25 PLATES

(Fourth instalment of twelve)

As soon as his hand touched the phone inside his pocket, Davie remembered it had no battery left. His mind wasn’t functioning in an orderly manner. His foggy thoughts wandered as he held his phone in his hand inside his pocket. He remembered being a young boy. Young enough that he had to stand on a stool to reach the worktops in his house but old enough that he could still remember it. When he was left in the house alone, which was often as his mum and dad were out working the croft or at various jobs, he’d go on the hunt for something sweet to eat. Sometimes there was a bit of fruit loaf, maybe a biscuit or two if he was lucky. More often, there was not. So he’d sneak into the top cupboard, which had the baking supplies in it. If luck was on his side, there might be a green tin of Lyle’s Golden Syrup he could steal a spoonful of. If luck was against him, he’d see the red tin of Lyle’s Black Treacle. Every time he snuck a spoon of treacle he realised it wasn’t what he thought it was, and that he didn’t like it. But every time he saw the tin, he tried it again. For some reason, Davie thought about that red tin of treacle often.

Back in the present, confused and standing outside in the lane behind the old co-op that led to the old mill with his old hands in his old pockets, it was as though his thoughts were hidden inside that red treacle tin and he had to push through the dark, sticky substance to find the idea he was looking for. This sensation had been a part of Davie’s life pretty much every weekend since he was a responsibility-free 14-year-old and he began to drink to excess with his friends down by the water at Bayfield in Portree.

Having not been 14-years-old for several decades now he had long since lost the responsibility-free tag, and on the remaining days of the week he more-or-less maintained his adult life with a passable (even stoic) routine. Come Thursday evening however, he felt the same giddy excitement about seeing his friends and getting pissed he’d felt since he was a teenager sneaking his first drinking sessions by the various shores and fields around Portree and then when he was old enough at the dances in the Gathering Hall and the pubs of the village.

He stood, feet still but body swaying slightly, looking at his useless phone. It was dark and he could see the faint outline of his face reflecting back at him from the phone’s screen. He paused to listen but couldn’t hear anyone around him. After a moment, he realised his eyes were closed and decided he wouldn’t make it back to the pubs in this state. He turned around and started walking towards the industrial estate, where his work office was, reckoning it would be simpler if he went and slept in there than go home.

“I’ve been a wild rover, for many’s a year…” He sang as he walked, “and I spent all my money on whisky and beer.”

When Davie got to the chorus of the song, he shouted “right up yer kilt” as was the local custom, but with a little bit too much venom, and a little bit of pee trickled into his pants.

“Ya fucker ya”, he said, before walking over to the group of trees at the bottom of Matheson place for a pee. After relieving himself, he continued up the road to his office with ever-decreasing balance.

‘It’s fuckin’ chilly the night boy” he said, laughing loudly in conversation with his own penis, which was shrivelled up in the cold, even tucked away inside Davie’s pants as it now was.
___________________________

“Well, well!” John Mac said as Michael walked through the door to the Tongadale Hotel.

“What you saying to it, boy?” Michael replied the type of reply that didn’t expect an answer.

These were the social formalities that had to take place before the real conversation could begin. They usually trailed on a little bit longer and tonight was no exception. John continued -

“Fuck all. Yourself?”

“Ach, you’re seeing it.”

“That’s it, aye.”

“Aye” -

and just before they began to actually talk Michael took himself by surprise by adding in one further “aye”, made different from the first by the fact that it was said on an in-breath. Saying “aye” in this way was of course very familiar to him (most of the older population of Skye were fond of its use) but, to his knowledge, it was the first time Michael had himself spoken on an in-breath.

He was aware that John, who was sipping on a pint of Tennent’s at the standing-table they occupied and had already ordered Michael a Guinness from the bar, had started talking to him but Michael’s mind had wandered back to his early High School days, when he’d first become aware of the rules of pre-conversation chit-chat. Unsure of how it was to be properly used, he often found himself backed into a conversational corner. He marvelled at boys like Calum MacLeod from Broadford, who seemed so at ease with “ayes” and “what’s the caic-s” and “yourself-s?”

When people asked Michael how he was, he knew he should say “not bad, yourself?” That was the rule. But for some reason, the idea made him freeze and he didn’t say it until he was years into his schooling journey, instead offering a simple “fine” to the person enquiring as to how he was.

He tuned back into John.

“… but was your week was okay aye?” He said.

“Fine”, Michael replied.

He’d been looking forward to his first sip of Guinness all day and was glad to see the freshly poured pint arrive at the table, though he noted the glass had no Guinness logo, which disappointed him.

“There ya go, Mick”, said Becky, who worked behind the bar at the Tongadale.

