Chapter 4: Emotional rescue…and Fingal sheds his outerwear…

Music from Matt Deighton, Graham Parker, Deacon Blue, Fat White Family, Idles, Aoife O’Donovan and more

On the supercharged, bass-heavy cassette player of Fingal’s Series Three Long-Wheelbase Landrover 110…and audible, with a reading of the text below, on Mixcloud here:

Graham Parker and the Rumour — Mercury Poisoning

Matt Deighton — Villager/Bone Dry Boat

Deacon Bllue — Church

Paul Simon — Tenderness

Fat White Family — Tastes Good With the Money

Van Morrison — Fair Play

The Blue Nile — Happiness

Teenage Fanclub — What You Do To Me

BMX Bandits — Serious Drugs

The House of Love — Destroy the Heart

Stealer’s Wheel — You Put Something Better Inside Me

Aoife O’Donovan, Kris Drever — Transatlantic

Idles — Mercedes Marxist

And now…the story continues…

Graham Parker and the Rumour – Mercury Poisoning

We were four miles into the mountain pass called The Swipe, known as Bealach na Chor, the Thief’s Glen, dawn breaking over Sgùr Dubh, the Big Black Hill. Fingal – he had recently stopped insisting we called him Jingle, though the art was still signed that way – was playing a mixtape which sounded unexpectedly good on the Land Rover’s stereo. But then the bass speakers took up much of the rear loading space. Fat White Family was doing its unexpectedly melodic thing when we saw an orange flicker against the murky grey of the sky and the snow-clogged landscape.

No wind, but the drifts showed there had been a steady fall overnight. You could feel the temperature rising, though, and rain was starting to fall. This was a last wag of winter’s finger, a warning, not a judgement. The compact blades fitted to the front of Fingal’s Series Three had skelped away any deep patches and the Nokian Hakkapeliitta tyres kept us sure-footed. But we were moving slowly. There was no sign of the tarmac, no tracks. We navigated by the snow poles marking the roadside.

Matt Deighton — Villager/Bone Dry Boat

Tastes Good With the Money, sang Fingal along with the Fat White Family, two of whom were from Southampton via Northern ireland and Ayr, which was an interesting array of upbringings for guys of Algerian origin. But you could detect the Robert Burns influence, I thought.

“Something’s burning,” I said, appropriately.

“And I think it’s love,” Fingal warbled in reply. “Declining Elvis. That’s a good name for a band. I know some management who might be interested.”

Down a dip in the road was an old stone bridge over one of the tributaries of Abhain Dearg, the Red River. If the Swipe was called the Thief’s Glen as it had stolen too many lives, that river was red because of the blood that had flowed along it during hundreds of years of battles, skimishes, strife both domestic and internecie and general ultra-violence. It was that kind of place, this once-busy neck of the Highlands. Peaceful as all get out, until somebody loses an eye. Or their bearings.

Deacon Blue — Church

Paul Simon — Tenderness

The Creightons’ state-of-the-craft Range Rover had, despite its anti-gravitational mystery tech, or because of it, slid into the left-hand parapet, and then bounced, slowly by the look of it, half into the briskly rushing water, leaning at a 45 degree angle. Where it was now burning in gouts of yellow flame and belching out filthy smoke.

“Plug-in hybrid,” said Fingal, his Leith vowels dripping with disdain. “Clean energy. Net zero. Bet they’ve been sitting there all night with the engine on. Out of petrol, the electric’s fused in the wet. You’re as warm as toast unless you’re burnt to a crisp. And then you walk or freeze. No phone signal here, of course.”

“Unless someone happens to happen along,” I said.

“And unluckily, here we are,” he said. “The Happening.”

I wound down my window as a bedraggled and extremely relieved Philip and Mandy Creighton slithered towards us.

“Good morning,” I said. “Can we offer you a lift.”

“Phil, Mandy,” said Fingal.” He was wearing yellow anti-glare glasses, a keffiyeh and a James McMurtry camouflage baseball cap. “Been a long time. Not long enough. You may well remember me. I remember you. I remember you all TOO well.”

The couple didn’t reply to this. They were not so much blue with cold as a kind of pasty grey-green. Cold, fright and anger.

“Get in, before you freeze.” I reached behind to open the door.

“You…you…”

“Thank us later,” said Fingal.

“…bastard…” croaked Mandy,clambering in. “That…that woman…and you…sent us this way. Short cut? What was her game? Trying to kill us.”

