Ken McClure - Crisis

There was only one unscheduled interruption in the journey, when traffic was held up by a landslide near Glen Garry for about forty minutes. Eventually, lumbering yellow mechanical diggers cleared the road and policemen, wearing fluorescent waistcoats, waved the traffic on.

Bannerman constantly found himself thinking back to what had happened up on the Tarmachan ridge. The fact that he had neither reported the affair to the police nor consulted a doctor afterwards had acted in a positive sense to minimize the seriousness of the incident in his subconscious, but he still felt the need to analyse it in terms of his personal behaviour. Very few people are tested to the limit in their lives. Consequently, many die without ever finding out how they would behave under extreme pressure. Bannerman found himself examining his behaviour in relationship to the very reason for his getting away from the hospital for a while. He had been worried about his performance under stress.

When seen in this light, he found that he had reason to be pleased. True, he had been physically sick with fear but this had happened after he had coped with the situation, not during it. This in turn reminded him that the shake in his hands at the hospital had happened after he had made his decision on the emergency section, not before it. Maybe his mental condition was better than he feared.

It was six in the evening when he reached the village of Ralsay on North Uist. He had crossed on the ferry from the Kyle of Lochalsh to Kyleakin on Skye and caught another from Uig, in the north of the island, to Lochmaddy on North Uist. An ancient saloon car, masquerading as a taxi, had brought him to Ralsay.

‘Can you drop me at the hotel?’ Bannerman asked the driver.

There’s no hotel,’ said the driver.

The pub then.’

‘No pub,’ said the driver.

‘Where do visitors stay in Ralsay then?’

They don’t get many.’

Bannerman, who was tired after a long journey, found himself irritated at the driver’s unhelpful attitude. There must be somebody who takes in visitors,’ he ventured.

‘You could try Mistress Ferguson along there on the left,’ said the driver, who had decided that, as far as he was concerned, the journey was over.

‘On the left?’

The house has lions at the door,’ said the driver, holding out his hand. Bannerman had a mind not to tip him but relented and gave him an extra pound. ‘Have a drink on me,’ he said. The driver smiled wanly and drove off. ‘And please God it chokes you,’ added Bannerman. He walked along the dark street until he came to the door with the lions. There was a sign saying ‘Accommodation’ in the window. It was a welcome sight.

‘Eleven pounds fifty including breakfast,’ said the severe woman who answered the door. ‘One pound extra if you want tea and biscuits at bed time.’

‘Sounds like heaven,’ smiled Bannerman.

The woman looked at him as if he had blasphemed. ‘Does that mean you will be wanting tea and biscuits?’ she asked.

‘Yes please,’ answered Bannerman meekly. He followed the woman up a narrow flight of stairs and into a room where the slope of the roof prevented him standing upright anywhere other than on a one-metre wide strip of carpet at the foot of an old brass bed. The room felt cold and smelt musty, but it was a landlord’s market. Bannerman said it would be fine.

‘In advance,’ said the woman holding out her hand.

‘Of course,’ smiled Bannerman getting out his wallet and paying her. The woman examined the English ten pound note with a look of mild disdain.

‘Actually, I’m a bit hungry at the moment,’ began Bannerman tentatively. ‘I don’t suppose you could …?’

‘I could do you bacon and eggs.’

Bannerman waited for the mention of an alternative but none came. That would be wonderful,’ he said. ‘I’m most grateful.’

‘Not at all,’ said the woman. ‘We like to make people feel welcome.’

Bannerman’s attempts at holding a conversation with Mrs Ferguson, during his meal, all failed. It wasn’t that she was hostile, just uncommunicative. She did it in such a natural way that Bannerman concluded that he should take nothing personally from the monosyllabic replies. This was the way the woman must behave towards everyone. Tiring of fruitless attempts at small-talk, he got round to the purpose of his visit. ‘I’m looking for a woman called Shona MacLean,’ he confessed. ‘Have you any idea where I might find her?’

‘Follow the crowd, I should think,’ snapped the woman.

I’m sorry?’ replied Bannerman.

That woman is never short of visitors.’ Mrs Ferguson swept crumbs from the table as if they were an invading swarm of killer ants.

Bannerman felt uncomfortable, as he always did in close proximity to domestic frenzy. ‘Does she stay near here?’ he ventured.

The white house with the red door. Appropriate if you ask me.’

Thank you,’ said Bannerman, excusing himself and going upstairs. He tried to see outside from the small window but inky blackness cloaked the village. He would have to wait until morning.

A cold, uncomfortable night was followed by a shave in tepid water and a greasy breakfast of more bacon and eggs. Bannerman packed his bag and said his goodbyes to Mrs Ferguson.

‘I trust we’ll be seeing you here again some time,’ said the woman with as near as she ever came to a smile.

‘I hope so,’ smiled Bannerman, thinking it would be shortly after hell froze over. He walked down the street to the white house with the red door. His knock was answered by a good looking woman in her late twenties; she was wearing jeans, which emphasized her narrow waist and rounded hips, and a shapeless grey tee shirt with a dolphin on it. Her fair hair tumbled round a smiling face that made Bannerman want to smile in return.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re a new face round here.’

‘I’m looking for Shona MacLean,’ said Bannerman.

‘You’ve found her,’ replied the woman. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I hope you can help me find Lawrence Gill,’ said Bannerman.

The smile faded, and the woman said, ‘I haven’t seen Lawrence for years. Who are you?’

‘I’m Ian Bannerman. I’m a pathologist and I’m trying to pick up the pieces of what Gill was working on when he ran off.’

‘Ran off?’ exclaimed Shona MacLean.

‘Frankly, Miss MacLean, Gill’s wife told me that he had run off to be with you.’

Shona MacLean’s mouth fell open and she looked genuinely shocked. This came as a surprise to Bannerman. Up till now he thought that Shona MacLean was lying.

‘You’d better come in,’ she said.

Bannerman was shown into a pleasant room that was furnished brightly with an emphasis on pine and chintz. He sat down on a long sofa that lay along the window wall. Shona perched herself on the arm of a large matching chair.

‘Can you prove you are who you say you are?’ asked Shona MacLean.

Bannerman took out his wallet and extracted credit cards, his driving licence and his hospital ID card, which carried a photograph of him. Shona MacLean leaned forward to examine them and handed them back. ‘Do you have a connection with the Medical Research Council?’ she asked.

Bannerman was surprised at the question. ‘It was they who asked me to carry out this investigation,’ he said. ‘Why do you ask?’ He could see that Shona MacLean was hiding something. ‘You have seen Lawrence Gill recently haven’t you?’ he said.

Shona MacLean nodded.

‘He did come here?’

‘Yes, but not for the reason you suppose. Lawrence and I had an affair years ago, but that was all over. He came here because he needed a place to hide.’

To hide?’ exclaimed Bannerman.