Tricksters (6 page)

Morag moved towards the bed. ‘Well, I'd better get on with cleaning this tip up. I'll just put your briefcase . . .'

‘DON'T YOU DARE TOUCH THAT BRIEFCASE! HAND IT OVER!'

‘I just want to . . .'

‘GIVE ME THAT BRIEFCASE!'

Morag clasped the briefcase against her bosom. ‘Won't you let me help you?'

‘LET GO THAT BRIEF—'

Sam grabbed the briefcase. As he grunted and Morag squeaked a tug-of-war ensued. The unlocked briefcase opened and was dropped. Bundles of banknotes cascaded to the floor.

‘Goodness me!' Morag said. ‘Where did all this money come from?'

Sam screamed, ‘FROM EVERY OUNCE OF FLESH, OF BLOOD, OF BONE AND MARROW IN MY BODY!'

‘Now, don't get excited,' Morag said. ‘I'll help you.'

‘When you . . . almost kill yourself . . . making programmes like
Our Land
. . . you're worth every penny.'

‘Our Land . . . Our Land
. . . Oh, Mr Kerr, I can't tell you how much I enjoyed that programme! Our own ancestors . . . people without flaw or blemish . . . deceived by greedy men . . .'

Sam looked at her and realised he had a real fan before him. ‘Mmmm . . . maybe you're not telling lies.'

‘No! I swear I'm not telling lies!'

‘Well, in that case, maybe you can help. I'll give you a contract. How would you fancy four hundred pounds at the end of every month?'

‘Oh, bless you, son! Yes, I'll help you all you need! I'll put all this stuff away first.' Morag quickly packed the money in the case.

Sam looked at her approvingly. ‘That's more like it.' He arranged himself on the bed in languid pose, watching as Morag closed the case. She deposited it by his side. He wriggled over to the end of the bed, taking the case with him. He patted the vacant space with the palm of his hand. ‘Come here,' he said. ‘I want to talk to you.'

Morag didn't hesitate. She scooted over to the bed and listened attentively.

‘You know I'm about to be married, don't you?' Sam said.

‘That's right.'

‘And you know that we intend to have the espousals in the Tartan Pagoda?'

‘Oh, I was so pleased to hear that!'

‘Well, if that's to happen, I need you to help me.'

‘Me?'

‘I want to buy the hotel.'

‘If . . . if you do buy it, you'll never get an employee as loyal as me.'

Suki's voice was heard from outside. ‘Morag?'

‘Who's that?' Sam said.

‘The Bitch! Suki!' Morag hissed.

‘Listen, I've got a proposition for you.'

‘She's always creeping about . . . guarding that furniture of hers that's supposed to be so precious.'

‘Does she ever leave the place?'

‘Very rarely. She can turn up anywhere.'

‘And Nigel . . . the husband?'

Suki's voice was heard again. ‘Where are you, Morag?'

‘Coming!' Morag called. Then she turned to Sam. ‘We don't see very much of Nigel.'

‘Why's that?'

‘Oh, he's an artist. He's involved with “creative work”, as she calls it.'

Sam opened the briefcase and allowed Morag to look at the entire cache of money for fully five seconds. ‘I have a great interest in art too. I prefer pictures – pictures of the Queen.'

‘Aren't they gorgeous!'

Suki shouted again, ‘Hurry up, Morag. Nigel will be starving.'

Morag said under her breath, ‘Let him eat hay.' She turned to Sam. ‘I've never seen anything as beautiful as this ever.'

‘Do you think the artist would like to cast an eye on my picture collection?'

‘How much money have you got there?'

‘Three and a half grand.'

‘Nigel's never seen that amount of money in the one place before.'

‘I'd like to meet up with Nigel.'

‘He'll be in the studio all day.'

‘Can I pay him a little visit?'

‘You won't get in. She locks him in first thing every morning.'

‘She locks him in?'

‘I can get the key.'

‘When?'

‘After two o'clock.'

Sam stared at Morag intently . . . very intently. He smiled. ‘I've never been in a situation like this before, but my interest has been piqued by what you've told me . . .' He turned and walked quickly over to the bedside table. He punched random numbers into his useless mobile. ‘Excuse me. This phone call I'm about
to make, it's the call that's going to change your life.'

‘Ooooh!'