“ Gratitude! That’s what I like,” said Fingal. “Are they talking about Adelaide?”

I nodded, sagely as I could. “I believe so.”

“Loyalty is a fine thing. Nice that you made my sister’s acquaintance. No seatbelts necessary in a vehicle this age, so don’t worry about strapping yourself in.”

Fat White Family — Tastes Good With the Money

Van Morrison — Fair Play

“We’re booked…we have a booking.,.and what about the car?”

“In Helmsdale, “ I said. “The Bridge. They’ll be fine. We’ll call them and the RAC when we get back to the Broken Record. The RAC will call Gerry in Slanachan, but we’ll have to let the car burn out, as it’s got those pesky lithium-ion batteries. That might take a few days.”

“A few DAYS!” Mandy looked more than upset, something approaching colour was returning to her cheeks and she was shaking uncontrollably.

“Comprehensively insured, of course,” Fingal muttered. “Probably poisoned the burn. Sheep may have died. Deer, salmon. Laird could make a claim. Third parties.”

“Who….who’s the landowner?” Phil, fiscal ears pricking up.

“Me”, said Fingal. “That would be myself. Fruits of my previous musical labours. Despite your efforts. Lawyers wrested me away from your avaricious arms. But you know all about that.”

“ I thought you wanted to talk to Fingal,” I said. “Now’s your chance. Or at least you can listen, which may not be as pleasant. But leave it until we get back. You’re probably needing some food and maybe a rest.”

“No sleep,” saidPhilip. “Not a wink.”

“Rock’n’roll,” said Fingal, jauntily. “Hoochie Coo. There’s a wee quarry about a mile ahead. I think we can turn there.”

“Have some fly cemetery,” I said, offering them the tin tray of current cake I’d made all those hours ago. “It’s vegetarian.”

“Vegan flies,” said Fingal. “Cannae beat them.”

The Blue Nile — Happiness

By the time we reached the Broken Record Inn, a watery sun was peeking through the mirk and Adelaide was up and about, if the smell of frying bacon was anything to go by. Rizla came bounding out to meet us, sandpaper tongue catching the stray bits of pastry and sugar on my face and quickly devouring the single slice of dead fly that remained.

“Dried fruit will kill a dog,” said Mandy, who had perked up considerably. “ I read that somewhere. Or saw it on daytime TV.”

“I once saw Rizla eat an entire box of 85-per-cent cocoa solid Belgian chocolates,” I repled. “Went through him like a dose of prune-flavoured All-Bran, But otherwise not much effect. Just mind your trousers if he sits on your lap.”

Inside, the Creightons stood awkwardly together as Fingal entered, shedding his outer layers as he did so. There was sudden silence, one of those atmospheric pauses where astonishment and uncertainty suck all the air out of a room. Just the smell of bacon, smouldering peat and farting dog.

Teenage Fanclub — What You do To Me

“Fingal,” said Mandy. You’re bald.”

“Why are you dressed as…something from The Sound of Music?” said Philip, as Fingal arranged a soft informal coif around his head to match the casual daytime habit he was wearing. (Sewn by Adelaide’s mum in lightweight Harris Tweed and silk, I happened to know).

“Because I am bald. And because I am a nun, Pop, or Mother Superior of the order of Iggy” said Fingal, flapping his apron.”Ah, Sister Adelaide, lay adherent and provider of bacon rolls to the holy! Bless you, my dear!”

BMX Bandits — Serious Drugs

The House of Love — Destroy the Heart

Adelaide put a plate of deliciously-smelling well-fired sourdough rolls on a table. The fire, tamped down overnight, was beginning to flare up peatily. “Don’t look so shocked. You can call me Jingle,” he said. “Mother Jingle. Or if it makes you feel uncomfortable. I suppose I’ll answer to Divine Being In A State of Ongoing Transformation And Transfiguration.”

Stealer’s Wheel — You Put something Better Inside Me

Another silence. Then Adelaide spoke:

“Tea? Coffee?”

“Or something stronger, perhaps?” I was already heading to the bar.

Aoife O’Donovan, Kris Drever — Transatlantic

Idles — Mercedes Marxist

On the supercharged, bass-heavy cassette player of Fingal’s Series Three Long-Wheelbase Landrover 110…and audible, with a reading of the text below, on Mixcloud here: