Awake. Bert Thompson woke early and peeled himself from the bunk in the caravan, coughing painfully. He opened the thin curtains and shivered, lighting an already-tolled fag after he had changed his underwear and put on yesterday's clothes. A raw sun lit up the pale November sky, a glowing red orb cracked open over the coastal horizon. The caravan was in a small village, miles away from Aberdeen, on top of the hills which plummeted down to the sea. Although it was further away from the shops - which amounted to a newsagent and tobacconist, and a supermarket; not even a small pub - Bert preferred to stay there, hidden away amongst now-bare trees, a single-lane track leading from the road to or out of the village.
A cup of tea. That was the thing; he clicked on the kettle. Bert wasn't working, and measured his life in strong cups of tea. His needs were simple; he was almost fifty, used to periods of living on his own, and there was no room for complexity, or sentiment. You took it as it came. There were times when you lived in town and there were never folk out your face; or you lived quietly, somewhere, anywhere, for a bit. It made a change, if nothing else. And no cunt could come and bother you.
But - a newspaper; that had to be bought. He liked a paper every morning, to keep informed. After tea, a walk to the newsagent, then breakfast, eaten whilst reading. Then a wash and shave. Wash up. Almost lunchtime by then. He usually got The Sun, for the sport and the tits, but as he was living alone, had taken to getting a P&J ' the local news. Who's doing what to who, and when.
The small bare room was filling with steam, as the kettle clicked off. He put on the radio, Northsound, and filled up his tea. A few chart songs filled the caravan with inane glibness, and then the news. Local news. Two died in a car-crash. The drink-driving crackdown, as the festive season approached. A chemist held up in Torry. Calderwood bemoaning injuries. Nothing of real interest. He sipped his tea, rolled another fag. Jingles grated past his ears, but it didn't matter. There was nothing to worry about.
All the same, before heading out to the newsagent, he had a good look about. The caravan was amidst a deep shelter of trees and shrubs, off the beaten track, as it were. You could see the main road of the village from it, as it curved along the coast. Bert scanned along the road, seeing which cars he could recognise, or any which he couldn't. There was the newsagent's car, an aged Audi, next to the shop. Tam the fisherman's ancient Escort, which he used to deliver the crabs and lobsters he caught in his creel boat, lying athwart the pavement as usual. No cars he didn't recognise. Safe.
Bert put on his coat, a cheap Trespass jacket, and made his way down to the shop, locking up behind him. He scanned about him carefully. Nothing, no-one. He walked down the brae, ears reddening in the chill autumn air, glancing occasionally down the road.
The newsagent's shop was a dismal thing, decaying and ill-stocked. Jars of boiled sweets on the wall behind the counter, home-made posters of community events by the doorway, newspapers on the counter, tobacco and rolling-papers to the right. Decades of dust and mustiness sitting on yellowing shelves, floors covered with ancient linoleum. The woman at the counter had a sympathetic look on her lined face, and would chat aimlessly about the weather and the community events as though trying to make up for the shop she owned and presided over. Bert liked her. She liked to chat, but you sensed that behind her affability, she knew when to keep quiet. Wasn't nosy. He'd been coming in every morning for nearly three weeks, which must have been a great event for her, and she'd only asked his name, not where he'd come from or where he as staying. No doubt that was easily guessable, as a local landowner had a few caravans dotted about the countryside. There were holiday cottages by the seafront, too, painted bright reds, blues and yellows, but it was long past holiday season and Bert knew he didn't look the type to be renting a summer cottage.
"Hi aye, Bert," she said, as the door tinkled on his entry.
"Fit like, Vera," he replied.
"Cauld oot the day."
"Nae half," he grinned. "Ye'd think this global warming wid hurry up and get its act thegither."
She chuckled. "Yir an awfy man, Bert," she jokingly admonished. "A P&J, is it?"
"Aye, and a sma packet a Golden Virginia and a packet o blue Rizla."
She rang them up on the till. "Four twenty-eight," she stated. He fished out a crumpled fiver and handed it to her. "Seventy-two change",she sang, "there ye go! Be back doon the morn, will ye?"
"Aye," Bert agreed. "Pain, though, you nae haein paper boys!"
"Well, we've just nae the customers. Hid tae stop it four-five year back. This is maistly just holiday cottages noo, thir's hardly anybody here aifter August."
"Ach well," Bet consoled, "peace and quiet. Hard tae git nooadays."
"This is true, this is true," she agreed. "Couldna be daein wi biding in Aberdeen or places like that. Too loud, and far too busy! I sometime go in wi ma daughter, shoppin, ken, for her daughter, and the traffic! Oh, I couldnae handle that every day."
"Aye. This just suits me fine. Well," he sighed, "I'll see ye the morn, eh."
"Aye, cheerio!" she said, as he closed the tinkling door behind him.
*
Home. Safe. Breakfast - fried egg, sausage, beans, fried bread, plum tomatoes. Cup of tea, cigarette, read the paper. Local news, sport, national news, columnists, international news, business, small ads. Crossword - cryptic and straight. Toilet. Boil a full kettle then washing in the sink. Armpits and genitals a particular focus. Boil kettle again. Wash hair. Towel dry. Shave; plastic razor, slight shaving rash. Read a book (Wilbur Smith), listen to the radio.
Lunch - two small burgers, Smash, beans. Grill burgers, whisk up Smash, beans in a pan on the hob. Expertly done. Eat whilst watching the lunchtime Grampian News. Wash up.
*
After lunch, Bert went for a walk into the countryside. He liked the outdoors, and was thankful of a good pair of boots. There were paths leading into fields from the caravan, away from the village. The fields were mostly pasture for cattle and sheep, a few lying fallow after having had a crop the year previous. He knew that sitting about the caravan was the worst thing for him, doing nothing but festering away; and it was best to be out and about. No-one could know where he was.
The day was chill but incredibly clear, as though the icy-blue sky had been sterilised with alcohol, shrunken into absolute clarity. Dense shelters of trees were some way ahead, their thick but naked branches offering a little sanctuary from wind and eyes. The walk he was taking was familiar to him by now but he liked it. He stepped across the field, avoiding the muddy furrows of the ploughed field as best he could. Ahead there was another field with docile sheep placidly eating grass. These were safe enough; there were no lambs for ewes to be protective about it. All the same, he stuck to one side of the field, keeping his distance. Farmers were worse than anyone else for being overprotective. The sun, now declining gently into the west, was a barely-warm sphere, casting angled shadows to his left.
He reached the knoll of trees. Poplars, willows and pines, fallen leaves splayed over the soft rabbit-riven soil. He scanned the ground carefully. There. A fork, head up, was thrust into the ground, half-obscured by a dead branch. He took out a small trowel from his jacket pocket and dug cautiously, scooping out small quantities of damp earth. A plastic bag soon came into sight. He pulled it out, and unwrapped it. There it was. Half a kilo. Practically enough to retire on. It was selling it that was the problem. Anyone buying that amount in Aberdeen would know about the McAllisters, and he didn't have the contacts in Glasgow or Edinburgh. He could sell it piecemeal alright, there were always folk buying a wrap or two, but that would take money in drips and drabs. Not what he needed. He had to wait til he could get down to England. A few days now, til a mate came back from offshore.
He replaced the package and the soil, compacting the earth and covering it up with leaves and twigs, kicking over it til it looked natural. There were always plenty of hiding places in the country. Check over, he walked back, and watched TV, made dinner (Irish stew) and tried to relax. It came, but with difficulty.
*
"Morning, Vera," he said.
"Hi-aye," she said. "How's you this morning?"
"Shite weather this," Bert grumbled. It was raining steadily, but with no wind and warmer than it had been.
"Och well, it's near winter," she said. "Nae sae cauld for a that."
"Well I suppose. Could dae without this rain though, hear it tappin on the windaes. Drives ye up the wa."
She handed him his usual items and took the money. "Anything else the day?" she asked.
"Eh, aye," he said. "I'd a bit of news this morning, like. Thir might be someone looking fir ma. If anybody ever asks aifter me, shows ye a photo or anything, dinnae tell them I'm aroon here. Just say ye dinnae ken ma fae Adam."
"Fit's this, like? Is't the bobbies, or...?"
"Ach, it's just ma ex. She's got some of her breethers lookin for ma, but I want nithin tae dae wi any of them ever again. That's me oot ay a that, I'm just biding quietly by masel."
"Och well," she grinned. "That's nae bather. Glad to help ye oot there. I widnae lie tae the police though, Bert."
