Кит Мори - Flotsam and Jetsam

He waited for a further burst of more canned laughter, which this time was accompanied by some genuine laughter from the audience. ‘Dr Dent is kindly going to explain about the famous Scottish midges and why they have been such a scourge of the Scottish tourist industry over the years.’ He turned his back to the audience and looked over his shoulder. ‘Would you like me to show you what they did to me when I went for a swim?’

He squatted and thrust his bottom out and made as if to undo his trousers.

‘Don’t you dare, Fergie Ferguson,’ quipped Chrissie with a mock scowl. ‘It’s bad enough that I had to put cream on those bites. Let’s not inflict that on the good people here.’

Then Chrissie smiled and, with the cameras now on her, ‘And so Dr Dent is also going to give us an insight into how the latest science is going to conquer the dreaded midge.’

There was an expectant hush, but Dr Dent did not appear from the side door where Chrissie was pointing.

‘We seem to have a technical hitch,’ said Fergie, touching his ear, as if listening to a message relayed via an imaginary earphone. ‘Bear with us, we shall—’

Dr Dent stumbled on to the stage from the other side, his inebriated demeanour apparent to all. Half of the audience gasped and half the audience giggled or chuckled with amusement.

‘So you think we can get rid of the midges, do you?’ he asked making his way directly for Chrissie, passing and ignoring Fergie who stood with an outstretched hand. ‘There is little chance of that, I am afraid. Culcoides impunctatus, the highland midge has been around since the days of the dinosaur and they like this environment. It is the females that bite; they are always the more deadly of the species.’ He leered at Chrissie and licked his lips. ‘You know what I mean – Chrissie, isn’t it?’

There was a ripple of scandalized outrage from the audience. Fergie Ferguson was generally used to dealing with awkward guests, but even he was taken slightly aback for a moment.

‘Well thank you, Doctor Dent, I am sure that you want to get—’

Digby Dent turned and stared at him with bleary eyes. ‘I don’t want to get anything, my good man. I am here at your invitation to talk about the problem of the midge. You see, it is the female that bites, because she is a haematophagus insect. A blood-sucker, you see. And she needs to suck blood to develop her eggs.’ He looked at Chrissie and smiled. ‘She has sex first, then has to feed immediately after. What a life, eh?’

Chrissie tried to ignore him and stared into the camera. ‘On the Flotsam & Jetsam show we do try to introduce some interesting guests. Tomorrow we hope to show an interview we are going to have with Guthrie Lovat, the famous West Uist beachcomber artist.’

This made Digby Dent prick up his ears. ‘Lovat! I want to have a word with Lovat. Can I come along with you?’ And he sidled uncomfortably close to Chrissie.

Fergie Ferguson started gesticulating to Geordie Innes the producer to cut the filming. Then he looked over at Morag and beckoned her on urgently.

Morag raised a hand to summon Douglas and Wallace Drummond and within seconds they had mounted the stairs and with an arm each, swiftly and silently frog-marched the protesting Dr Dent from the stage.

Fergie joined Chrissie whose cheeks had gone virtually crimson. ‘Well, what do you know, eh, Chrissie? We’ve had all sorts of things brought to us before, but never anything quite so flotsam and jetsam as that piece of jetsam!’

‘I think we should just jettison this part of the show, Fergie,’ Chrissie said, recovering herself a little and turning towards him so that her considerable curves were in profile to the camera, a well-tried and tested ploy to divert a flagging audience. Geordie Innes meanwhile was frantically talking in his mobile phone to the mainland Scottish TV studio. He turned to Fergie and drew a hand across his throat to indicate immediate termination, then mouthed ‘Twenty seconds.’

Fergie caught his gesture and nodded. ‘Good idea, Chrissie,’ he returned. And then, with an apologetic bow to the audience ‘So sorry for this shemozzle folks. We’re going to take a break from shooting for a few minutes and then hopefully we will be back on the air.’

Travis, the soundman, snapped the clapperboard and the TV crew immediately huddled together to consult, leaving the audience to erupt in shocked indignation.

‘What the hell was that all about?’ Fergie said, between gritted teeth to Morag who had entered the huddle. ‘I want that bastard charged. He’s bloody well ruined our show on live TV. We’ll be a laughing stock.’

Calum Steele was one of the few in the audience who had a smile on his face. Not only had he managed to take a couple of good pictures, but he had jotted down what had to be one of the best stories of the year.

Dr Dent was held in the station cell for six hours after he was charged with being drunk and incapable, before Morag, as the duty officer, felt that he had sobered up enough to be released.

‘Made an idiot of myself, eh?’ was his parting question as Wallace and Douglas escorted him to the door. The twins grinned at Morag after seeing him off the premises.

‘That’s an understatement, isn’t it, boys?’ Morag said. ‘Now come on, it is home time for us, too. I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day.’

As they set about closing down the station, Digby Dent set off with a slight stagger on the half-mile walk to his rented cottage. It was not long before he thought he heard footsteps behind him. He turned and squinted in the dark, but saw no one. He hurried on, crossed the beck and made his way up the dirt track at the end of which was the old stone cottage. He pushed open the wooden gate that opened on to the long gravel drive, at the end of which his old Land Rover was parked.

He had taken a couple of steps when he heard again the scrape of leather on gravel. He spun round and saw a figure several steps away. Then he recognized his pursuer.

‘You!’ His mouth curved into a sneer, then, ‘What the hell do you want?’

He did not hear the second set of footsteps behind him. He felt an explosive pain over his right temple, then nothing.

Lachlan had slept fitfully, which was unusual for him. When dawn broke he rose, did his ablutions and dressed before going downstairs to collect his clubs from their usual place in the hall. Alongside the wall a line of oil-stained newspapers protected the parquet floor from the assortment of carburettor components, oil filters and gears. They were all part of the ongoing project that he and Torquil were engaged in, to rebuild an Excelsior Talisman Twin Sports motor cycle.

His gaze hovered lovingly over these for a moment, and then he gave a start as he noticed something move in the shadows beyond the stripped-down carburettor.

‘Goodness!’ he exclaimed, after taking a sharp intake of breath. ‘I forgot we had a new lodger.’

Crusoe looked out from the clothes basket that Torquil had placed at the far end of the hall and began furiously wagging his tail.

‘At least you are not a noisy yapping wee chap,’ Lachlan said, squatting and giving him a pat. ‘That is a point in your favour right enough. Are you ready for a walk?’

Crusoe was instantly on his feet, his tail thrashing back and forth so much that it was literally wagging his body. Lachlan clipped the lead to his collar then slipped the loop over his wrist. Shouldering his golf bag he let himself out of the manse. Together they scrunched their way down the gravel path to the wrought-iron gate, then crossed the road to the stile that led directly on to the ten-acre plot of undulating dunes and machair that was St Ninian’s golf course.