Poison: Plaid Foul Book Ii

By Dnias Dirk

The married couple is still missing. They are still presumed dead. Jack Dorcha, the single greatest entrepreneur in modern Scotland, visits one by one the descendants of the men who cast him into the sea. Chase, the inimical and crime-writing uncle jounces Wren, the former black-letter law judge, from his doddering Lethe. Chase chisels away at dragooning Wren the second time to re-visit, re-investigate, and re-analyse the suspects. Chase adjures Wren that all of those who may have been implicated be raked over the coals. But this time it is an altogether different ball game. Insidiously the tables are being turned. Wren is vitrified. Wren runs counter to Chase. Wren exacts revenge on Glasson Dorcha by obtruding him to endure the reality of his own perceived sense of imprisonment and mutilation. Wren evens the score with Belay by foxing to expel him, the tormented worldly-wise employer of judges, his disgracious employer, motionlessly into the nadir of his self-tormented cocoon by envenoming his meal ticket and eviscerating his theorem regarding the concupiscence for the man he loves. He determines to ruin, imprison, or kill Chase, and immolate his own family. He eyeballs Chase with the significant chance that he was the culprit. Wren unglues Chase with his own pharisaical stance on his own ipseity. Finally, Jack Dorcha returns in person to avenge Wren and Chase. Who will win this time? The wrathful retired special adjudicator, the absinthal employer of torture judges, the inimical crime-writing uncle, the usurious mercenary Jack Dorcha, the now ungovernable gangster in Glasgow, the stochastic new murderer or one of the pertinacious suspects?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Mar 6, 2019
• ISBN: 9781546295716

Dnias Dirk

Dnias Dirk’s heirs and assigns have grown stronger still. Those members who were radically virtually supposable are now realistically unimaginable. Those who were throwing down the gauntlet to sparring description stomach only its dog-eat-dog counter-punch: beyond description. The progeny is now in sky rise. The memory and the pedagogy are so hygienic now that even the most scrupulous nurse need only be sanitary. Mum, Dad, Peter, Joanna; Cameron, Blair, Innes, Brodie; Struan and Rebecca: you are his rejuvenated world. What had been becoming more gay is akin to a poor hebe-phrenic boy bargaining with God to deflect the ear-bleeding echoes of the big bang and magnetise the ineffable boy he loves. The token duxes for German and history have not only now jumped the gun to theorise the rigorous practices of 800 metres, whereby only thought and feeling could remain, they can trans-migrate to an entirely new dimension. It is the numinous, the in-between, and the undead. When cerebral and pragmatic elements dis-harmonise, and after the mind has survived, the soul soups up. All corners of the universe can become black holes spaghettifying matter. Having determined to obliterate that which he en-kindled over ten years ago, and having proved beyond any reasonable shadow of a doubt, he could re-ignite the flames, he will stoke the calefactor...

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© 2019 Dnias Dirk. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse  03/05/2019

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9581-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-9571-6 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Dedication

'For the second time, then; for things that perceive amaranthine untestable pain, and the possibility of ineluctable torment of artificial intelligence; but also propitiously for the epoch-making decisions of judges, the life-changing transactions of judicial employers, the untrammelled imagination of fiction writers (in particular crime and science-fiction writers), the unfathomable magnates, as a united front to theorise and make practicable their escape.'

First, then, I wish to dedicate my second book of the 'Plaid Foul' series 'Poison' first to two very impressive and unique individuals. There is Dorothy Lee, my check-in co-ordinator. She has been with me throughout the entirety of the writing odyssey, and without her fillip, without all the responsible advice and pragmatic assistance, and unswerving dialogue, 'Poison' would have been little more than blank pages of compacted snow, nothing more than random flurries, rather than a blizzard of regalement which could be forged into merriment. It is often overlooked, but it takes a hulking effort, the honouring of a fiduciary relationship to make an author, even a published one, believe they retain the competence to write a sequel. Ms Lee has been my rock; my anchor- my touchstone in a way. She has gone far and beyond the call of her professional duties toward enabling me to understand so many other aspects of the creative writing process.

Secondly, I wish to dedicate 'Poison' to my sister-in-law Diane. She runs an in-demand flourishing beauty therapy business, while feeding and clothing four dyspeptic sons. She is indeed the ineffable mother of four of my awesome nephews. Even though I had given her a free copy, she condescended to purchase an additional copy 'Smile', the first book of the 'Plaid Foul' series. She is my first and best customer.

Thirdly, I wish to dedicate 'Poison' to my sister Joanna, or J' Noor as we know her in the fictional industry. She mailed me a note with stickers saying 'nice job' and 'wow.' She sent me a merit certificate for the 'awesome' publication of my first novel 'Smile'. She said how proud and happy they were for me. That also entails Rebecca, who attained her driving license (and her special friend Alex) and Struan, my nephew and niece. Struan earned results for his nationals which make my forays pseudo-intellectual.

Fourthly, I wish to dedicate 'Poison' to my immediate family in general for giving me such an indelible fortieth birthday with an ingenious birthday cake: 'Murder he Wrote' with a book structure and chocolate pipe, and for believing in me as an author. I wish to dedicate 'Poison' also to my brother and his wife Diane for the forty pounds and the forty fags, and three of their children who made the colossal effort to turn up: Blair, Inners, and Brodie. Cameron is extremely busy earning an honest crust.

Fifthly, I wish to dedicate 'Poison' to other people. I would like to offer my sincere thanks to several of the staff members and patrons of the Sky bar in Rutherglen. In terms of the staff, I express my gratitude to Alex and his partner Gillian for permitting me to be part of some of the greatest nights out. There is also Ginty who is always brilliant behind the bar. Everyone likes and respects her. Mark has also managed the Sky Bar. He speculated that the first book might have been co-written. I would also thank Willie, who let me in once when strictly the VIP stamp hadn't been printed.

