Scott Mariani - The Pretender’s Gold

The snow was beginning to fall thicker and more steadily as he sighted the warm glow emanating from pub windows further down the street. As he got closer he could see the sign above the door that said KINLOCHARDAICH ARMS. The establishment was set back from the road. A few cars were parked outside, their roofs and bonnets dusted powdery white under the amber light of the streetlamps.

In Ben’s experience, there was no better place in which to begin a recce operation than the local public house. He looked at his watch. Only four-fifteen, but the falling darkness and plummeting temperature made it feel much later.

Time for a drink.

He pushed through the pub door and walked inside.

Entering the Kinlochardaich Arms was like taking a step back into the past. Both in absolute terms, since the pub’s interior probably hadn’t been altered in any significant way since about 1850, apart from the addition of electric lighting and a jukebox, and also for Ben personally, since the interior with its ancient beams and traditional decor took him straight back to the old drinking dens that had been his haunts back in the years he’d lived on the west coast of Ireland.

The decor, though not the ambience. His favourite Irish pubs had been warm and cheery places filled with lively craic, where the conversation and laughter flowed as joyfully as the Guinness and it wasn’t unusual for fiddles, mandolins, tin whistles and bodhráns to materialise out of nowhere for an impromptu cèilidh jam session. But as Ben walked in he quickly understood from the dour atmosphere that strangers to Kinlochardaich couldn’t expect to be greeted with much in the way of good old Highland hospitality. Even the log fire crackling in the old stone fireplace felt frigid and reserved.

Most of the drinkers in the lounge bar were gathered around a single large round table near the fire. They were a group of men in their thirties to fifties, hunched over pints and talking among themselves in low, mumbly voices as though they were plotting to overthrow the government. An assortment of heavy winter jackets and fleeces were draped messily over the backs of vacant chairs. At the far end of the lounge bar, a woman with long dark hair and a reedy ginger guy were drinking mugs of something hot and steaming at a table for two by the window. The woman had her back to Ben, and the guy was gazing out at the falling snow and saying something Ben couldn’t hear.

The only other woman in the place was the young redheaded barmaid sitting behind the beer pumps, uninterestedly reading a magazine and ignoring the wolfish-looking suitor who was leaning on the bar and doing all he could to impress her with his wit. As Ben crossed the floor the barmaid’s eyes darted up from the magazine and dwelled on him for a moment, and she flashed a coy smile. No trace of any kind of a smile, though, from the group at the big table. Some of the looks that turned his way were just checking-out-the-stranger glances, others lingered into hard and overtly hostile stares. The talking died away and the place fell silent for several seconds before resuming in the same mumbly tone.

Ben thought he could probably just about manage to cope with the level of friendliness. He wasn’t here to make friends. Paying them no notice he walked up to the bar, took off his hat and pulled up one of the plain wooden stools. The barmaid put down her magazine. Up close, she was more a girl than a woman. She was wearing too much makeup, with glitter on her eyelids. With the coy smile still on her lips and her eyes giving him the once-over she sidled across and asked what he’d like.

A no-brainer of a question, since being in Scotland, the sacred homeland of his favourite tipple, it would have been heresy for him to walk in here and order a pint of ale. Ben ran his eye along the row of single malt whiskies behind the bar. It was a decent collection. Some of the names were pretty obscure, though as something of a connoisseur he’d tried them all in his time. In his book there was no such thing as a bad single malt. He made his selection and asked for a double measure. The barmaid served it with another smile. Which the guy who’d been trying to chat her up apparently didn’t like very much, giving Ben sullen eyes as Ben thanked her and paid for his drink. Ben ignored him. She did the same, and after a few moments the guy gave up with a disgusted frown and stalked away to sit with his friends.

She rested her elbows on the bar and leaned forward, tacitly inviting Ben to look down her top which, naturally, he was far too restrained and gentlemanly to do. ‘You’re no from around here,’ she said. Such powers of observation. But that was an invitation Ben did rise to, because it gave him the opportunity to mention the purpose of his visit to Kinlochardaich.

‘No, I’m just passing through,’ he said, and she looked a little disappointed. He added, ‘Came to see a friend.’

‘Oh, aye? I know everyone in Kinlochardaich.’ She winked. ‘Lady friend, is it?’

‘Nothing that exciting,’ he replied.

Just then one of the group from the round table got up and came over to the bar, thumped his empty pint glass down on a beermat and said gruffly, ‘Same again, Holly love.’ He was a heavyset man of around Ben’s age or a couple of years younger, but four inches taller, which put him at about six-three. His hair was black and curly, his nose broken and crooked, and he had the neck and shoulders of a powerlifter. His sleeves were rolled up, showing muscled forearms inked from the wrist to the elbow with flame tattoos. Ben sat and sipped his scotch in silence while Holly refilled the big guy’s glass. The man spilled some cash on the counter, gave Ben the briefest glance which Ben noticed but didn’t acknow-ledge, then stumped back to the table with his beer. The pub floorboards creaked under his weight.

The interruption over, Holly returned to her position leaning against the bar and resumed the flirting. ‘So where’re you from?’ she asked, a lot more interested in Ben than in who his friend might be, and making no attempt to hide it. Nineteen or twenty years old, stuck out here in a lonely rural village with obviously not too many strange and interesting new men passing through her life. She was more the kind of age for Jude, Ben thought. His son was between girlfriends at the moment, still living in the States but talking about returning home to the UK. Maybe Ben should send him up north to hook up with Holly here. She’d certainly make a refreshing change from the last one, a social justice warrior and do-gooder political activist called Rae Lee.

‘I live abroad,’ Ben said.

‘Thought you were English.’ That didn’t seem to put Holly off, though.

He replied, ‘Half Irish. But I don’t live there, either.’

‘How long did you say you were staying?’ Getting bolder with the flirting now.

‘Only until I find my friend. Which I’m hoping to do soon. Maybe a day or so.’

‘Och, that’s a shame. Did you say your friend’s a local?’

‘No, he’s just passing through, same as me. His name’s Boonzie McCulloch. He’s Ewan McCulloch’s uncle. Do you know Ewan?’

She nodded. ‘Aye, I know Ewan. Heard he was in the hospital, though. Is he okay?’

‘Not really. That’s why his uncle travelled to the area. I was hoping to catch up with him here in Kinlochardaich, but no joy. I wondered if maybe he’d been in here for a drink the last couple of days? Older guy. Shorter than me, wiry build. Grey hair, beard. Speaks like he’s from Glasgow.’

Holly looked dubious. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen him. I mean, we get a lot of older customers who look like that, but you’re the first new face who’s been in here lately.’ She added, ‘I should know.’