M. Beaton: Death Of An Addict

"Junkies are odd, Hamish."

They talked of general things and then Hamish took his leave. He drove out to the north side of Strathbane and stopped and asked several pedestrians until he had directions to the Church of the Rising Sun.

As Jimmy said, it was a shack, a wooden hut with a tin roof. A board outside in Gothic lettering proclaimed it to be the Church of the Rising Sun.

Hamish swung the police Land Rover around and parked it some distance away and then made his way back on foot.

As he approached the door of the building, there was such a silence that he thought there might be nobody inside. He tried the door and it opened. He blinked a little at the sight that met his eyes. About fifty men and women were sitting on the bare floorboards, facing a bearded man whom Hamish decided must be Barry Owen, the leader. Many of the congregation were in the lotus position. All were silent. Hamish sat down at the back of the group and waited.

Then one woman began to speak. She said she felt less than a woman because she could not achieve an orgasm. Then she fell silent. Another man began to speak. He spoke of his lusts, of his unfaithfulness to his wife. Hamish listened in amazement. It was more like a sex therapy group. Joss sticks were burning in old wine bottles at the corners of the room and the air was heavy with their smell.

After an hour of lurid revelations, Barry Owen got to his feet. He was wearing a denim shirt, jeans and trainers, no robes. He raised his arms. "You have left all your troubles with me so they no longer exist. God be with you."

And that was that. They all rose to their feet and made their way to the exit. One woman passed Hamish and he noticed that the pupils of her eyes looked unnaturally dilated. He had planned to interview Barry Owen when the "service" was over, but he wondered rapidly whether he should pose as a new member of the congregation. From time to time his photo had been in the newspapers, but always just a small picture and in uniform.

He was still wondering what to do as he rose to his feet when Barry approached him.

"Welcome, brother." He had a deep, sonorous voice.

"Welcome," echoed Hamish.

"How did you hear of us?" asked Barry.

"Och, you know how it is," said Hamish. "I overheard someone talking about it."

"And what troubles you, brother?"

"Maybe another time. I see folks are leaving."

Barry put a hand on Hamish's shoulder and stared up into Hamish's hazel eyes. "I am on call night and day. Speak, brother."

"I don't think you can help me," said Hamish. "My troubles are not sexual."

"We talk of other things," said Barry. "But most people are plagued with sins of the flesh."

"I've often wondered why when anyone thinks of sin, they think of sex," said Hamish, his treacherous Highland curiosity aroused. "What about malicious gossip, ill will, unkindness?"

"You will find, brother, that all bad feelings stem from repressed sexuality."

"But I'm not sexually repressed."

"Ah, you think you are not, but excess of sex can in its way be a repression."

Hamish was about to complain that he was hardly suffering from that either, but decided on the spot to become a member and see if there was even a smell of drugs about the place.

"I suffer from deep depression," he lied. "Sometimes I just don't want to get out o' bed in the mornings."

"Ah, well, we must explore the root core of your depression. What is your job?"

"Nothing at the moment. I'm looking for one."

Barry reached up and put an arm around Hamish's shoulders. "There is a quality of innocence in you that I like. I tell you what, I could do with a helper here. I cannot afford to pay you much."

"What would my duties be?" asked Hamish.

"Cleaning up the place, helping to repair the fabric of the building. I would like the inside here painted green for a start. Green is a restful colour."

Hamish's mind worked at great speed. He was due two weeks' leave. He could demand it immediately for family reasons. Sergeant McGregor at Cnothan could take over his beat.

"When would you like me to start?"

Barry beamed. "Tomorrow is as good a time as any. Are you collecting the dole?"

"Yes."

"Oh, well, go on collecting it and I'll pay you seventy pounds a week."

"That's very kind of you," said Hamish, privately thinking it was an encouraging sign of villainy that Barry should be prepared to cheat the government, forgetting that cheating the government out of its dues was considered in the Highlands as a legitimate occupation. "Could you tell me when you started this… what is it, church or order or what?"

"I started a year ago. There's a wee room at the back. Come along and have a dram and I'll tell you about it."

Hamish followed him through a door at the far end of the hall. It was a lean-to kitchen with a table and four hard chairs. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink. Barry saw Hamish looking around and said, "You can see why I need help. The place is a mess."

"I thought some of your ladies might help."

"Women, brother, women-these days we do not talk about ladies. They're all women and they are apt to get a crush on me."

Poor souls, thought Hamish. He accepted a glass of whisky.

"I notice you did not take up a collection," he said.

"We do that as they come in the door at the beginning. I teach them to have minds above material things and urge them to give generously. Money given to the church is never wasted."

"So how did you get the idea?" asked Hamish, sipping his whisky and noticing it was a very expensive malt.

"God came to me," said Barry, "and He said to me, Barry, He said, there are folks out there with deep secret personal problems which are blocking the light of the spirit. Get them to come to you, urge them to talk so that their souls may be cleansed and let in the light of the spirit. I advertised in the local paper, people came along and I am building up a nice congregation."

And probably a nice little moneymaker, thought Hamish cynically. It was amazing how people who claimed to have direct instructions from God always seemed to be justifying some selfish purpose.

"What time would you like me to start tomorrow?" he asked.

"About nine o'clock. You will find I am not very strict. Have you anywhere to live?"

"I've been sleeping in my car," said Hamish. "And yet you have kept yourself neat and clean. That says a lot for you. What is your name?" "Hamish George."

"Well, Hamish, there is a cot bed in the cupboard over there. I'll bring a pillow and a duvet. You can stay here for a bit. There's a stove there and coal and wood out the back."

"That's very good of you," said Hamish. "Maybe my depression got worse because I had nowhere to live and no useful work."

"Now you will be working for the Lord," said Barry. Hamish's quick ear caught an almost mocking lilt in Barry's voice. Hamish had been bending his head in what he hoped was an attitude of grateful humility, but he looked up quickly. Barry looked back with an unctuous smile.

"Here's the key," said Barry. "It's a spare. I have things to do. I'll be on my way and leave you to lock up and fetch your things."

Hamish waited until he had left and then he began to search the cupboards in the kitchen, under the sink, every nook and cranny, in the hope of finding a trace of drugs, but there was nothing. So here I am, he thought ruefully, wasting two good weeks' holiday working for a crackpot organisation. Well, he could give it a few days and if nothing came of it, he could always go back on duty.

As a sign of his goodwill, he washed up all the dirty dishes and cleaned the stove before locking up and walking to his Land Rover.

He drove back to police headquarters and spun them a tale about an urgent family crisis. Then he headed out back through the town. There were several shops still open for business although it was Sunday. He stopped at a red parking light and glanced idly out of the window. An expensive-looking boutique was open for business and in the window was a dress Hamish recognised. It was a twin of the one Felicity had been wearing when he had last seen her. The light turned to green. He drove round the corner and found a parking place and walked back to the boutique, which was called Lucille Modes.