In terms of the customers I would like to thank Andy. He has a copy of the first book. He works his socks off and performs so much practical work, has his own huge and incredible family, and always points out when I'm getting something wrong. He always makes sure I get the tick correct when lining up the pool balls. I would like to thank Paul (Tina's brother). Paul is the father and pool player I never could be. He has a smashing wee son also called Paul. He supports Celtic and Real Madrid. Paula is not forgotten. I'm only sorry my card could not be accepted that night in the Cathkin or else she would have allowed me to buy her shots al night. I'd like to thank John Shepherd, who passed away recently. He was a formidable man, who looked out for younger people. I would like to dedicate 'Poison' to his wife Eileen, who is suffering bereavement with dignity.

I would like to thank Brendan who postulates I have beaten him at pool.

Sixthly, I would like to dedicate 'Poison' to the lady whom I have always called honey, and who has worked her fingers to the bone at the Co-op, and who expressed her opinion regarding the usage of names. I took her positive criticism on board, certainly in the postlude. I would also like to thank Ben and Steven/Stephen?

There was another Stephen whose catchphrase was

Seventhly, there is still Tina/Ms Moore/mate/babe/pie chops. She gets me to to participate in life rather than just describe it. She is my best friend and confidante. She has given me so many friends and acquaintances. Her super-dooper daughters Paige and Alycia painted my nails at new year and were exemplary staff, serving me ice cubes. According to her mother, Holly's catchphrase at the moment is: 'Not too many sweary words.' Good point, Holly, I think we all agree.

Eightly, I would like to thank 'our' James. James is an expert on everything, especially child-rearing, as well as 'Pink Floyd.'

Ninethly, I would also like to dedicate 'Poison' to a few key professionals, particularly health professionals, who have endured drudgery, while I presumed to purge or experience a catharsis. There is my dentist Paul MacDonald who has performed a lot of professional, enormously skilled, and diligent work on my mouth. There is also my CPN Jamie Slater who has always been responsive to my mental health issues. I would like to thank my Consultant Psychiatrist Doctor Joseph Brian Hart who prescribes the medication I rely on to retain a more stable mind. I would like to dedicate 'Poison' to my Assistant Pharmacist, Stacy.

I still have no patron exactly and thus I am still unable to express my gratitude to the same for the inspiration.

I still disbelieve there is anyone, even a curious thug, who seriously wishes to claim the honour of the book dedication. The people who are still most important to my project are my parents: Dr Brian and Eileen Donaldson/Brockmann. My inspiration still comes from all the writers I've read.

As I said the last time around, I did write originally for my mother; however, I did not write this book for any person in particular. This time around I wished to prove that I could write a sequel to a very involved book.

The book as well is not about a person in particular and is not written in their memory. I admire my father over my other heroes. My other heroes are Tony Blair, Steve Davis, Tim Bendzko and Tom Odell.

The people who tirelessly support the themes of my book are still the mentally ill and the torture victims, as well as children and adults with nothing, as well as creatures in pain.

I was encouraged to become a writer by my Auntie Ann. She offered to fund a writing course.

In terms of my personality and character, I still do not mind who you are as long as you can demonstrate courtesy, are kind, and respect pain. In terms of reflecting my relationship with the recipients of my dedication, I have tried to be as dogged as they are.

The themes of this book are still retribution, pain and disfigurement. I still believe my adversaries have sent me back eleven years, but they have also presented me with new challenging opportunities.

I still wish to dedicate the themes to all sentient things that have suffered. I wish to retain my dedication to vodka and Pall Mall cigarettes.

I have extrapolated a new quotation from the quote Billy Connelly read out during one of his shows. 'Life is a way to fright, and a fright is a way to life, but get frightened all the time, and you'll have the way to frighten life.'

Acknowledgements

As the editor at Author House long ago advised: 'You might want to add a dedication page and an acknowledgments page, although these are optional.'

The present writer still politely suggests an acknowledgments page presents the author with the opportunity to appreciate more sincerely the people who have assisted with the project.

In some ways, this might be an even more rudimentary section, since I have tackled it before in the course of the first book of the 'Plaid Foul' series 'Smile.' So many of the manque assaults had been embarked upon and the author is merely once again trying to better appreciate the people who have helped, and again to be more ad hominem in terms of their help. In other ways, it can still be the thorny section. It can be so in that more words have been written, more pages have been assembled, and more chapters have been carved, and that the explanations are becoming more involuted.

The author is once again trying to explicate more personally who helped, why they helped, how they helped, which help they gave, and when and where specifically they helped and how that would matter in terms of the fulfillment of the work.

'Poison' is slightly different because it is idiosyncratically long and susceptible to quantitative and qualitative criticism.

Having tackled the topic of acknowledgments more recently in the course of the first book of the 'Plaid Foul' series 'Smile', I crossed a separate Rubicon, whereby much of the work had been done but fresh inspiration was hard to find, and editing commitments were very demanding and time-consuming

I will still give my favourite quote:

'You like? Twenty bucks and you can kiss 'em!' ( Roadhouse, 1989.)

In terms of the actual mechanics of the book, although much of the work had been thrashed out some years before, it has taken nothing short of six months of editing. In terms of producing the book, I owe my gratitude once again to the tireless staff at AuthorHouse. Without exception, I would like to lionize my check in coordinator Dorothy Lee for her phenomenal and ingenious help with the substantive, procedural, and process elements of the work. Ms Dorothy Lee has been nothing but ineffable in her sustained pointed assistance. Her advice has transcended every bounds of author responsibility and company accountability, into sheer mother earthiness. The insider information she has once again consistently dispensed is of a standard that no one else could pull off. She has still always reverted to me and has never once again exacerbated the strain of life-writing.

Within the family, I would like like to express my most recent gratitude to my first cousin Susan. In some ways, she has moonlight requisitioned Ken. She is also a cousin and understands extra-familial angst. She has listened to all my male-menopausal hang-ups with the longanimity of the nurse she can still be. Once again I would like to thank my Auntie Ann for reading me and for her candid feedback. She has a very clear mind and a gregarious personality. She determines to move where others would remain inert. I still miss Ken. His memory stands out more than anything I could presume to apply the written word to.