She was the only one who called him Mick. It had started as a joke when he decided to wear a thin scarf out to the pubs on his 19^th birthday and Becky thought he looked like Mick Jagger.

“Mick Shagger more like” Michael had replied at the time, prompting a laugh from Becky, who was clearly aware that Michael was nothing of the sort. Now, calling him Mick has just become normal for them. Michael liked it.

“Are you wanting a dram with that as well tonight, Mick?”

“Ach, not just now. Thanks Becky. What’s your craic?”

“You’re seeing it all. Living the dream!” She said, getting the expected joke out of the way.

“Are you on till close?”

“No. Finishing at ten.”

“Ah well then, you’ll come and get a pint with us when you’re done?”

“Maybe.” Becky smiled and went back to work.

John gave Michael a look as Becky walked away and then downed the rest of his pint, let out a massive burp and said, “oh yeah, gotta get your burpees in, it’s good for your health and also your fitness.”

They both laughed, as did a table sitting across from them, who let out the type of too-loud, over-confident laugh that can only come from a group of English men on holiday. Michael glanced over at the table and saw there were six men, of varying ages, spread out on the stools and booth in the corner like they were Lannisters in Game of Thrones.

“Which one of you is shagging her then?” One of the English guys shouted over at Michael and John, rousing more laughter from the group.

John took the bait.

“Neither of us, lads. She’s actually my cousin.”

“Wouldn’t stop you lot up here!” More laughter.

“Mate, hold up your hands for me would ya?” Another one of them added, before holding up his own hands and loudly counting his four fingers and one thumb, the implication being that John or Michael would have more than him.

“He’s only winding you up, mate” one of the more reasonable of the fake Lannisters said.

“Let’s just go”, Michael quietly said to John, with a knot in his stomach, aware that there was a violent tension in the air now.

Michael finished off his Guinness, then he and John started to leave. He caught Becky’s eye behind the bar and gave her a nod.

“Fuck sake lads, no need to leave, we were only having a laugh”, said another of the Lannisters.

“You’re fine boys, we were heading anyway”, Michael said to try and diffuse the situation and get out, but before they could open the door Becky shouted from behind the bar.

“Maybe if you weren’t behaving like you own the place people wouldn’t feel the need to leave their local pub.”

“Becky, it’s fine. We’ll see you in a bit”, Michael tried to get his reply in before the English guys.

“Fuck me. You’re all getting pretty feisty tonight!” the oldest guy at the table said.

“Fuck me. You’re all getting pretty fucking obnoxious tonight!” Becky replied with an awkward sarcasm.

The air felt electric and time slowed down as Michael held his hand on the door. John stood sheepishly next to him, holding his jacket in his arms.

“Don’t worry babe. I like them feisty.”

More laughter.

“Mate, how much for a go with your cousin? Or is she your wife as well?”

Table slapping.

Glasses clinking.

More laughter.

Cries of various elongated vowel noises.

“Actually, on second thoughts, you’d have to pay me to have a go on her!”

Michael’s face was sweating, as was his hand, which was now slipping from the door handle. He had only just noticed the rest of the pub, who were now silently watching the situation unfold. He let go of the handle and turned to the table.

“Oh, this one’s got a bit of spine. I think we’ve touched a nerve, boys.”

The empty Guinness glass was sitting at the table where he’d left it. He looked over at it. John’s glass was still there too. He noticed the fire extinguisher hanging on the wall across from him. Michael took a step forward and felt Becky’s hand on his chest. She turned to lock eyes with him.

“The rest of the boys are over in The Isles. Just head over there. They’ll calm down and fuck off soon. I’ll come and meet you in a bit.”

John opened the door and he and Michael left to another chorus of vowel cries.

___________________________

I was limping down the road and felt a sharp pain in my left calf, but for the first time in a long time, I had clarity. I had instructions. I had a purpose. I had the letter - not that I yet understood what it meant.

I thought about what had happened at the top of the hill as I walked past the shinty clubhouse on my way home. Everything felt razor sharp. It was a cold night, but mainly due to the strong north wind.

“You’ve always known what this is about”, they’d said, with hair blowing wildly.

They. I knew the voice, but couldn’t place it. Were they a man or a woman? It was hard to tell. Although they came close to me, I never really saw their face properly.

“Have I?” I replied, timid and unsure.

“Michael. You know. You’ve known for a long time. But, you have to tell me, if you want to get answers. You must initiate it. It has to come from you.”

“Okay. I have some ideas. I think.”

“Go on.”

“But… I don’t know who you are. Not for sure.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I can give you answers.”

As I thought about what to say next, they interrupted me.

“It’s cold, Michael. Are you cold?”

“Yes.”

