King o' the Broch

By Scott G Buchan

A man, drunk and soiled, wades into a river and is transformed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jun 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9780244191405

Book preview

King o' the Broch

King o’ the Broch

Scott G Buchan

Copyright © 2016 Scott G Buchan

All rights reserved.

Published by Lulu.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-244-19140-5

also by

Scott G Buchan

LIQUID KIDS

DIAMOND ON THE HORIZON

PAST ST COMBS

THE CHAOS BROTHERS

*

In the north-east corner of Scotland, there is a town named Fraserburgh; it’s also known as the Broch, and has a population of just over thirteen thousand.  The majority of the town’s residents speak Doric, while a substantial number converse in languages imported from various Eastern European locations.  The Broch has been a fishing port since its inception.  It is not a new town.

A couple of miles east of the town’s esplanade, a river cuts across a beach to swell the North Sea.  Beyond the river – the Philorth – sandy mounds sport rough coats; in amongst these, hidden from the world in a crater, a man awakens.  It is just past eight am; it’s the last Monday of January, 2016. The man is thirty-four years old and of average height.  His shaggy mop, which extends from beneath a black tammy, is mostly dark brown, although he has a few white strands.  By no means is the man handsome, but he is in reasonable condition: under a sugar-based layer are fairly well-developed muscles.  His outer garments are wet; along with the hat, the ensemble comprises a bark-coloured jacket, a pair of walking trousers of similar complexion and black boots.  A soggy blue backpack sits near to the man’s head; he hadn’t thought to use it as a pillow.

At an angle, this man had slept upon the beige grains, and with his back to his hometown.  North-east of his position is a village, which he would refer to by its informal moniker: Belger; he lived there until he was eleven, and then he moved with his family to the Broch.  There is presently about half a mile of wild grass and barbed wire between him and Belger, which is connected by a golf course to St Combs – another hoary village.  Following the sand down the coast from St Combs will take a person past the lighthouse at Rattray Head and eventually to a place that is comparable to the Broch in terms of form and scale: Peterhead.  Many times the man has walked from the one town to the other.

The thirty-four-year-old had the day before rambled near to the vast dunes of Rattray; he wound up amid these slighter crests in the evening, whereupon he did practically collapse.  His sleep was not interfered with.  Cows are known, on occasion, to roam in the vicinity; perhaps in a shed they now are.  It has rained and has stopped; the dreariness above implies that a deluge will be released before Tuesday arrives.

*

I do not drink, but I am drunk.  I had a beer in my hand on Hogmanay; it was the first time in a long while that I’d thought seriously about ingesting some alcohol.  I did not open that bottle.  I put it down and had an energy drink instead.  I brought in the New Year alone, more or less: I had the dog with me – somebody had to comfort oor wee Westie while the squeebs were gan aff.  My folks, though, were out visiting, and I didn’t hear from anyone until the first.  A couple of old pals asked me then if I was keen on haein’ a turny oot tae Belger an’ gan roon’ the hooses.  I declined.  They phoned the house: they don’t have the number to my new mobile.  They are unaware that I have one.

I got drunk yesterday.  I’m still drunk.  I’m a mess, and I stink – properly stink.  I understand that I did something that I hadn’t done since I was a bairn: I’ve somehow managed to shit myself.  I pissed the bed a few times when I used to drink, but my bowels never let go like this.  It was the drink: bourbon; I liked the look of the bottle when I was in the shop.  Yesterday, I went in by for chilled coffee drinks to take with me to spice up my walk; I hadn’t really planned on boozing.  I did leave the car at the house, though: I’d entertained the possibility.  I bought the bottle, as well as the caffeinated beverages, and stowed it in my backpack.  When I made the purchase, it wasn’t a given that it would be imbibed by me.  It was like writing a suicide letter that you might never use.  The option was there.