I would still like to thank Frank Burns for the botanical references the last time around.

Finally, I would still like to thank my parents Brian and Eileen for disseminating my first book 'Smile' throughout the immediate family. I knock on wood that they take my writing a bit more seriously now, although they still do not mollycoddle my intussusception. They have still ensured that writing did not surmount identity.

The biggest thanks must go to Dorothy Lee, for reverting to me timeously and chaperoning me through the whole writing process.

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

PART A Introduction: The Preludes

(1) The Talented Son’s Rite de Passage

(a) First Day at Secondary School

(b) The Queer Boy

(2) The Quixotic Nephew’s Resettlement

(3) The Henpecked Husband’s One True Love

(4) Glasson Dorcha Consults his Lawyer

(5) The Judge’s Closing Remarks

(6) The Reconnaissance

(7) The River Clyde; The Restaurant; The Ocean; Wren and Belay

(a) On the pulse

(b) The Brother and the Disgruntled Client; The Recording

(c) Chase and the Brother; The Recording

(8) Unscheduled Call

PART B Literature Review

(1) Revisiting the Suspects

Chapter 1     Glasson Dorcha; The Basement: 3:45 Am

FIRST INTERLUDE Jack Dorcha Haunts Glasson Dorcha

Chapter 2     Chase Jounces Wren From His Doddering

Lethe; 8 Pm (3, 632)

Chapter 3     Day One; 6 Am; The Second Suspect; Alana

Chapter 4     Day Two; 7 Pm; The Third And Fourth Suspects; The Disgruntled Client Plays Godfather With The Chivalrous Uncle

Chapter 5     Day Three; 1: 30 Pm; The Fifth And Sixth Suspects; The Talented Son And The Overshadowed Fiancee; The Ruin

Chapter 6     Day Four; 6: Am; The Seventh Suspect; The Aggrieved Mother

Chapter 7     Day Five; 6: 15 Am; The Eighth And Ninth Suspects; The Battered Niece/The Granddaughter, And The Henpecked Husband; The Henpecked Husband Receives Tough Love (2, 963)

Chapter 8     Day Six; 6 Am; The Overshadowed Fiancee Maydays The Battered Niece

Chapter 9     Day Seven; 5: 45 Am; The Tenth Suspect; The Arrogant Doctor

SECOND INTERLUDE Jack Dorcha Visits Doctor

Taylor Reid

Chapter 10   Day Eight; 6 Pm; The Eleventh Suspect; The Bitter And Twisted Grandmother

Chapter 11   Day Nine; 6: 30 Am; The Twelfth Suspect; The Home-Loving Mother

Chapter 12   Day Ten; 9 Am; The Thirteenth Suspect; The Habituated Cousin

Chapter 13   Day Eleven; 6 Am; The Fourteenth Suspect; The Troubled Cousin Visits Fall’s Hall

Chapter 14   Day Twelve; Shakedown; 8 Am

Chapter 15   Day Thirteen; Bucolic Surroundings; 11:30 Am

Chapter 16   Chase Reloads; Re-Visiting The Suspects

THIRD INTERLUDE Jack Dorcha Visits Ewald Wren

(2) Plena

Chapter 17   Day Fourteen; 4 Pm; The Overshadowed Fiancee Reunites With The Battered Niece/The Granddaughter

Chapter 18   Day Fifteen; 5 Am; Judging The Quixotic Nephew And The Troubled Cousin

Chapter 19   Day Sixteen; 5 Pm; Class Conflict: The Overshadowed Fiancee And The Talented Son Visit The Battered Niece And The Henpecked Husband

Chapter 20   Day Seventeen; 2 Pm; Camp As Christmas (4, 491)

Chapter 21   Day Eighteen; 7 Pm; The Banqueting Hall

Chapter 22   Day Nineteen; 1 Pm; Fall’s Hall Meets Music Hall

FOURTH INTERLUDE Jack Dorcha Visits Hugh Sharp

Chapter 23   The Bells; The Overshadowed Fiancée Flees Music Hall

Chapter 24   Summarising The Literature Review; Chase Adjures Wren; Wren Runs Counter To Chase; 7 Am

PART C Data Collection; The Re-Investigation

(1) The Suspects Interblend

Chapter 25   The Overshadowed Fiancee Arranges A Social Gathering; 7 Pm

Chapter 26   Day Twenty; The Social Gathering; Thorntonhall; 7: 30 Pm (3, 510)

Chapter 27   Day Twenty-One; Exchanging Places; 11 Am

Chapter 28   Day Twenty-Two; The Visitation; 11: 30 Pm

Chapter 29   Day Twenty-Three; The Anniversary; 9 Pm (2, 468)

Chapter 30   Twenty-Four; The Quixotic Nephew And The Troubled Cousin Part Ways; 12 Pm

Chapter 31   The Suspects Fall Out

Chapter 32   The Book Launch; 11 Pm

(2) The Suspects Philander

Chapter 33   Day Twenty-Five; The Talented Son Reaches Out To The Battered Niece; 8 Pm

Chapter 34   The Overshadowed Fiancee Leans On The Hen-Pecked Husband

Chapter 35e   Day Nine; The Battered Niece Taxis To The Talented Son; Andrea Interprets: 8 Pm

Chapter 36   The Overshadowed Fiancée Speeds To The Henpecked Husband

Chapter 37   The Talented Son Unloads On The Battered Niece; 8: 15 Pm (2, 225)

Chapter 38   The Overshadowed Fiancee Unloads On The Hen-Pecked Husband Understand

Chapter 39   The Battered Niece Shares Her Troubles

Chapter 40   The Henpecked Husband Opens Up To The Overshadowed Fiancée

Chapter 41   Day Twenty-Seven; Eternal Triangle; 9 Am

FIFTH INTERLUDE Jack Dorcha Visits Alexander Bennett

Chapter 41   Day Twenty-Six; The Battered Niece Hunts Down The Troubled Cousin; 11: 30 Pm

Chapter 43   Chase Meets Wren At The Snooker Hall

(3) The Suspects Mix It

Chapter 44   Day Twenty-Seven; Career Troubles; 8 Pm

Chapter 45   Day Thirty; The Troubled Cousin Returns; 4 Pm

Chapter 46   Day Twenty-Nine; Richie Receives The Letter

Chapter 47   Day Thirty; Mob Contract; 9 Pm

Chapter 48   Day Thirty-One; The Hen-Pecked Husband Goes For The Disgruntled Client; 4 Pm

Chapter 49   Day Thirty-Two; Reporting The Transactions

SIXTH INTERLUDE Jack Dorcha Visits The Cousins

Chapter 50   Day Thirty-Three; The Quixotic Nephew Pays Off The Habituated Cousin; 2 Am (1, 668)

Chapter 51   Wren Invites Chase To His House; 7: 45 Pm

SEVENTH INTERLUDE   Jack Dorcha Visits Chase

Mclean

PART D Data Analysis; Processing The Information

(1) The Countrty Retreat

Chapter 52   The Double Revision; 10: 45 Pm

Chapter 53   The Blood Letters; 7 Am

Chapter 54   Alerting Belay; 1: 30 Pm

Chapter 55   The Arrivals: 5: 55 Pm

(2) Inside The Retreat (12, 242)

Chapter 56   High Instability; 7: 20 Pm

Chapter 57   The Sound Of The Smile; 8 Pm

Chapter 58   Motives For Murder; 9 Pm

Chapter 59   Jack Dorcha’s Comminations

Chapter 60   Mass Poisoning; 9: 30 Pm

(3) After The Retreat

Chapter 61   Outside The Retreat (1, 205)

EIGHTH INTERLUDE Jack Dorcha Visits The Aggrieved Mother

Chapter 62   The Aggrieved Mother Dies; 1 Pm

Chapter 63   Wren Exacts Revenge On Glasson; 2 Pm

PART E   Conclusions And Recommendations: The Deductions

Chapter 64   The Courtroom Revisited: Wren And Belay; 9 Pm

Chapter 65   The Likely Suspects

Chapter 66   Wren Hurts Belay; 11 Pm

Chapter 67   Wren Re-Exits The Court; The Culprit 11: 25 Pm

Chapter 68   Chase’s House

Chapter 69   Wren Evens The Score With Chase

Chapter 70   The Rematch; 12 Am

Postlude Part A; Jack Dorcha Confronts Chase And Ewald

Postlude Part B; Jack Dorcha Exits

PART A

INTRODUCTION: THE PRELUDES

1998…

The Old House with the Piano…

(1) The Talented Son’s Rite de Passage

(a) First Day at Secondary School

As a littered horde of broken brownish foliage swirled restlessly along the thunking front pavement outside the school in the untoasted puffy air, algid glistering shafts of starchy early morning autumnal actinic radiation permeated the unenviable expanding efflorescent sphere of the youthful and ingenuous. The obligatory asphyxiating first day secondary school uniform engendered a bashful perception of intense disquiet. Dawn-provoking noetical constructions were perceptibly surrealistic, detritus of malformed images were unusually coruscant, and ossifying sensations merely fore-auguring. Utterances were probationary, gauche behaviours were unnaturally constrained, and susceptible feelings suppressed, lest social expatriation and rising fear and catastrophic anomie obtained. Juvenile trials had yet to be adjured and attended, and a roiling of shame, guilt and embarrassment endured, and incipient trepidations were still to be encountered.

Benjamin Sharp stumbled towards the front gates of the school and bumped into another boy, who happened to look in his direction.

‘Do you know the way?’ said Ben.

‘Of course,’ said the other boy, ‘My dad had it checked it out first.’

Ben squeaked slightly. ‘What’s your name?’

The other boy shrugged coolly. ‘Kenny. It means I’m handsome. What’s your name?’

‘Benjamin.’

The other boy grimaced. ‘Seriously, change it to Ben, it sounds much better.’

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘Very well.’

‘What’s your second name?’

‘Sharp.’

‘Sharp? Wicked!’

Benjamin just beamed. ‘Yes.’

‘Must mean you’re cool,’ said Kenny.

‘Is that a good thing?’ I said.

‘It means you’re in with us.’

‘Will they be nice, d’ you think?’

‘Who wants nice? It’s naughty I want. The massive girls that put out.’

‘Me too,’ Benjamin lied.

‘Have you got a bird?’ said Kenny, as he pretended to blow rings through an imaginary cigarette.

‘I have a long list of female admirers,’ I said. ‘Virtually beating them off with a stick.’

‘A wee tip, Sharpie! Make it believable,’ he had said.

‘Okay, I have one.’

‘What’s her name?’ he had said.

‘Jane.’

‘Jane?’ said Kenny. ‘She sounds boring, but at least it’s a start.’

‘Is she cool?’

‘She’s very sweet,’ said Benjamin.

Kenny cast Benjamin a suspicious eye and said, ‘Sounds like you don’t have one.’

‘Of course I have one,’ said Benjamin.

‘Just make sure you do,’ Kenny said. ‘They judge us in here.’

And how he had been judged! Piano?! Faggot, perhaps?! Pretty rich boy?!

‘So you liked Jane?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened?’

‘She rejected me.’

‘Why?’

‘She said to me that I was being selfish.’

‘Why did she say that?’

‘She said I always wanted to play piano.’

‘And what did she want to do?’

‘She wanted to dance.’

‘And why did she want to dance?’

‘She loved it.’

‘Which dance did she want to do?’

‘‘Fame’.’

Susie smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘But you didn’t want to do that dance.’

‘I did.’

‘But?’

‘My father said it was time to go home.’

‘What did Jane say?’

‘I hate him. I absolutely hate him.’

‘Why?’

‘I- I…’

‘My father’s very important.’

‘Your father’s a…’

‘A what?’

‘It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to be with you.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I can’t.’

‘What happened?’

‘She said I could play the music but that I would never understand her.’

Susie smiled. ‘I see. And what happened later?’

‘She never came back.’

‘Why not?’

‘She wasn’t welcome.’

‘Why not?’

‘My father said she was a bad girl.’

‘What about your mother?’

(b) The Queer Boy

Like an esoteric desolate ocean in the pale indigo moon, the sleek inky lacquer of the princely Steinway glinted in the soft dim light of the smouldering citrus overhead lamp in the basement. The concordance of stentorian sonorous plangent notes pin-balled around the ancient stone walls. The delectable smack of dark chocolate tantalised their green taste buds. The frowsty stench of dank underground, and the stale smell of cigar smoke pinched their nostrils. They perceived the pre-pubescent sensation of small tentative fingers against ebony and ivory keys of strength and character.

Timmy beamed blithely. ‘Thanks for letting me come over.’

Ben smiled nonchalantly, shaking his head unselfconsciously. ‘You’re welcome.’

‘I wasn’t sure you would.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘I’m not very popular.’

‘Why not?’

‘I have a speech impediment.’

‘And?’

‘Everyone put him down.’

‘Everyone.’

‘The other boys.’

‘What about the girls?’

‘They felt sorry for him.’

‘Why?’

‘He cried a lot.’

‘Why?’

‘He loved someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Me.’

‘Why did he like you?’

‘I empathised with him.’

‘Why?’

‘I knew his speech could have been de-nasalised!’

‘Why wasn’t it?’

‘He was brought up by Valium stones.’

‘They didn’t speak clearly to him.’

‘No.’

‘And?’

‘He was convinced it was a cleft palette.’

‘So he had gay feelings?’

‘I didn’t even know the word.’

‘So?’

‘He was not obviously queer.’

Susie nodded. ‘As if any boy at and to that age and level of sexual maturity could be.’

‘Indeed.’

‘So why was he your only friend?’

‘He had been the only one prepared to roll with my tight inflexible schedules and constant unavailability.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I always had piano and lessons.’

‘And?’

‘He seemed somehow to gaze sentimentally beyond my egregious unpopularity.’

‘You were unpopular?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I was a nerd.’

‘So what happened?’

‘He hung around me for weeks; months.’

‘Why?’

‘He seemed far more interested in my emotional constitution than my father’s obscene fortune. He had had a strict parentage too.’

‘I thought they were Valium stones.’

‘Yes, but his father was a doctor.’

‘And his mother?’

‘She worked with children.’

‘So?’

‘We were both day boys. Once, we were sitting side by side on the long piano stool in the big old cellar. Timmy had finally managed to overcome his overwhelming fear and committed the ultimate taboo by kissing me gently on the cheek.

‘And what happened?’

‘I love you Ben,’ he said.’

‘Did you love him?’

‘I liked him.’

‘What did you say?’

‘What?’

‘And?’

‘I grimaced.’

‘Why?’

‘It was crawly.’

‘And then what happened?’

‘He said: Touch me!’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I asked him what he meant.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said: I mean touch me. On you go!’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said: "Don’t be so silly, I can’t touch you: you’re a boy.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Touch me anyway!’

‘And?’

‘I waggled my head. I said: ’Oh, alright! I’ll touch you.’

‘And?’

‘I touched him in that that secret and special and absolutely forbidden place and felt a slight tingle. It was possibly more contrition than excitation.’

‘And?’

‘He said: See, there’s no harm.’

‘And?’

‘I said: ‘But I like girls, Timmy. I like Jane.’

‘What happened?’

‘He bowed his head coyly and said, ‘You like music, Ben. And I like that.’

‘And?’

I let go of my tongue slightly. ’I’m not like that,’ I said.

‘What did he say?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with a boy liking another boy.’

Ben didn’t need another question. ‘‘Then why does it feel so wrong?’ I said. ‘It’s because they don’t know yet,’ he said. ‘They don’t understand.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘I asked him to leave.’

‘What was his reaction?’

‘A tear had streamed down his cheeks. I swallowed piteously.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He never came back.’

‘Was he still at school.’

‘No, he disappeared.’

2004…

Fall’s Hall…

(2) The Quixotic Nephew’s Resettlement

Alexander was six years old. He was in no multiple mind that he was six because he was in primary two. If you were five it meant you were already in primary one, but if you were six it meant you were a class above and a bigger boy. He was skipping insouciantly back from school, his trendy rucksack dangling from his right hand like a bag of cabbage. When he arrived home mummy wasn’t there to answer the door. This was a first. He frowned. He set his fist upon his forehead. This had never happened before. Mummy was always there but this afternoon she wasn’t. Something must have happened. Perhaps something had happened to daddy. Perhaps his work had gone wrong. Daddy did something important, he did something to do with mechanical engineering. His daddy had said that sometimes things went wrong. He parked himself on the freezing pink tiles outside the front door, his face leaning on his elbows, his small feet tapping peremptorily on the steps. He cooled his heels for what seemed like forever. Still, mummy didn’t appear. He perceived the wraith-like sound of his mummy’s words re-bellowing in his perturbed mind: If anything ever happens, Alexander my son, and I’m not there, always go to your friend Jenny’s mother. Accordingly, he gathered his wits, he clambered to his feet, bounded down the steps, sprinted across the garden, burst through the gates, and dashed to Jenny’s. He and his friend Jenny waited for hours. Still, mummy and daddy hadn’t appeared. Eventually, some men entered the house.

‘We’ve contacted the uncle,’ said a voice.

‘You have?’ said Jenny’s father.

‘Yes, he is most insistent that he take over.’

‘Where does he stay?’ said Jenny’s mother.

‘He says he lives in a mansion in Aberdeen. He gave us directions.’