I glanced over to where the figure was standing but somehow knew I wasn’t supposed to stare at them. So, I turned instead to face the other way. I noticed that a few yards away from where I sat, the ground had been cut into. It was a typical sight. Some years ago, someone had been cutting some peats. There were a few dry pieces sitting at the top that had presumably once been part of a stack.

“Do you have anything to light these with?” I asked.

“Do you want me to light them for you?”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Good. Then offer them to me.”

The conversation was strange, I didn’t feel fully in control of my replies.

“Okay. Take them.” I replied

They must have lit something and I saw it fly past me to the peats, which caught quickly when the fire hit them.

“Good. Now, tell me why you think you’re here.”

“It’s to do with my mum?” I said.

“It’s to do with your mum?” Came the reply. I was unsure if it was a question or an answer.

___________________________

Becky traced the faint line running down the handle of her favourite mug like it was a river marked out on a map. She’d had the mug since she was a child and it lived at the back of the cupboard so it didn’t get overused, but the rest of the cupboard’s mugs and cups had happily found their way into the dishwasher so on this Sunday morning she got to use her favourite mug for her morning tea. She looked over to the couch from where she was standing in the kitchen and saw Michael stir a little. He was asleep with his back turned to her and had only recently stopped snoring. On the ground next to him were several tea towels and a t-shirt, all stained with blood. She walked over to the other side of the couch so she could see his face. His nose seemed like it had closed up from the swelling but otherwise he looked relatively peaceful.

Becky sat on the chair opposite the couch and let him sleep. It was bright outside and she could feel the heat of the mid-morning sun hit her face via the living room window. She closed her eyes for a minute and enjoyed the warm feeling. She faced into the light, so she could still see it, pink through her eyelids, then closed them as tight as she could until small patterns of light danced about her vision, always too quickly to be caught for a proper look. She remembered being aware of these electric-like patterns that appeared when she closed her eyes tightly for the first time. She was standing outside her friend Stephanie’s house at FIngal place in Portree, waiting in line for the ice cream van, when she turned to the sun and closed her eyes. Something about it felt magical and when she asked her mum about why her eyes (or the inside of her eyelids?) did this upon returning home, he mum told her to “ask her teacher”.

This was one of her mum’s go-to phrases.

“Mum, what are we supposed to do about the hole in the ozone layer?”

“...Ask your teacher.”

“Mum, you know drug dealers? What if they go into the co-op and inject all the food with drugs and then we’d get addicted. I mean there’s barely any security. How could we stop them?”

“... Ask your teacher.”

“Mum, how do we make a Viking longboat from toilet roll holders?”

“... For fuck sake Becky. Just ask your teacher, would you?”

Becky stopped chasing the lights around her eyelids and opened her eyes when Michael stirred, but he didn’t wake so she continued to drink her cup of tea. The cover she’d put over him had slipped off his top half when he moved so she snuck over to put it back on him and it was only then she noticed the scars on his back. She’d been too preoccupied with the blood the night before.

“What the fuck have they done to you, Mick?” She said, quietly.

She wanted to wake him and ask him, and to check on his nose, and to ask about what happened last night in more detail, but she decided to let him sleep and instead picked up the tea towels and t-shirt to wash.

As she was about to put the pile of bloody garments into the sink to soak the blood from them, a piece of paper slipped out from the pile and onto the floor.

She picked it up and inspected it. It felt like expensive paper, thick but not as thick as card. There were three black streaks across what felt like the front side, one of which had been highlighted red. On the other side there were words but they were in Gaelic, which Becky didn’t speak. She studied the paper, willing herself to understand more of the language than she did but to little avail.

___________________________

“I’m not sure what it means, yet. Not all of it anyway”, Michael said as he woke up, making Becky jump with his words, in part because his voice sounded more broken and grittier than usual.

“You’ve got some explaining to do, Mick.” She replied.

There was a sudden, loud knock at the door which made them both freeze. Nobody would be visiting Becky’s flat on a Sunday morning and anyone that did would just have walked in, as the door was never locked. The knock meant one thing, it was a stranger - and given the events of the night before, strangers were most definitely to be avoided.

Michael went to speak but Becky cut him off-

“Shh.” She whispered, sharply.

Another knock came, firmer than the last. The type of confident knock of somebody who knocks as a part of their job. Becky sat on the floor in front of the couch where Michael was lying, so they were both hidden from the view of the door.

Michael peered round from the side of the couch and saw the letterbox, the type that was only a foot or so above the ground and built into the flat’s door, open and some fingers slid through to hold it in its open position.

He remained completely still, as did Becky. The letterbox stayed open and a voice that sounded male semi-whispered to them in a tone that was both relaxed and serious.

