that the lure of fishing w
ould grab as quickly as it had taken hold of George himself at the same age.

  Wait until we get that first nibble of the day, George thought. He’ll come round soon enough.

  But even after they’d set up on the riverbank and George had caught a fine two pounder for supper, still Bobby remained resolutely unimpressed.

  "If you don’t cheer up, I’ll feed you to the Ogua," George said.

  The boy’s head finally rose from where he’d been staring at the phone, even though it was currently switched off.

  "What’s an Ogua?"

  George smiled inwardly.

  I’ve caught him.

  "It lives hereabouts," he said quietly. "The Iroquois say it’s as big as a bear, with a hard shell like a turtle and a thick tail that can break a man’s back. By day it stays under the water. But at night it comes out, looking for deer... or anything else it can drag away to its den."

  Bobby’s eyes had gone big and wide open.

  Time to reel him in.

  George waved in the direction of the ruined cabins.

  "That’s why the folks who built these here dwellings had to leave. The Ogua got all their cattle... and they were afeared it was coming for them next."

  George looked out over the still river, remembering how his own father had told him the story, in this same spot. He cast the line, sending the weighted lure over to the far bank where it landed with a soft plop.

  He was remembering his own father’s story, and the insistence, the sincerity with which he’d told it. The Ogua might, or not be real, but one thing was for sure, George’s old man had believed it, and had made George believe it, for a time at least.

  Now if I could only get through to Bobby. Maybe we could both believe.

  "Its den is about there I reckon," he said. "At least that’s where your Great-Granddaddy saw it, back in Fifty Five. It gave him such a fright his hair went white. And do you know..."

  He never got a chance to finish. The boy’s cell phone rang, the blast of tinny music breaking any spell George had woven.