The seventy-centilitre bottle did, however, get opened.  I walked from the Broch to the small forest a mile or two south of St Combs, and there I sat upon a stump and tarried; those pine trees are between the beach and the Loch of Strathbeg.  I listened to my iPod until the battery conked; the device and headphones were subsequently slipped into the backpack and the bottle removed.  At some point, the seal was cracked.  The sun – a shy guest – vanished long before five; it was already dark when I took my first sip.  I texted my mum soon after to state that I’d tied in with some people and that I’d likely not be home that night.  Hours later, I ambled back through the villages. I didn’t chance the river or go up onto the road; I halted here.  I was content to sleep rough.  I did not carry the bottle this far; what’s more, it is doubtful that I finished it.

I don’t have a sore head; ingredients aren’t coalescing into vomit.  I am not there yet.  Hangovers were part of the reason why I stopped drinking back when I did: I was highly susceptible to them.  I should be ill.  It’ll surely come.  I must clean myself while I am yet able to.  I get up off of the sand; when I lean over to grab my bag, it feels as if dough is being smooshed into my arse crack.  My arms go through the straps, and I ascend out of the crater, pausing at the lip to survey the beach.

*

The tide is in, and the water is dimpled like an unballed sheet of tinfoil.  The sky is composed of multiple shards; the sun’s outline cannot be traced.  The wind is up; it will be blowing against the man’s back when he endeavours to finally complete his trek.  Three massive wind turbines are, incidentally, situated behind him: two are by the crossroads that diverts travellers off of the St Combs road and into Belger, while the third is just west of the golf course that separates the two villages.  There are many more of these turbines a bit farther inland, and they are clearly visible from the man’s perch.  He despises them all, as he does the tracks that scar the terrain west of the river; undoubtedly, these are the result of quad bike activity.  On his side of the Philorth, the beach is but a sliver, and not an especially clean one: the sand is bruised with oil and adorned with seaweed and jetsam.  The rocks that there are stretch northwards to an elevated path, and this winds off up to the harbour; its two piers are located beyond Belger’s western boundary.  A red beacon extends from the deep; between it and the elder of the piers, a ship – held by a submerged claw – rots.

The man, whose first name references the country of his birth while his surname nods to his constituency, is relieved to note that no one else has chosen to brave this sector on a drab Monday morning.  Much of that which hems the beach is engulfed by the long, swaying spikes that Scott peers through.  He sees no human activity to his left and the direction of a car park, which is across the water and obscured by natural humps; off to his right, meanwhile, nobody currently utilises the path that is so exposed to the sea.

Scott descends and then clambers over a weak fence to target a pillbox, which is sloping and stuffed with its environment; the narrowest portion of the river is in line with this aged structure.  Even here, the water is still a good twenty feet across.  The man does not hesitate: dog walkers could appear at any instant.  Standing, he removes his boots and socks, and then he empties his trouser pockets; his house key, wallet and phone go into his jacket.  He gazes at the river.  Its bottom cannot be discerned for murk.  Scott drops his backpack and strips down to his waist; the coat, hat, navy padded work shirt and white T-shirt are folded and thrust into the zippered bag, which, though predominantly blue, has a grey stripe down its front.  The man rummages around to ensure that his black waterproof overtrousers are at the top of the bundle.  He then pinches the sock-containing boots together with his right hand and hoists the bag up with his left.  He doesn’t sprint into the river, but nor does he procrastinate.

At its deepest point, the icy water nigh scrapes the Brocher’s nipples.  He forgot how it can be crossing through here when it surges so; he feels as if he’s been tangled up in an escalator.  Pebbles chew into the soles of his feet; he is fortunate to avoid stepping on anything that would penetrate his flesh.  He keeps his balance and gets to the other side.  He is not done.

