Kiltman I: In The Beginning

By Dermid Strain

Some men are born to be heroes.

Others need a massive self-destruct button and an extraordinary stroke of luck.

 

Kenny Morgan could not have been more satisfied: a loving wife, a happy son and a successful career in whisky production. Until the late night 'whisky wanderings' take control of his life.

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dermid Strain
• Release date: Oct 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9781916820456

Book preview

Prologue

Field of Dreams

He could not ignore the sharp, painful parchment which once was a throat. It begged for lubrication. Vertical was the only option. Mustering all the strength his legs had to offer, he moved to place his feet under his body, ready to raise himself into a fighter’s position, a pugilist of one too many blows to the head. It took less than a second to perform a somersault perfect in every way except grace, crunching his right shoulder down onto the hardened roots of the hedge he had fallen into six hours earlier.

Blood, no less than forty percent proof, rushed from his head to legs no longer pointing skyward, released from the pivotal role they had played in keeping their owner balanced across the foliage he had collapsed into during the third verse of a tuneless but heartfelt Wild Rover. His legs lurched into life, cushions of pain, pins and needles. Grimacing at the discomfort, he made a note to self not to sleep upside down in a cold, damp field again.

Rising to his feet, the tightness around his lower stomach reminded him of the numerous beers consumed in the isolation of his misery just one day earlier. It ended when…

When? That was a good question. The last thing he could remember was lifting a whisky to his lips just as he turned to smile at the barmaid. Or were there two barmaids? His threadbare Pogues T-shirt was still stained with the dribbles of drinks he had gorged on to achieve mindless oblivion.

Now his groin was coming back to life, his bladder stretched to bursting point. Raising his pounding head oblivious to anyone who may have witnessed his resurrection, he attacked the grass that had never done him any harm. Good for the grass, he thought, as he watered generously.

Until the waft of his overworked liver reminded Kenny Morgan that drink had become the urination of him, his life and everything he had once loved.

I

The World at his Feet

The Graduate

He stopped and looked at her as if for the first time. Leaning towards an ear drooping with last year’s birthday present, he whispered, Fiona, I love you so much. I can’t imagine life without you.

Kenny Morgan, you’re such a romantic, she answered, tilting her head at an angle as if trying to comprehend him. An unruly curl of red hair cascaded over her brow, framing the honesty in her face. On a dazzlingly bright day like this her auburn hair reflected in her eyes, turning them into a deep reddish-brown, above a nose sprinkled generously with freckles threatening to join up on the next sunny day.

Who would’ve thought you were Scottish with all that soppiness! Come on, let’s go. They’ll be calling your name in a minute.

Arms linked, they walked through the Glasgow University colonnades oblivious to their surroundings. The current version of the university had been christened a Gothic Revival in the nineteenth century, capturing an age when pride was an acceptable sin. The buildings were of a granite magnificence shunned by architects for years. Strong, lasting, positioned with care, the bricks supported the pillars of learning, and the students who walked among them. Adam Smith, James Watt, John Logie Baird, and James Herriot were a testament to the wealth of social energy clearly portrayed in all creatures, great and small. Kenny had once used that line on Fiona, expecting her to laugh. She had looked at him quizzically wondering why he was smiling and what he was waiting for.

He guided her into the austerity of an atrium filled with shuffling feet and nervous coughs. The reality of the moment was exaggerated by the unsettling odour of scores of graduates sitting in neat rows of red velvet, cushioned chairs. Many chatted in loud whispers, while the remainder looked straight ahead in anticipation at the shallow platform.

From the doorway, Kenny could see Donald, his fellow chemistry student, muttering to himself. Donald’s eyes shifted erratically from ceiling to floor as if searching for a hole to disappear into. While he appeared oblivious to the sea of humanity crushed into the cramped hall, the truth was he was drowning in it. Kenny knew Donald was only there to please his parents. On the one occasion Kenny had met them they quizzed him for hours on what subjects their son should study, but not a single question as to how he was enjoying the student life or, God forbid, whether he had a girlfriend. After that conversation, Kenny knew they wanted their son to be happy. As long as his happiness provided them with the indispensable, after-dinner sound bites to impress their guests. They accepted his increasing levels of agitation and stress as long as it did not interfere with his return on their investment. This morning could not pass quickly enough for Donald. Kenny knew where he was going to sit on graduation day, whether Donald wanted him to or not.

I’ll be with Tommy and your Mum. Make us proud! Fiona whispered as she uncoupled her arm and kissed him on the cheek to go in search of the stairs leading to the balcony. He turned and crossed the room towards Donald. He was not surprised to find the seats on his left and right were both free.