‘We’ll drive him there,’ said Jenny’s mother. She turned to her husband. ‘Won’t we?’

Jenny’s father had a kind face. ‘Yes, of course.’

The hollow ozone of the north east Scottish air was a bleak soup of steam bath and brume, the prodigious demesne a disenchanted wilderness that had fallen through the overpowered crevices of disrobed trees, shrivelled plants, and perished flowers, and the curtilage a virtual scree of aloofness and indifference. The crisp November rain fell down the disconsolate sky like the exequies of tears down a grief-stricken face. The large oaken door creaked like the thighs of an ancient giant, as it opened. Albert presented himself. Outside, Jenny’s parents stood nervously, quietly shielding him. Jenny’s father shrugged as he mimed. ‘I’m so sorry. We didn’t know what to do. We were told it might be suspicious. We were told it might have been something to do with the breaks. We were told that his grandfather was angry with your brother Maxwell.’

Alexander squeaked. ‘Dad?’

‘We were told his brother had taken everything. We’re trying to keep the secret.’

Albert smiled obeisantly. His face leaked contrition. He swallowed. ‘I’m very much forever in your eternal debt for bringing my nephew to me.’ He gathered himself. He opened up his arms. ‘Please, please would you care to come in?’

Jenny’s mother was silently weeping peeked at her uxorious husband.

He looked at his wife. ‘No, sir, I don’t think so. I think it’s best we be getting back.’

Albert nodded his signal appreciation. ‘Of course. Very well. Safe journey. I’ll take it from here.’

Albert smiled warmly at Alexander. ‘Come in, Alex.’

Alexander stepped gingerly into the mansion. Albert steered his nephew into the living room. The air was roasting to the touch and the log fire was roaring like a lair of dragons.

Alexander’s voice tweaked. ‘Uncle Albert?’

‘You said to daddy that he could use the car.’

Albert gulped. ‘Yes.’

‘I want mummy.’

‘Of course you would.’

‘And I want daddy to come and get me.’

A tear strolled down Albert’s face. He prepared himself for an upset. ‘Yes.’

‘Where’s mummy and daddy?’

‘Listen to me, Alex,’ said Albert, ‘take a seat.’

Alexander slumped down.

Albert braced himself. He took his nephew by the arms. ‘I’m afraid something’s happened.’

Alexander gazed with bewilderment into his uncle’s eyes. ‘What?’

Albert stammered. ‘There’s- there’s been an accident.’

Alexander swallowed. ‘What accident?’

‘Your mummy and daddy were in the car.’

Alexander bobbed his head feverously.

‘And the car went over the edge.’

All of a sudden the roof of his six-year-old world caved in and his heart plummeted.

‘So?’

‘I’m afraid they had to go somewhere.’

‘Go?’

‘Yes, they…they just couldn’t stay.’

‘Why not?’

‘It was their time.’

‘Where did they go?’

‘To a very special place, a secret place.’

‘Where?’

‘Somewhere very, very far away, so high up in the sky, way beyond the stars.’

Alexander’s lower lip wobbled. ‘When will they be back?’

Uncle Albert heaved a heavy sigh. ‘I’m afraid, Alex they won’t be coming back- at least not immediately.’

‘Why not?’

‘The higher powers need them.’

‘They do?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you can still be with them- later.’

‘When?’

‘When it’s your time to go.’

‘When will that be?’

Albert winked at his nephew. ‘Only the king and the trolls know that.’

‘I want to go now.’

‘Yes, I do too. But we can’t rush these things.’

‘Why not?’

‘It breaks the spell.’

Alexander’s face was a picture of astonishment and disconsolation.

Albert and Alexander perched together on a large hard outcrop on the embankment by the rapids sipping hot mushroom soup and munching paste sandwiches.

Alexander gazed ingenuously at his uncle. He pointed to the ground. ‘What is all this?’

Albert ingested gratefully. ‘Land.’

Alexander peeked. ‘Is it ours?’

Uncle Albert smiled diplomatically. ‘It’s mine for the moment, Alex. One day it will all be yours.’

Alexander’s eyes swelled with desire. ‘It will?’

‘Yes.’

‘Whose was it first?’

‘The land originally belonged to my father.’

‘Who was he?’

‘James Bennett. He was your grandfather.’

‘What about the river?’

‘We don’t own the river exactly but we do have rights. I remember my father said the heating was incredible.’

‘What heating?’

‘The heating on the boat.’

‘What boat?’

‘The Sunseeker Manhattan 50.’ Albert yawned slightly. ‘It was 1966 at 2 pm.’

‘Where was the boat?’

‘In the Outer Hebrides, Lewis. According to my father there was the individual generator, the hydraulic passesrelle and the twin 800hp diesel engines. He said that Aiden understood the traditional ideas.’

‘Who was Aiden?’

‘He was a man owned a textiles company.’

‘What happened?’

‘He asked a man called Jaeger White what he thought of the dining space.’

‘Who was Jaeger White?’

‘He was a man who owned a food and beverages company.’

‘What did my great uncle do?’

‘He was the owner of a mechanical engineering company. Ealdahach Wren told him it was one of the progenitors to artificial pain.’

‘He did?’

‘Yes, he was working with Jarrod.’

‘Who was Jarrod?’

‘He was Aiden Field’s son or so I believe. My father thought the vessel had other extras. My father was an inconvertible stickler for cubital motion.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Grease of the elbow.’

‘You mean hard work?’

‘Yes.’

‘He believed in back-breaking graft and maximum yield.’

‘What was the land used for?’

‘It was used for crops. It relied on conscientious rotation.’

‘And what were the crops like?’

‘They were a group of plants, photosynthetic organisms that had cellulose walls, growing in both soil and water, and having green leaves.’

‘What were the plants used for?’

‘Well, in the orchid, the plants were used for food. They were also used for farming. They were used in raising livestock as well.’

‘You mean meat?’

‘Yes, cattle, pigs, and poultry, as well as dairy.

‘What other crops do you get?’

