Free Lie of the Land by Michael F. Russell Page B

man had made sense; now he was firing off in all directions. ‘Glasgow’s best fuggin siddy in gundree. Always fuggin welcome there.’ He shook his head. ‘Can’t put a price on that.’ He paused, succumbed once more to thoughts that made sense only to him. ‘Fuggers,’ he spat. ‘Not a penny from them cunts after the accident, y’know?’
    He was oblivious to the white pool ball smacking onto the hard floor at his feet. Some of the pool-players roared their laughter. Flying pool balls seemed to be a habit around here. One guy shouted over, ‘Hey, Frankie, you’ve laid another fucking egg!’
    While Frankie tried to look menacing, Carl downed his drink. Time for some fresh air.
    A piss first. The toilet wall told Carl that LORNA GIVES GOOD GOBLES . Where the fuck was Brindley? He didn’t want to ask Cutler about him. A direct question could arouse suspicions, and other people might be informed about these suspicions, and so on. Even up here that could still happen. Sidling in at an angle was the best way, nicey nice, terrible fucking weather, winkle a wee bit out of them, pull back, talk about footie or food but keep it behind your ear, then come back for another wee slice, and so bit by bit he could get what he wanted. If only that strategy had worked in other areas of his life.
    He headed outside.
    Jesus.
    Under the clear sky the bay was quiet and dark, and in the east were stars. But to the west was a pink and red fugue under shreds of high cloud, each shade of colour luminous, unpolluted, diffusing from the red sun’s vanishing core. Carl headed down towards the pier and away from the streetlights to get a better look.
    Absolutely amazing. Dark arms of the narrow bay and the quiet breath of the night, with just the waves lapping and a late bird calling. Warm salt reek at the end of the pier. He stood for a while watching the world turn and the stars come out, stuff that was invisible in the city. No midges so far, maybe the breeze kept them away. George Cutler said to watch out for midges if he went for a walk, the buggers’ll eat you alive on a quiet night. The fizz in Carl’s mind came off the boil. There was nothing to do except absorb the slow ending of the day. He breathed deep at the end of the pier.
    After about ten minutes he headed back to the hotel, none too steadily. Sea legs not what they never were. Was the pier moving? He hiccupped. Better not start with those fuckers. Pain in the arse when you think they’ve stopped and they start again. This place would do him for a couple of days, maybe try stretching it to three or four. Maybe he’d move here and never go back. No way. He’d go nuts within a week.
    Brindley. Brindley and his state-of-the-art chipset . . . Carl cleared a shadow from his mind. Better not go there. Stick to the facts and not the fears. As he walked back towards the hotel, the streetlights went out, their filaments glowing and dying; little suns fading.
    â€˜Ho!’
    Power cut?
    But no. The houselights were still on, the sign over the hotel’s public bar, and even in the few houses on the other side of the bay. A minute later, his eyes had adjusted and he could see the tarmac at his feet, the fading light in the west sharper, the church a dark silhouette, and the stars overhead. Who had killed the streetlights? His watch said 11.32 p.m. Just over twelve hours until the time lock on the second video file expired. Maybe Brindley would show up at the same time. The edge of the pavement caught Carl by surprise, and he stumbled, crossed the road to the hotel path. Guys were yammering away. He heard a North American accent, a young woman, part of a group who were smoking outside a guesthouse. Six months it had taken her to get travel clearance from London, apparently. A month for each emergency zone. She said it was her birthright, this trip, part of her emigrant heritage – so she deserved it. Carl