How you doing, pal? You coming to the beer bar after this to celebrate? Kenny asked, extending his hand.

Donald considered handshakes a societal oxymoron, germs and niceties incongruously intertwined. Despite his anxieties, he grabbed the hand as if sinking into a pit of quicksand, his own palm soaked in nervous dampness. Whenever Kenny saw Donald, he seemed to age in front of him. He was now showing the signs of premature balding. Smooth temples arched unnaturally into the sides of his forehead, long strands of hair barely covering the middle ground. The draft in the hall played with Donald’s receding tresses just as they had done when he had encountered a Van de Graaff generator in their science class. His downtrodden features made him look like a distraught Einstein, intensely intellectual while anxiously awkward. He could barely control the nerves in his face, the odd twitch escaping to indicate the underlying stress.

You joking, Kenny? After this, I’m going into hibernation. He paused before looking deep into Kenny’s eyes. Do me a favour, will you?

Maybe. Depends on what you’re after.

I can’t go up there. You know what I’m like. Can you do it for me? Please, I’m begging you.

He studied Donald’s agitated face, eyebrows begging his friend to help him out. Kenny knew he was the only one who could help him. He touched Donald on the shoulder, compassionate and empathetic to the discomfort he was suffering.

No way, you silly scientist!

Donald’s pained look worsened, not believing that the one person he trusted most in university would let him down.

You get yourself up there. You’re the smartest guy in this hall.  Wee bit off your head, mind you, but you worked harder than anyone to be here. Remember, the first step on a long journey can be the hardest. Kenny grimaced at the cliché but knew he had to be cruel to be kind. Make your family proud.

A brief flicker of sadness coloured Donald’s dark brown eyes before he said, Kenny, my parents don’t care what I do. They haven’t for a long time.

Donald looked at Kenny, not sure whether to continue. Kenny nodded for him to go on. Donald shrugged his shoulders and said, Ever since I didn’t become a priest, they’ve treated me with contempt.

You were going to be a priest? Kenny’s wide-eyed gape would have been considered exaggerated in other circumstances, but with Donald, Kenny always invested in overstated expression to keep the dialogue flowing.

Yes, I studied at a seminary for a couple of years. I was only young. Although that didn’t matter to them. As far as they were concerned, their son was destined to be a Pope.

Destiny, Kenny thought. Too big a word for young students to be worried about. Yet, Kenny had a flash of concern about his own future. He had been sure it lay with Fiona and his new job at the whisky distillery; he had it all planned out. Looking at Donald, he realised that any given destiny was only as likely as your ability to stay the course. Kenny wondered whether he himself would have the capability to realise his own dreams.

He placed his hand on Donald’s shoulder. Well, forget about them. Today’s all about you. You’ve worked your socks off to be here. I want to see you do some breakdancing when you pick up your scroll! Kenny squeezed his neck just hard enough for Donald to grimace. You’re da man! It’ll all be over in a few seconds then you can get on with the rest of your life.

You’re so full of it, Kenny, Donald said with a hint of a smile. I’m going to tell you something I haven’t told anyone. Donald looked at his hands before he spoke again. He had stopped trying to conceal the tremble dancing along to the tips of his fingers.

I’m being followed. I know you’ll find this crazy; but listen.

Kenny felt a wave of sadness; Donald was in a bad place. Scopophobia was a condition that prevented normal people from living normal lives, although most would not know the meaning of the word. They just lived in fear of being watched by others.

Donald continued. I think they’re Russian. I overheard them talking one day when they were sitting outside my apartment. I used the parabolic reflector I created in the lab to pick up on what they were saying. I couldn’t understand a word, but it was definitely a Slavic language. It all started about six months ago. At first, I didn’t want to believe it because I know I can get paranoid at the least wee thing.

Serious understatement, Kenny mused. He decided to play along. So, what you going to do?

"I’m checking myself into Gartnavel Royal Infirmary next week. I’m going to convince my parents to section me under the Mental Health Act. It’s the only way I can be sure of protection. Otherwise, I might be away the crow road."

His immediate reaction was to talk Donald out of the impending section, but his age-old Glasgow expression for death made him reconsider. There was no denying his twitching and nervous tics seemed more acute than ever. But did he really think he was in mortal danger? At the very least, he needed protection from himself. Gartnavel Royal was created in the early nineteenth century by the Glasgow Lunatic Asylum to deal with serious psychiatric cases. Donald seemed to be as serious a case as he could imagine.

Donald. I’m really sorry. If there’s anything I can do… Kenny felt the inadequacy of his own words.

What’s done is done, Kenny. Let’s get this over with. Donald turned back to face the stage, as if the conversation had never happened.

Kenny forced himself to look away from Donald. In direct contrast to Donald’s woes, he studied rows of youthful faces underneath angled mortar boards, happy students in the realisation of their dreams. The Rector had begun the droll roll call of every name imaginable, the Crawfords and Ramsays of the world taking more than their fair share.

It’s with great pleasure, the Rector announced, that I ask Donald Mackenzie to come to the stage for a well-deserved First Prize in Chemistry.

Donald would still be sitting in the chair if Kenny had not had the presence of mind to jab him with a straightened paperclip he had found in his trouser pocket. Donald jumped to attention, before practically running to the stage, sporting a flowing, black, Dracula-esque robe, his mortar board threatening mutiny. The congratulatory applause swiftly changed to cheers as he ran past the Rector, grabbing the medal and scroll en route to the door.

It was over in an instant, the slam of the atrium’s heavy door a signal for the Rector to move on to the next graduate. The cloak would not touch ground until Donald was locked in his darkened Byres Road flat half an hour later, cowering in a musky corner.

Next time Kenny would devote time to Donald would be when he attended his funeral on a bleak winter’s day a year later. Gartnavel would prove to be the perfect place for his friend to access the drugs and medicines necessary for someone determined to bring life to a premature end. Few words would be spoken after the funeral, family and ‘friends’ wondering what they could, or should, have done differently.

Or was he just a victim of his own destiny? Kenny would reflect as he threw a red rose down onto a shiny coffin condemned to a deep, muddy hole.

Kenny Morgan, First Class Honours in Chemistry, announced the Rector. Standing to attention, Kenny felt his heart swell as he stepped onto the well-trodden aisle en route to the next step he would take in life’s great adventure. This was his baptism into the real world.

He walked slowly along the bruised red carpet, feasting on the polite applause of the audience, mostly strangers. He let it soak in like gravy on mash. For four years he had forfeited the social temptations his classmates had flagrantly indulged in. The toga parties, cheese and wine nights and midweek sessions in the beer bar had been tempting. He had conceded to the odd beer to acknowledge he was living the student lifestyle at least to the point of acceptability. He could not afford to immerse himself in wasted socialising, there had been too much to lose.

Stepping onto the podium, he was awakened from his self-indulgent reverie by a shout from the gods, Well done, Wee Man!

Even before he turned, he knew Tommy would be standing on his chair in the balcony, waving his hands in the air. It was the telltale can of Tennent’s lager dripping over the side onto hired robes in the stalls he did not expect to see. Tommy’s excitement had reached the beer spilling stage. He had not gone to bed after leaving the club the night before, deciding to continue the celebration on his own. Kenny had left him sitting in the kitchen singing a ballad at three in the morning, as he was prone to do when he had talked everyone else into submission. This one was the usual score of gloomy verses, yet Tommy could make it sound like a chirpy folk song:

"I cry myself to sleep each night,

Wishing you would hold me tight.

I feel so lonesome,

Since you went awa-a-ay…"

Tommy MacGregor had an underlying sense of positivity developed over the years. At the age of sixteen he had been running for Scotland in cross country championships, beating the best in the world. His fuel was comprised of twenty percent stamina, thirty percent determination and fifty percent madness, confirming what Kenny had known from the outset: Tommy was half mad. At nineteen, it all started to go horribly wrong when the seventy mile per week training regime took its toll on young, underdeveloped shins and knees. At twenty, the dream was over. While the madness remained, the stamina and determination were devoted to partying.

Although his legs may have succumbed to the proliferation of mileage, he was otherwise a young man at his physical peak: lean, good-looking, restless with the energy previously spent on country roads. Tommy was on a trail somewhere in the middle of his own forest, impatient to find his way out. At that moment in a hall full of love and pride, Kenny was proud of Tommy being proud of him.

Sitting alongside Tommy, hardly registering his friend’s characteristically outrageous behaviour, Kenny’s mother, Molly, sparkled with loving tears, because she knew. She knew how much Kenny had laboured to achieve graduation. That first experiment in the kitchen when he had boiled milk in a pressurised cooker, crammed with marshmallows and strawberry gateau, could easily have seen off his dreams of success. His mother would have been a lesser person not to have seen the potential in those creamy red splatterings around the walls and ceiling.

Turning to accept his certificate, Kenny caught the Rector’s raised eyebrow, his humourless acknowledgement of the vocal lager lout. Kenny did not care. As he wrapped his fingers around the document, he felt he had just received the baton on his life’s relay race towards a successful future. Inspired, optimistic, proud, strong and in love. He should have been ecstatic, yet he could not shake the niggling disquiet that today might be the best life had to offer.

Glasgow University Union

Excuse me! slurred Tommy.

Aye, what is it? sneered the barman, bitter at having to serve beers to snooty students who spent all his taxes.

Look, Zed, said Tommy, noticing a well-worn badge on a scruffy waistcoat. Do you think you can put a whisky in each of these pints?

I suppose I could, he answered quizzically. Bit bizarre behaviour even for a student. If you pay me though, I’ll not argue.

So why, Tommy paused and smiled, did you not fill them with beer? Get them filled up or you’ll be wearing them. Please.

Zed knew better than to argue with Tommy’s steely glare, realising his customer was most definitely not a student; he understood the value of money. This alcohol displacement theory on the other hand would probably have made a good experiment in the physics department, where they could have applied his practical view of weights and measures.

Eh, sorry, pal, I didn’t realise. Been a long day, Zed muttered. He topped up the two pints to the brim allowing a slight overflow to ensure his customer was satisfied.

By the time Tommy made it back to the table with the tray the extra beer had spilled and was splashing against a finely balanced array of drinks. But that was not the point.

Fiona and Kenny waited patiently with Molly. She was the quietest person at the table, but no-one had any doubt she was the architect of her son’s success. Recently retired, she had worked till the last day possible cleaning the local high school, while keeping the house afloat. The years of hard graft had resulted in her size belying an underlying emotional and physical strength. Her small, round face was creased with laughter lines around the eyes, above dimples that had once appeared only when she smiled but were now a permanent part of her expression.

She sat humble yet steadfast at the table sipping on her wee goldie, enjoying the sense of achievement her hard work had inspired. She had spent her whole life praying for Kenny. While he had interpreted the prayers to be related to academic success, for her they maxed out at health and happiness. She was proud that he had met a lovely girl, strong of back, firm of hip. Other than that, she was happy about the things he had not done rather than the paper achievements. He had avoided jail, drug addiction, alcoholism, and crime. That was what she was celebrating.

Tommy had left a conversation vacuum at the table when he went to the bar. He invested so enthusiastically in any discussion that once he stopped, the ensuing silence felt like a well-earned reprieve. Truth was the pub was quieter than at any other time during the year. The majority of graduates had opted for one of Glasgow West End’s overpriced hotels for a memorable lunch washed down with a glass of oh-go-on-then bubbly. The beer bar was sparsely populated with a handful of students and their families intent on a more modest celebration of their graduate’s achievement. Even if it had not been the Spartan years of the late ‘80’s - money and desire to spend in short supply - they most likely still would have opted for the quiet, comfortable air of the bar to celebrate their happiness.

Handing drinks around the table, Tommy shouted, Clink! Clink! I want to make a toast!

Hey, I don’t drink whisky, Kenny managed to say through a mouth beginning to take its own path on the day’s journey. I’ll stick to the pints.

Go on, get it down you; it’s your big day. But wait till I say a few words, Tommy soldiered on, as Fiona and Molly rolled their eyes to a flaky, whitewashed ceiling.

I’ve known you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. Right enough you haven’t grown very much since then. He pretended to look at Kenny as if for the first time, only now noticing how vertically challenged his friend really was.

Turning to Molly, he continued. Molly, I hate to tell you, but you should never have brought him up on a diet of shortbread and condensed milk. Instead of blankets, you should have put him to bed in a Fisons grow bag.

Molly and Fiona giggled along with Tommy’s guffaw. Kenny tried to remember if he had heard this monologue more or less than a hundred times.

All the way through school, you never changed, Wee Man. You worked your nu…eh, really hard, to get through the exams to make it to university. You were rarely tempted by the entertainment your fellow students enjoyed. You never drank cans of Kestrel round the back of the huts; or smoked the Woodbine butts we collected from our parents’ pockets. You did have the odd snog with the girls, right enough…

Tommy glanced at Fiona awaiting a reaction, disappointed that she did not even flinch.

Hah, got you there! Just checking you were listening, Fiona. I’m only joking, Kenny never looked at the girls until you came along. I don’t know how he could’ve resisted all those braces, freckles and acne. He must’ve had some willpower.

Anyway, Tommy announced, before taking a large mouthful of lager, his audience by now resigned to the rest of the soliloquy he had created around his friend’s childhood dramas. I just wanted to say that I’m proud of you, Kenny me boy! I knew you could do it. This is a big day, not just for you, but for me too. I think Molly and Fiona are a wee bit happy as well. You’ve got the world at your feet, Wee Man. Go on out there! Make it happen!