Scott places the bulging backpack and his boots on the sand before slipping one of the black-and-grey workwear socks over his right hand; he then returns to the middle of the river.  He checks again: still no others have wandered into this scene.  He reaches below the surface to unbutton and unzip, and then he shakes himself free from the patched-up trousers.  He bids them farewell.  He squats to take off his boxer shorts; when these have just passed the final toe, the man does then, momentarily, lose his balance.  His head goes under.  He shrieks when he is able to.  He shivers and curses at himself.  With his back to the pillbox and his blue eyes darting to the most likely entry points, Scott proceeds to use the glove as a brush.  He spends about fifteen seconds on this task, and then he rolls the sock inside out and discards it.  He wafts his right hand upon the water.  He studies his surroundings once more before charging towards the backpack.  Scott’s penis – an okay size when riled up – has withdrawn to a degree that onlookers could’ve found amusing.  He dives next to his belongings and digs out the waterproofs, which have an elasticated waistband and no pockets; they are on in a flash.

He sits then and relaxes somewhat; he does not rush to put on his remaining clothes.  He faces the pillbox and the slouching green pyramids that are behind it.  The man’s back is again aimed at the town where his home is.

*

It’s not as cold as it has been; it’s relatively mild.  There have been times in the last few weeks when I’ve had Eddie – my Westie – out this way and, in spite of my gloves, my hands were aching.  I don’t need my gloves; I don’t even need a top.  I could do with more booze: I’ll start to flag otherwise and crumble.  I am off this week; usually, I’d be working at this time.  That’s in the shop where the bourbon was bought; I suppose I’m a storeman there.  I work Monday and Tuesday mornings; plus, Friday and Saturday from three in the afternoon to ten at night.  In May, it’ll be six years that I’ve been a Tesco employee.  It’s only part-time; on the side, I write books that people couldn’t care less about.  Another backdoor guy is supposed to retire later this year; I should, in theory, inherit his full-time slot.  I’m off until next Monday.

I was out at Rattray about four months ago; I didn’t take the dog.  I parked the car at St Combs and approached the lighthouse from the Strathbeg side of the dunes.  I was deeply aggrieved by what I found.  Over the last year, I’ve spotted a disconcerting number of quad bikes on the main road; I discovered then where it was that a fair amount of these ear-splitting machines were going.  I didn’t encounter any quad bikes that Sunday afternoon, but I saw the damage that they’d caused: every grand brae had been the patient of a chainsaw-wielding surgeon; grass was scorched by tyre.  I was furious.  It was like the absolute scumbags had set out to bring down those majestic dunes.  To sour my mood yet further, as I traversed the miles of sand back towards ma wee silver Corsa, I had little option but to glare at the chopping blades of the three horrific turbines.  I was bookended by the sheer cuntishness of my fellow Scots.

I didn’t bother going as far as Rattray yesterday: I knew that I would only find more to aggravate me.  Before taking my seat here, I noticed that fresh tracks tear away from this diminished corner to the north-west.  About three-quarters of the way to the Broch’s esplanade, there’s Tiger Hill – nae doot the filth’ll’ve ripped their wheels o’er ’at grite, bonny heap.  That’s what people are like.  They’re extremely ignorant and thoughtless.  But should this fact continue to anger me as it does?  I contemplate the necessity of being Christ-like.

I was heading up the road one night three weeks before Christmas; I’d taken Eddie down to the beach.  I was going right at the big roundabout at the top of the bypass, and an arsehole coming from the direction of Memsie cuts in front of me; this driver was going down Strichen Road as well.  I applied the minimum amount of pressure on the brake pedal to avoid collision; I maintained a gap, but I let the guy know that what he’d done was daft.  Well, this fuckin’ twat shows me his red lights, and I thought he was going to stop altogether.  He didn’t.  He kept us at twenty, though.  I dared him in his mirror to pull over.  I indicated well in advance of my turn-off to give the prick the option of following my lead.  He cruised on by.

I don’t get into fights; I do, however, have a heavy bag in the garage, and I can walk into a gym and bench press three hundred pounds.  Listen, son: Ah’m dangerous.  Just about any guy who got out of that car would’ve been in trouble.  And I was thinking about that the next time I was down on the beach with Eddie.  Just like that, I could’ve been locked up for assault – or worse – o’er nithin’.  Seconds earlier, I’d exploded in the car because a silly woman coming out of Strichen Road hadn’t bothered to indicate, leaving me idling needlessly.  I knew that something was – is – wrong with me.

I despise religion, but I am intrigued by it.  I’ve read the Bible twice, the Koran, the Book of Mormon and a book on Hinduism; I’ve also got ‘Dianetics’ and books on Buddhism, which I have yet to read.  I don’t believe that it is an admirable quality to be a person of faith.  However, people do get something out of their religions, and not just an excuse to do evil.  It can be a way to harness the positive, and that’s what I must do.  If not, I am doomed, and there’s a chance that I’ll be taking others down with me.  The world – my town – is full o’ utter fuckin’ plebs; it is imperative that I learn to deal with this gracefully.  Christianity is nonsense.  Its fundamental message is not.

*

The man would happily stroll back along the strip of beach topless and barefoot; he understands, though, how strange that would look, with it being the time of year that it is.  Scott puts back on most of the clothes that he has left; the hat and gloves remain in the bag, and the spare black-and-grey sock goes in there with them.  In case of emergencies, there’s a pair of white kilt socks at the bottom of the backpack; these are extricated and then hauled up to their owner’s knees.  When his boots are laced, the thirty-four-year-old stands up and slips the straps of his bag over his jacketed shoulders.  Scott pivots out there on that shrunken patch by the Waters of Philorth.  He then follows the waterline back towards the Broch.

To his left, a ridge shields Fraserburgh Golf Course, which has been out of commission for a spell due to flooding.  The weather, along with high tides, has also been taking its toll on the ridge: immense divots decorate that disintegrating partition.  Ahead, the beach curves into the town as if it were an arm vanishing into a jagged iron sleeve.  A trawler chugs away from the substantially greater of the two harbours that prod the bay.  The storeman wonders how many locals are aboard that vessel.

After a while, Scott discerns vehicular activity down from the shelters and café of the esplanade, and he becomes enraged.  He struggles to comprehend how quad bikers could be so bold.  This fury dissipates, though, as the distance between the man and those vehicles is reduced, for it becomes clear that they are council trucks: that which the turbulent sea has coughed up is being removed.  The sleeve that is Fraserburgh subsequently fractures, and its predominant constituents are revealed: granite and slate.

The Brocher turns left at the base of Tiger Hill and weaves between the dunes to reach a flat area; there is short, dog dirt-speckled grass next to where train tracks used to be. Nearby are bins and the St Combs road; just to the south-east, that road separates the golf course from the clubhouse and a nine holer.  Scott traverses tarmac and skirts a graveyard, one end of which is close to a small roundabout; he pauses there for a second. Across the road from him are shed-occupying shops and garages; his workplace – the Broch’s very own superstore – is to the left of this assembly. This is the south-eastern corner of Scott’s town; a smidgen south-west of his position is another roundabout, out of which both the bypass and the Aberdeen road spring.  The man makes for the opposing pavement when it is wise to do so.

The front entrance of the light-grey metallic edifice that is this Tesco’s is around the corner; its yard gates point towards the cemetery and the beach.  Scott cuts back southwards prior to passing between tall, expansive windows and the main car park, the busyness of which is about standard for the time.  He stops by cash machines and checks his phone: it’s a quarter to ten.  He’d rather not hang about: he wants to get the stuff and keep moving.  He feels his brain sliding downwards.  He’s not going to stand around for fifteen minutes.  He’ll find someone to serve him, surely.  He does not, however, like to visit the shop on his holidays: there’s always the concern that he’ll be confronted with the news that somebody mucked up and he’s actually due in.  Scott won’t linger.