“It’s a shame nobody is home. I suppose I’ll have to try again later.”

The letterbox snapped shut and they heard footsteps walk down the steps in the close that led to Becky’s flat and then the main door at the bottom clicked closed with the type of quiet click you could only hear if you were paying attention. Becky walked over to the long window above the sink in her kitchen and looked out from the side, being careful to remain hidden behind the short, purple, open curtain that hung next to the window. She couldn’t see the visitor walking out the front, but then she might have missed him at the front door. He could be gone by now. Or he might have gone round the back where the bins were kept, for some reason? Or maybe he went into the flat downstairs and pretended to close the main door.

She sat on her knees next to Michael.

“Do you know who that was?” She asked, still speaking in hushed tones.

“Not exactly. But someone came to my house the other day, too. That’s… Ah man. I don’t know. Becky, I really don’t know what’s…”

Michael couldn’t finish his sentence, he felt his face go flush and the veins in his head begin to pulse. Then tears started pouring from his eyes - although he wasn’t crying. The salt of the tears stung his bloodied nose and lips.

“It’s okay Mick. I’m going to go and get him. You stay here.” Becky smiled sympathetically. Then MIchael realised she was bleeding too, from her nose.

___________________________

There were three black streaks across the paper, one of which had been highlighted red. On the other side there were words but they were in Gaelic, which Becky didn’t speak. She studied the paper, willing herself to understand more of the language than she did but to little avail.

“Fuck me, why am I here?” Michael asked as the sun on his face woke him. His head was blindingly sore and the light made him feel like he was going to be sick.

“Careful Mick. You’re in a bit of a state.” She replied.

“Shit. Ah. Fuck. That’s sore.”

“Your face? It’s pretty swollen.”

“No. My back. It feels like it’s on fire.”

Michael was struggling to speak as his mouth was so dry.

“Here, drink this.” Becky passed him her mug of tea and Michael immediately took a small sip, then adjudging it wasn’t too hot, gulped down the rest of the mug.

“I’m sorry. For coming here. I don’t. Well. I don’t know how it happened. Why am I covered in blood?”

“I was hoping you would tell me, Mick.”

“What’s that you’re holding?”

“It was in with your t-shirt and the tea towels I used to clean up the blood on the floor. I don’t know where it came from. Do you recognise it?”

Michael looked at the piece of paper. He wanted to explain more to Becky. He’d told her about some of his dreams before and she’d never judged him but he wasn’t sure if he should try and explain as much as he knew, or wait until he had something that would make more sense. Would it ever make sense?

“I don’t think so”, he lied.

“It’s written in Gaelic. Well, and then there’s these wee lines on the back.” Becky’s finger followed one of the lines to the end of the paper.

“Fuck!” She shouted.

“What?”

“Fucking paper cut.”

Becky ran to the pile of the already bloody tea towels and wrapped it round her finger.

“You’ll stain that.” Michael joked.

“Very-not-fucking-funny. Anyway, I know you’re lying about the Gaelic letter, for some reason. Whatever. Lie. Why would I care?

“I’m not… Okay I am, a bit. But I don’t know what it means, any of it. So there’s not really anything to tell.”

“Why don’t we go and find someone who might know, then? It’s not like it’s written in hieroglyphics.”

Michael knew that Becky was right.

___________________________

I spat out blood from my mouth in front of me and put my arms above my head. It had stopped hurting when the hits to my head came, so I wasn’t worried by them anymore. I was just looking for a moment, and more specifically an object. The blows had left me dizzy and this feeling intensified as my head was slammed off the heavy, ornate legs at the bottom of the table.

Then I spotted my chance. It was just like I’d imagined it. I picked up the pint glass and smashed it on the base of the table, then swung it up and to my right in the direction of where the blows were coming from. I felt almost no resistance as it cut through the hands and arms twisting in my direction.

I was laughing as I continued to swing the glass around. But so was everybody else. I grabbed the Tennents glass too and started stabbing them both around me. My face had closed up so I couldn’t see anyone properly but felt like I was forcing the hands back. But the more I did, the more laughter that came back at me.

I tried to shout back “shut the fuck up!” As loud and aggressively as I could, but I couldn’t speak.

Wait.

“Fuck. No. Fuck. Stop. This has to be real. Fuck.” I thought.

I tried to be calm. Look around. Where were the Lannister guys?

The pub was empty. Fuck. Where were they? The room filled up with smoke so I got down on my hands and knees and started crawling.

There was broken glass all around me so I had to move slowly. Still no sign of the Lannister guys but there were items of clothing on the floor. I crawled over to the table they’d been sitting at when Becky interrupted me.

“Mick? Mick! No! Please!”