He stopped for a half second. He lifted his whisky glass in the air and waited. Kenny knew it was a self-control measure Tommy employed when his emotions threatened to get the better of him. Tommy rubbed a tear from the corner of his eye and said, Congratulations, Kenny! Our own university superhero.

Molly reached across to grasp Kenny’s hand, her eyes awash with tears of Famous Grouse pride. Fiona beamed her heartwarming, pearly smile across to him, blowing a kiss with a subtle purse of lips.

Touching glasses loudly, Tommy shouted, Sláinte! All four knew this moment was special. While they were there to congratulate Kenny, they were also celebrating their love for each other.

Kenny looked around the table at his mother, Fiona and Tommy. He wanted to throw himself into the celebration, enjoy these precious moments. Yet he found himself trying to quell a rising sense of worry, hovering like a murky shadow above the bonhomie; ready to descend, envelope and crush the love he held so dear.

Lulu and Shuggy

The shriek rebounded from the ceiling to the floor of the bar, waking Kenny from his restlessness.

It was either a strangulated peacock or… Lulu had just arrived. Lulu was short for Louise Loughrey, to whom Kenny had a debt he would never be able to repay. She had introduced him to Fiona back in their early student days, when he was a serial fumbler and spotty teenager.

Kenny managed to step aside as Lulu dived onto Fiona, squashing her with her trademark bear hug. She believed everyone she met needed a good bone-crushing to let them know they were loved. Fiona’s vain attempts not to spill her drink were dashed when she hoisted it into orbit, overpowered by a lunging Lulu. Most of the Bacardi landed on Tommy’s arm, which he instinctively licked without missing a word or breaking eye contact with Molly. They were in mid-conversation, comparing the unsubtlety of Scotland’s Highland clearances with the clandestine population control of the Irish famine.

Hi, Lulu! You look terrific, Fiona croaked.

The words had the desired effect. Lulu stepped back from the table to make an off-Broadway twirl. While Fiona felt the blood flow back into her arms.

Do you like it? Lulu stretched the bottom corners of her sweater to show there were even more colours in the folds above her skirt. A penny short of four pounds out of What Every Woman Wants. A right bargain. The ultimate female bonding experience had just been accomplished. New item of clothing. Very low price. Not embarrassed to admit, or rather boast, about it. Fiona linked arms with the technicolour sweater and escorted Lulu to the bar.

Kenny felt for Lulu. Despite her seemingly extrovert personality, she oozed vulnerability. In the early days, their discussions would range around a host of subjects usually focused on saving the planet, a subject very dear to Lulu’s heart. Over time Kenny learned not to disagree with her. He would search for a diplomatic reason to disengage from the debate. Recently she had become more sensitive, so much so that any dissent was viewed as a personal attack on her and her values. He had held back on a number of occasions electing not to rise to the challenge. He knew the real reason for her exaggerated social persona was less to do with the ozone layer and more related to her exasperation at Hugh Quinn, known to his campus colleagues as Shuggy.

As if on cue, Shuggy walked into the bar. He stepped elegantly between the tables, lifting a hand to acknowledge Kenny. It was always evident when he entered a public place. Heads turned, girls smiled, some blushed, and an imaginary voiceover spoke, Shuggy Quinn is sporting a summer look all young men will want to wear this year. Open-necked polo shirt, light woollen, beige sweater draped across his shoulders and faded Brutus jeans.

Good-looking did not begin to describe him. He had a Clark Gable intensity interwoven with a Paul Newman twinkle. He carried himself with an air of grace and self-confidence he could not have accomplished if he realised how desired he was. The name Shuggy spoke volumes for his view of himself as down to earth, one of the boys, yet appreciated for the good looks and charm he carried effortlessly. He was a god.

Which was ironic, since God was his life.

After the summer, Shuggy would go to Rome, to pursue his vocation for the Roman Catholic Church. He had studied theology at Glasgow for three years. With each passing year, he had become more convinced that his life was in the priesthood. This would have been an obvious match, since Shuggy’s personality, sense of justice, and love of others made him the perfect candidate. The only barrier had been the fact that after fifteen hundred years the church still expected the vow of celibacy. He had come to terms with it. He loved God in a special way and that meant making special sacrifices, which made all the sense in the world to Shuggy. But made no sense to Lulu. She knew that on the day Shuggy sent off his application to the Glasgow Archdiocese, their love would know no physical expression other than a hug or a timid holding of hands.

It broke her heart when he said that he had to follow his own, where he would always keep a unique place for his love for her. When she said that his being in Rome, shackled with a