Sam pretended to make a phone call. ‘Hi, Amanda? . . . Sam Kerr here . . . I crave a favour . . . This very minute, arrange a short vacation for a lady I've just met here . . . Yeah, send her the tickets right away . . . Write this down: THE LITTLE UGLY OLD WOMAN . . . HOUSEKEEPER . . . TARTAN PAGODA HOTEL . . . UIG . . . ISLE OF SKYE . . .
Ciao!'

Sam smiled broadly. ‘Congratulations, darling! You've won the prize! A weekend in Stornoway . . .'

‘Stornoway? Ooooh!'

Sam continued, ‘. . . accompanied by the Free Church minister . . . of your own choice!'

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Kerr!'

‘You can take these camera cases downstairs when you've finished in here. I must have a bite of lunch.'

‘Whatever you say, Mr Kerr.' Morag remained motionless, staring enquiringly at Sam.

‘Is there anything bothering you?' Sam said.

‘Will I see you again?'

‘No. I'm filming in Ha— in South Uist all this week and then I'm off to . . . er, Africa . . . uh, South Africa.'

‘Er . . .'

‘What's wrong? Have you told me everything?'

‘Oh, yes! I was just wondering, who's going to pay me?'

‘Pay you? Oh, yeah. Your retainer, you mean? Well, I'll tell you what I'll do . . . First of all . . . don't you worry . . . what do you call it? . . . I'll phone our Contract Department in Edinburgh and they'll write to you and tell you what duties you'll have to perform in return for your monthly cheque.'

‘But the money . . . the money, man,' Morag insisted.

‘What about it? Is it not enough for you?'

‘You don't understand. How do I get my hands on it?'

‘Oh, it's Big Patrick – the Eriskay Giant – that'll hand it over.'

‘The Eriskay Giant?'

‘He'll approach you and he'll give you an envelope . . . just as soon as you say the blessed words.'

‘The blessed words?'

‘ “A good thing's worth waiting for”,' Sam said.

‘ “A good thing's worth waiting for”? That's what I've got to say before I get the money?'

‘That's it.'

‘When will he come?'

Sam glanced at his watch. ‘I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he came . . . I don't know . . . maybe even today . . . or tomorrow.'

‘Terrific, Mr Kerr. Whatever you say, Mr Kerr. I can't tell you how sorry I am about our wrestling match . . . but I'm glad . . . I mean . . . everything worked out all right for us in the end.'

Sam moved across to the doorway. He turned and spoke to her seriously, ‘Not a word to anyone about what you've heard here . . . or what you've seen either . . . You're a member of the television community now. Know what I mean? “Slippery is the threshold of the big house.” '

Rachel was standing in the reception area when Sam swaggered in. Suki, well-preserved, late thirties, wearing a sarong, long black hair tied back with a piece of multicoloured ribbon, was standing behind a desk upon which were a brass bell and a telephone. Next to the phone was a wooden box with a slot for coins on the top. The words TELEPHONE CALLS were stencilled on the front.

‘Ah, light of my life,' Sam said, ‘whaddya say?'

Suki stared balefully right through him.

‘What a splendid place this is for a wedding celebration!' Sam gushed.

Suki turned her back on him and pretended to busy herself with some paperwork.

‘Just as soon as you sign these papers, I'm going to rename this place “Tartan Pagoda Productions”. Neat, eh?'

‘Uh-huh,' Suki grunted, ‘but you'll never get my name on any paper.'

‘How's that?'

‘Place belongs to Nigel. Nothing to do with me.'

‘Oh. Yeah.'

‘If it were up to me, I wouldn't part with it at your price. And I certainly wouldn't sell it to you.'

‘Why not?'

‘You're the guy who ravaged Gaelic television programmes single-handed with
Our Land
.'

‘I got seven awards for
Our Land
at the Celtic Film and Television Festival in Stenhousemuir.'

‘You should have got seven years.'

‘What didn't you like about the programme?'

‘Everything. You're the one who introduced all the rotten things that have sickened Gaelic-speakers.'

‘What rotten things?'

‘Lowland people without a word of Gaelic trying to speak the language.' Suki did a take-off of a monoglot English speaker attempting to read an autocue. “‘Ka kritch mee nak ale an t-àm akin toshakag.” Americans and English folk telling us about Highland history.' She affected an American and a Southern English accent. ‘ “Yeah, my people were Scotch-Irish – from right on the border!” “Communities where an oral tradition predominates is so much out of the experience of the modern Western world that it is extremely difficult for anyone without first-hand knowledge to imagine how a language can be cultivated without being written to any extent, or what oral history is like, or how it is propagated and added to from generation to generation. The consciousness of the Gaelic mind may be described as possessing historical continuity and religious sense; it may be said to exist in a vertical plane. The consciousness of the modern Western world, on the other hand, may be said to exist in a horizontal plane, possessing breadth and extent, dominated by a scientific materialism and a concern with purely contemporary happenings.
There is a profound difference between the two mental attitudes, which represent the different spirits of different ages, and are very much in conflict.” What shite!'

‘Wow! You've certainly devoted a lot of thought to this.'

‘Do you know what worries me most about this legacy of yours?'

‘No, but I've a feeling you're going to tell me anyway.'

‘Just as there are people still alive throughout Europe who laboured mightily to establish the Third Reich, so there are people living down in Glasgow who saw
Our Land
and, worse still, made this programme. They are in our midst. They are biding their time. They will rise again.'

‘Isn't that funny? I've just received a commission to make another historical series,
Children of the Exiles
.'

‘Oh, for God's sake!'

‘That's why I need an address in the Highlands . . . Listen, where is Nigel?'

‘In the studio.'

‘Can I talk to him?'

‘No, not unless I'm there.'

‘Oh, I see. Listen to me,' Sam said as he began to become angry. ‘This hotel is going down the tubes. How many people were in the house last night? Four! Me, my PA and a walking sponge from Benbecula and his bird . . .'

Suki retreated to the office door where she stared at Sam with disgust.

‘Where did that babe go anyway?' Sam said. ‘Quite tidy, she was. I wouldn't mind giving her an audition . . . yuk-yuk.'

Rachel moved forward to the counter, studiously
ignoring Sam, indicated to Suki that she wished to use the phone and extracted some coins and a few banknotes from her purse. She put some coins into the box, picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Hello, Daddy? Is Mummy there? . . . Okay, Uig in Skye . . . We're . . . I'm in a hotel . . . No. Well, yes, he is . . . until two o'clock anyway . . . I'll maybe stay here for another night . . . it depends on what happens . . .'

Sam, obviously reminded of something, pulled out a mobile phone and rapidly punched some buttons. He slammed the mobile against the counter. ‘Bloody phones . . . shit . . . piece of shit . . . DAMN IT!'

Rachel continued to speak to her father. ‘I'm sorry, Dad, a gentleman here has just lost it completely . . . Tell Mummy . . .'

Sam plucked the receiver from Rachel's hand and pushed her aside with a sweeping movement of his other hand.

Rachel shouted, ‘THERE'S A CHANCE THERE'S GOING TO BE AN ADDITION TO THE FAMILY!'

Sam slammed the receiver down, picked it up and rapidly dialled another number. Teeth bared, he talked rapidly. ‘Hi, Charlie, this is your main man talking, making hay, making your pimples go away . . . Don't interrupt . . . All rested up? 'Cause have we got visions to mix or awards to win? . . . Look, Charlie, there's nothing wrong with Mrs Mackenzie's council house. As I was saying . . . Because, see, this job we're in, the money's great, right? . . . Vanessa's network, we're regional . . . Money's great, because we work hard. And there's plenty of work for you guys. Charlie, cameras are downstairs. Tell Linda to phone HQ and
inform D.A. the mobiles don't work up here. Tell Bill to pick up the tickets for the van and crew, and make sure you park in the right lane . . . That's right, Tarbert . . . Hope you put the cones out for the Range Rover. I'll meet you there . . . Wait, I've got to weigh the hotel in first and have a bite of lunch. Correction: I'm having lunch, then I'll pay the bill . . . That's it, Charlie. Never give a sucker an even break. Ha ha! Look this call is costing the company a fortune, I'll meet you at the Range Rover in an hour's time, my man . . .
Ciao!'

Rachel stepped forward. ‘Excuse me.'

‘Charlie, you still there? . . . Can I bum a packet of cigarettes off you? Mine are, uh, still in the shop. Ha ha! Still in the shop . . . Right away, of course.
Ciao!'