*

In the foyer, a bearded Middle-Eastern chap with a red vest grins at all-comers; it’s his intention to flog copies of the Big Issue. I advance without acknowledging this individual.  I’m pleased to see that neither of the shop’s security guards is at their post at the front door; and I can’t spot any of the managers milling about either, which is another bonus.  I check the customer service desk: the older blonde dame is on and by herself, and this is good news.  I skip by the tills and locate the correct aisle: ten.  The booze barriers aren’t up; in all likelihood, they’re on a cage through the back, buried behind stock.  I grab a bottle of the stuff from yesterday: honey-flavoured bourbon – how pleasant.  Cupping the container’s base and holding it against my forearm, I then proceed towards the smiley woman in an artful manner.  Blondie is dressed in an immaculate navy-blue lady suit; she has on as well an air hostess-type scarf.  A lorry driver – upon glimpsing her from a distance – remarked that she was ‘no bad’.  I informed him that she was in her fifties; that didn’t put him off much.

She sells a guy – some Eastern European fella – fags and a lottery ticket; after that, I put the tagged amber bottle down before her, shielding it with my frame.  Between two tills and backdropped by the blue of the cigarette cabinets, the blonde’s expression changes.  Ye canna buy ’at anoo: it’s nae ten.  I explain that I have to get going and insist that there must be a way of circumventing the system.  She says that it’s mair than her job’s worth.  Clearly, my colleague is upset at having to let me down, but she is resolute.  I stand back from the bottle and her desk.  I opine that it’s another stupid rule in a stupid fucking country, and then I tell her to pass on to the bosses that I quit.  I leave.  The look of horror on the woman’s face is fixed in my mind for a short while after.

*

Scott goes back to where the train tracks once were.  The rambler with the blue-and-grey backpack stays away from the main road as much as possible: he could do without his dad passing him in his van and then stopping for an interrogation.  He completes his expedition to the north end of the beach by way of the esplanade and continues onwards.  Activity at the opening of a big shed compels him to halt: wordlessly, one factory worker guides a forklift driver who has scooped a tub out of the back of a lorry.  Scott resumes his journey once the forklift is indoors.  He steps off the pavement whenever he is about to pass under a seagull-propping lamppost.  So as not to plummet and land on the creel boats that inhabit the first pool that he comes close to, Scott veers left; the boats expand drastically in size as he ventures farther north.  Men of Southeast Asian descent flit about aboard trawlers; the gigantic pursers, meanwhile, are crewed by – ostensibly – indigenous fellows.

West of Scott’s course is a row of pubs and other assorted businesses, the exteriors of which have changed little in decades.  The town centre is behind those multi-storey structures.  It is past ten by now: when he did drink, Scott would’ve bought his alcohol from either of two places up that way.  Those shops aren’t as they were, though.  However, the man has a decent relationship with the owner of the pub that is northernmost of those that reside opposite the wharf.  He might be of assistance.

The male thirty-something strays away from the water and waits for a black Subaru Impreza to go by; the noise that the machine generates repulses him.  Muttering, Scott crosses the road.  He acts to suppress his indignation before penetrating the frill-free entrance of a white two-storey building: the Bala.  The first door is already open; dark stairs ascend to his left.  The top floor is usually closed through the week; the incomer had heard that, these days, when that section of the pub is occupied it is done so mainly by foreigners.  The man passes through a sturdy, brown door.

*

It was well over a year ago, I believe, when I was last in this rectangular space: it would’ve been a Friday night, and a cover band would’ve been playing down there at the north end, where the pool table is.  There’s no one at the table; there are two guys and a woman investigating their phones in a booth near to it.  There’s an old guy sitting at the bar, which is directly across from the entrance; I cover the distance between the door and a barstool in four steps.  Just left of the doorway as you face the bar, there’s a cushioned bench and three tables; a couple of weathered dudes sip drinks with their backs to the harbour and monitor the television that is mounted in the south-east corner.  It appears that a reality-based programme set in Alaska is being displayed.  South of that show is a corridor, off of which the toilets are located; the wall on this side of the bogs has on it a huge mirror.  I sit about midway between the TV-watching duo and the loner; I rest my backpack against a leg of my stool.  There is no bartender.  Behind suspended bottles is more mirrored glass; heeding its advice, I drag my mop into a side-seem.  I can presently do nothing about the gingery scruff that infests the bottom half of my unappealing fizzog.