‘You get water crops.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes, look at the river. Those are perennial water plants with rounded leaves, floating on the surface.

Alexander dismounted the outcrop on the embankment, crept slowly toward the river’s edge, leaned down and scooped out one in a hand-cup, mirroring its own shape with his fingers, and took in the fragrance. It smelled like his friend Jenny.

Memories of his daddy’s words echoed in his mind: Once we have laid the carpet my good boy, we must tack it. Alexander smiled dryly. ‘I remember.’

Albert squinted. ‘You do?’

‘Yes, Jenny’s parents said there was a secret.’

Albert furrowed his brows. ‘You mean the nice couple who brought you here.’

‘Yes.’

Albert nodded as he squeezed his chin. ‘And?’

‘They were trying to keep the secret.’

Albert scratched his collar as he looked away. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘I’m sure it was to do with how mummy and daddy died.’

Albert gulped. ‘And?’

‘I suspect Andrew McLean and his wife Susanna knew the secret.’

Albert brushed off this remark. ‘Whatever makes you suspect that?’

‘Something your friend said- over the phone.’

‘Which was?’

‘"There’s a reason you’re there, son- with him. They knew what he had done, or rather not done. McLean and his wife knew about it. I wouldn’t surprise me if he got them out the way.’

Albert grimaced. ‘That monster says a lot of things, Alex. He’s not very well. Anyway, you’re being very inquisitive.’

‘Anything wrong with that?’

‘No, I suppose not. Just remember though, mushrooms killed the curious.’

‘So?’

‘You must never attempt to eat them.’

‘What about eating chooks?’

‘Well, the antecedents are long since dead, processed by the poulterers, wrung and hung and gobbled up by implacable human hunger and fiscal necessity. But-’

‘There’s still a few chooks left.’

‘Yes, they are the living descendants that survived the inevitable chop.’

‘Like Hitler.’

‘Yes, Alex, exactly like Hitler. I think he’s a tiny super-powerful chook with a bushy forehead, who espouses extreme nationalistic ideologies and fascistic policies.’

‘And?’

‘I’m suspicious of him.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes, I rather fancy he exterminated nearly all of the Jewish foxes.’

‘What about Blair?’

‘He had latterly gone to war with other chooks in a different pen but still the same pen-yard to prove that no chook was bigger than his subservient relationship to ‘Bush’ chook.’

‘And there was also Hilary.’

‘Yes, she was a chook who had worked with the biggest chooks and who believed that a chook was a chook in her own right. She was no co-dependent. She was no product of echidnophaga gallinacea.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means she was perfectly capable of laying her own eggs and with no subsequent need for eccaleobion.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘A contrivance for hatching eggs by artificial heat.’

‘By the way, Alex, how many eggs are we getting these days?’

‘Usually four.’

‘Fertilised?’

‘Perhaps we should leave them to hatch.’

Albert smirked. ‘Perhaps.’

Alexander derived ineffable pleasure from his very runny and perfectly concocted hot boiled eggs in the morning; glorious waterfalls of delicious hot yellow, and mushy soggy crumpets. He had to get up at the crack of dawn and lift the eggs one by one out of the pen, so as the hens can re-commence laying, as well as taking care of depascent; that was to say; that which related to ‘feeding’ matters.

1990- the Present…

Hyndland…

(3) The Henpecked Husband’s One True Love

As a spotted array of lambent beams of lush golden light fulminated from the rhinestone torpedoed cruet of the clarion cerulean sky onto the skimpy parched grass, like an invisible celestial jar of honey poured over delicious warm baked bread, as a colony of birds created a rousing chorus, penning mirthful notes in the sky. The tingle and prickle of crackling wham bars waltzed like calf lovers on their tender tongues. The heat of physical proximity affected them as they rolled over each other on the grass. The bristling of dry grass wafted through their onomasic senses.

Richie hooted at Susie. ‘I’m bigger than you.’

Susie bridled. ‘I’m older than you.’

Richie gloated. ‘Only by eleven months- anyway I’m stronger than you.’

Susie smirked at Richie. ‘But I’m wiser than you.’

Richie shrugged indomitably. ‘In what way?’

Susie scoffed. ‘You can restrain me but I can easily tell on you.’

Richie sanctified. ‘We met as babies.’

Susie derided. ‘Yes, now you’re the bigger one.’

A display of merriment peppered the room: sandpits, chutes, and climbing frames. They were at the same playgroup and the same play scheme in the Summer.

Ritchie griped. ‘You just whipped me.’

Susie looked away. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did. With a blue plastic spade.’

Susie looked at Richie haughtily. ‘You tipped a bucket of sand over my head.’

They attended the same primary school. The teacher turned to face Richie. ‘Who would you like to nominate, Richie?’

Richie smiled smugly. ‘Susie.’

The teacher nodded. ‘And what’s your question for Susie, Richie?’

‘Nine times Nine.’

‘Susie?’ said the teacher.

‘Eighty-one,’ said Susie.

‘Correct,’ said the teacher. ‘Who would you like to nominate, Susie?’

Susie grinned. ‘Richie?’

The teacher nodded. ‘And what’s your question for Richie, Susie?’

‘Seven times twelve.’

‘Richie?’ said the teacher.

Richie cringed. ‘Em…em…’

The teacher counted to five. ‘Sorry, Richie,’ that’s you out.’

Richie glowered at Susie.

Susie smiled superciliously at Richie.

It was dark and warm inside Susie’s sliding bedroom cupboard. Richie and Susie were kissing.

Richie grimaced. ‘Your breath smells funny.’

Susie smiled sarcastically. ‘That’s because I’ve been eating garlic bread.’

Richie gawked. ‘Why?’

‘It keeps the vampire boys away.’