"Oh I ken," he said. "Here, here's something for you," he said, pressing a much-folded note into her hand.
*
The rain kept on. It was unpleasant, now, walking to the woods to check up on it, but he had to do it for peace of mind. It was the last thing he needed, to lose it when he'd staked everything he had on it. The mud sucked in his boots, and the wet ran up the legs of his jeans. He stayed in the caravan more, curtains drawn, watching ridiculous TV. Chat shows, game shows, quizzes. Any cars coming up the drive would be easy to spot, lights dazzling, illuminating the dark.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK. There it was. Inevitable. The lights were on. They knew he was here. They'd always known he was here. Panic threatened to overcome him. He needed to pee.
"Oo is it?" he called in a Liverpudlian accent, as best he could.
"Vera," she called. At least it sounded like her. He picked up the hammer he'd laid out and went to the door, opening it fractionally.
It was her. He put down the hammer. "Fuck sake, Vera!"he gasped. "Fit you daein here?!"he said, relief flooding over his concern. "Come on in."
"Bert!" she said, stepping in. "There were two mannies came in the day, asking if I'd seen you. They even had a photo. They werenae the police, but if they meant well, well, I'm twenty year auld again."
"Fit did they look like?" he asked.
"One wis tall, big-built. The ither wis wee, but like a barrel, ken? He had a scar on his face. Is that yir, eh, breethers-in-law?"
"Eh, aye, that's them," he replied. "Fuck, ah dinnae ken. Fit did ye say?"
"Just thit ah'd never seen ye afore, didnae ken ye fae Adam. They were parked ootside and drive off aifter that."
"Fit way did they go? Back the way?"
"No, they drove on, towards Banff."
"Right - cheers for coming up, Vera. I'd better head off. If ye dinnae see ma the morn, I'll be away. Cheers for athin."
"Nae bather, Bert. Hope tae see ye the morn. I'd better head off though. Peter will be wondering where his tea is." She stepped out the caravan and vanished into the dark rain.
*
Bert was sitting down afterwards, gathering his thoughts. No buses at this time of day, no point getting a taxi. Where to, after all? Get the gear in the morning, and leave first thing. Head for somewhere outside of Inverness and get a message to Malky.
He got his battered old holdall out from under his bed and started packing his clothes, a few books, radio, tea, washing gear and towels into it. He travelled light, so packing was easy. That done, he settled himself down and tried to relax, switching the lights off and quietly watching the TV. No point worrying about it. Vera was sound; the McAllister's would get nothing from her. Malky would be back day after tomorrow.
He needed the toilet, though. He switched on the light and relieved himself. Back in bed, he lay reading by candlelight, drifting off into an uneasy sleep.
Suddenly a SMASH! BANG! took the flimsy door off its hinges. Two large men stood there with sledgehammers. They stepped in. Bert could do nothing. His bowels weakened, his chest filled with panic and ice. "Get dressed," the taller one snapped. "And don't fuck about."
Trembling, Bert quickly dressed, stepping into his boots. The men kept their distance, ready in case he tried anything funny, the smaller with his hammer slightly raised. "Where we going, Jim?" Bert asked.
"We've a car down the road."
"Then where?" Bert asked, quivering.
"Take a guess," Jim sneered. "You don't fuck with the McAllisters. You of all people should know that. You ken what happened to Billy Muir."
"Look," Bert stammered, pleadingly, "I've still got it. I can take you tae it! If you lit me go, I've got the whole fucking lot, I've nae touched a bit of it!"
Jim looked bored, unimpressed. "This isnae about money, ya stupid cunt. You ken fit Ian's like. He hates being ripped off, true, but he hates being made to look stupit even mair."
"Aw c'mon boys, geez a chance, eh! I've got the lot, it's no bother -"
"Shut it," Jim said quietly. "Just fuckin shut it. Larry, git a hold of him." Larry took one of Bert's arms and pulled it tight up his back. "I'll follow you's, and mind I've this in my hands, Bert. No funny business, now."
They took Bert along the rough path and plonked him in an ancient Micra. Jim took the driver seat, whilst Larry kept a tight hold of Bert in the back. Jim switched the ignition on impassively. "Where you's taking me?" Bert pleaded.
"You ken fit Ian says," Jim said. "There's plenty of hiding places in the country."