It was either after a funeral or before we set off for a stagger when last I was in here through the day; either way, it was years ago.  I can recall being in here in bad states on Sunday afternoons.  It has, though, been more than eight years since I was bleezin’ in this establishment.  The wood, wallpaper and woollen upholstery aren’t as dusky as I remember, nor as bleak.  It’s almost cosy: it’s rather a comforting place to be.  Enough monochrome fragments have shifted to let the sun stick its oar in, and the Bala’s seeing the benefits of that.

It’s not a flashy place.  It isn’t really where you would come to sniff out young muff on the weekend, although some curious babes might trot in for the one drink.  I don’t think of it as being a place for pulling; it wasn’t for me, at least.  The last time I was in here, I was sitting on that bench beside a few chums.  This pished blonde was trying it on with a couple of them; out of the corner of my eye, I saw one attempt to redirect her amorousness towards me.  She screwed her face up and promptly toddled off to annoy the band.  The bouncer flung her out soon after.  Back when I still half tried, several times was I soundlessly rebuffed.

I am – modesty aside – funny as fuck, and like I said: three-hunner-pun’ binch press; but, fin it came tae quines, I really did struggle to reel them in.  I am not an attractive person.  I’ve not been married, or even engaged; no bastards or abortions can I claim.  In general, I’ve not done much.  I have no significant history.  I might as well have emerged from a cloning facility at dawn.

There’s a doorway at the left end of the bar; a man enters the scene through it.  This is our bartender. He wears a black leather waistcoat, a white shirt and jeans; his boots are dressier than mine.  He’s a six-footer; he’s hefty, but not at all muscular.  He has dark, curly hair and a goatee beard, and both of his ears are pierced.  His right cheek is scarred as a result of a car crash; this happened when he was a teen.  The bartender looks somewhat like a biker character as played by John Candy.  A triangular sandwich is wedged between his lips.

I know that he’s the same age as me.  I know him; I didn’t think to expect to see him here.  I haven’t seen him about in a while.  I haven’t really spoken to the guy in a number of years.  I didn’t know what he was up to, other than that he was doing something else instead of bartending these days.  I sit back on the stool.  The man raises his eyebrows and removes the sandwich from his mouth; it’s minus a sizable chunk.  Smiling as he chews, the man conveys that my extremely unexpected appearance is quite welcome.  I know this chiel well.  His name is Peter, aka Fat Kid.

After I moved from Belger to the Broch halfway through primary six, I attended the Central, which is now St Andrews; Peter’s sole primary school was South Park.  I learned about him when I went up to the academy.  His older brother was a character, and it seemed that those in my year who were associated with him and his mob became the ‘faces’.  Fat Kid was practically a celebrity back then, while I wouldn’t really have been known by anyone other than those whom I shared classes with.  I think we were in third year before we spoke to one another: it was outside of the now-demolished youth centre one night.  We appeared to share a sense of humour.  A classmate of mine had gone to South Park; he eventually tied back in with his old muckers, and he brought me into the mix.  I didn’t gel particularly well with all of that group – quite a few wound up on the smack, don’t you know?  I did like Peter, though.  As it happened, he was chummy with my former cronies from Belger: that’s how I got in tow with that lot again.  Effectively, I ditched the druggies’ haunt of the arcade and bussed it out to the village, where my company and voice were more appreciated.  Fat Kid, in essence, split his evenings between those two locales.  That was Pete: friend to one and all.

He’s had about a million jobs and has done a fair bit of travelling; it isn’t ridiculous to assume that he has conversed with a hundredfold the people that I have.  He was once beloved internationally for his sunny and sociable manner.  His disposition, however, has darkened these past few years.  It was this transformation into a droney cynic that precipitated the demise of our friendship.

*

The two erstwhile comrades commence chatting.  Scott remains upon the stool; Peter stands opposite him across the wooden counter.  The sandwich shrinks to nothing; drinks are dispensed when requested.

Scott: Well well, fatty.

Peter: You kin spick.  Pittin’ a bit o’ beef on ’ere yersel’.

Scott: Aye, ah treat masel’ mair affen