The garden was green, flecked with corollas. He was dancing with his girlfriend. She had a shock of blond hair. They were singing quietly. Their dancing was stiff. Their laughter was soft. The air smelled of electricity. They sucked ice-poles which tasted of burning flesh. Their singing grew louder. Their dancing became looser. They could almost hear the clock ticking, the muffled screeches. Their singing grew louder. Their dancing became more abandoned. Time was standing still. The could almost hear the clock stopping. They stopped singing and the dancing. It was now pandemonium, scuttling. The returned inside. They perceived a stomach-churning image. They looked through the glass and shed tears. They screamed.

The auditorium was a sea of burgundy and the air smelled of popcorn.

Richie grumbled. ‘This is a chick-flick.’

Susie lifted her chin and twirled her head. ‘And?’

‘I’m going to lose my self-respect.’

‘Why?’

‘No boy would touch it with a barge poll.’

‘Then it goes to show how much you like me.’

The house was deserted. Richie’s father was at work, while his mother was away visiting friends. Richie had been told to keep the noise down to a bare minimum, but he had invited Susie over.

Richie saw Susie in a way he had never seen her before. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Susie glanced quizzically at Richie. ‘A drink?’

‘Yes, an adult drink.’

‘What is it?’

‘I’ll go downstairs.’

‘Okay.’

Richie decanted countless millimetres of his parents vodka into a large chipped double-sized tea mug. He replaced them with tap water, which had made the bottle go a worrying cloudy colour. He preyed his parents wouldn’t notice.’

Richie and Susie drank like adults.

Susie moaned. ‘Your thing. It’s pressing against me.’

Richie gulped. ‘Do you want me to show you it?’

Susie moaned. ‘No, I want you to put it inside me.’

Richie and Susie were in the playground together. Susie was nonchalantly smoking a fag.

Richie gazed at Susie expectantly. ‘What d’you think?’

Susie glanced at Richie as though he were being trite. ‘What d’you mean?’

‘I got the dux.’

Susie nodded impassively. ‘So?’

‘Aren’t you impressed?’

‘I’m the dux of the school, Richie.’

They were standing outside the front entrance of Glasgow University.

Richie gazed at Susie with resignation. ‘What did you get?’

Susie smiled with muted satisfaction. ‘A first.’

Richie gulped. ‘Really, that’s amazing.’

Susie smiled fatalistically as if she already knew the answer. ‘What about you?’

‘I got three 2.1’s but I got a 2.2.’

Susie smiled phlegmatically. ‘That’s good, Richie- you got your degree.’

Richie sighed. ‘I almost got there.’

Susie rubbed her eyes. ‘No, you got there.’

‘It spoils my subject.’

Susie smiled benignly. ‘Perhaps.’

Richie and his mother were in the dining room.

Richie dipped his head slightly. ‘I asked Susie to marry me.’

‘You did what?’ said his mother.

‘I love her.’

His mother waved her head. ‘Richie, no. If she’s anything like her mother was, your children will be still born.’

It was the big day for Richie and Susie. They were inside a marquee. It was a glorious day. The sun was positively gleaming. The turnout was tremendous. Long lost uncles had come out of nowhere and every social contact had made the effort. The only people that weren’t there were those that were pushing up the daisies. And even they seemed to be watching over them- especially Susie’s mum. There were slap-up meals, uproarious speeches, Scottish dancing and drunken delights.

Richie was at the psychotherapist. ‘How do you and Susie get on?’

Richie spluttered into his fist before speaking. ‘Our relationship has always been a love-hate one. We’ve always fought like cat and dog. She was the cat: beautiful and sly. I was the dog: ugly and graceless.

Richie was nursing cider from the neck of the bottle, while Susie was puffing cigarettes one after another, as they sat on the cold hard floorboards of their house.

Richie gazed at Susie. ‘Do you remember how we first met?’

Susie glazed at Richie’s question. ‘Obviously. Our parents were acquainted.’

Richie chuckled. ‘I thought my father had made a pass at your mother.’

‘You did?’

‘I thought that was why we had been lumped together so early on.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He joked that it was actually your father he had made a pass at.’

Susie smiled pigeon-heartedly. ‘I see.’

‘He said it was the only way they could be assured of quality time together.’

Susie peered regretfully into the past. ‘If that’s one thing my father didn’t have, it was time.’ She glinted at Richie. ‘I still remember what you did.’

Richie nodded assuredly. ‘If you mean your favourite doll’s head, I’m sorry I nicked it. I remember you used to comb and clip it with a passion.’

Susie pulled a face. ‘Yes, you hacked off most of its hair with a pen knife you stole from the Irish man’s wallet.’

Richie smiled with sarcastic remembrance. ‘Still you got revenge on me. You stole my favourite Transformer and threw it over my garden wall for your dog Wolfgang to maul.’

Susie twitched her head. ‘It had nothing to do with a dog.’

Richie cast his blood-shot eyes over his past, his upbringing. It had been an infraction of heated argument; intense debate; fierce competition, bold experimentation, frustrating compromise, and painful assumptions; it had combined to make him robust and adaptable, but also fragile and inflexible. His childhood was not an explicitly scurrilous one, but neither was it entirely sky-blue; it contained so many shades of the overarching rainbow of life.

2004…

Glasgow…

The Criminal Lawyer’s Office…

(4) Glasson Dorcha Consults his Lawyer

As Glasson Dorcha fudged the melee of people who were thronging Glasgow City Centre, bustling about the labyrinthine streets on their exodus to drudgery, the mixed-race cars purred and growled while the dense traffic droned like a giant hive of antagonised bees. The hissing sound of early morning precipitation performed splashing notes on the pavement, resonating with the aftershocks in his tumultuous mind. He clung to his Trouva Susino Cat Umbrella. With its see-through design it was practical when it came to navigating through loaded crowds on busy pavements. He could see exactly where he was going and who was around, avoiding any untoward collisions. The bitter tang of salt within the rain dissolved within his lips and piqued his sensitive tongue, while the warm smell of cafes and eateries wafted through his nostrils. He perceived the disconcerting tingles of alleged malefaction. He both looked and felt like a man with a lot on his conscience.