Graeme Burnet - His Bloody Project

‘A dance, boy!’ he bellowed. Aeneas Mackenzie stamped a rhythm on the floor behind him, snorting like a pig. Lachlan Broad whipped the crowd into a greater frenzy with his arms.

I flew across the room at him. He met me with an outstretched palm and pushed me back across the floor. I landed on my behind in a tangle of legs. Arms dragged me to my feet and propelled me back towards Broad. This time he met me full in the face with his fist. I sank to the floor, then got up and swung my fists wildly at him. There were roars of approval and much laughter. The constable caught me a blow in the midriff and as I crumpled towards him he brought his boot up between my legs. The wind was all knocked out of me and I lay on the floor struggling for breath. Archibald came to my side, but Lachlan Broad shoved him roughly away. Then he knelt beside me and whispered in my ear, ‘I’ll have your old man off his croft by the year’s end, you filthy Erse shite.’

Then he dragged me to my feet and, gripping me by the lapels, threw me violently across the room. I landed on my back on a table, sending ale flying every which way. I was hauled to my feet and expected Broad to come at me again, but he had had his sport and turned back to his huddle of kinsmen, who raised a loud toast to the Mackenzie clan and drained their tankards.

I awoke the following morning in a ditch by the road, not far outside Applecross. My clothes were soaked and there was a painful throbbing in my temples. I lay there awhile, but could remember nothing more of the evening than what I have already related. A crow observed me from the verge.

‘What are you after?’ I said.

‘I was thinking I might make a breakfast of your eyes,’ he replied.

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ I said.

I crawled out of the ditch onto the road and got to my feet. The crow followed my progress attentively, as if not yet convinced he would not have his feast. I swung my boot at him and he flapped a foot or two into the air before settling on his former spot. It must have been very early in the morning, for the dew clung thickly to the grass and there was not a sound in the air. I set off towards Culduie. I felt quite indifferent to the reception I would receive on my return. The morning was not cold, but on account of my wet clothing I shivered all over. As the events of the previous day came back to mind I felt dreadfully ashamed and resolved to accept any punishment from my father without complaint. I did not see a soul on the road and as I approached Culduie no one was yet at work on their land. I thought perhaps that my father might still be a-bed and I could return to the house undetected, but this was not to be the case. As I made my way along the road at the foot of the crofts I felt something beneath my arm, I opened my jacket and found Jetta’s shawl still lodged there. It was nothing but a sodden mass of fibre. I stepped onto the shore and looking around to check that there was no one observing me I threw it in the sea. It unravelled in the water and snagged among the tentacles of sea-ware that rode the swell.

My father was at his breakfast when I stepped over the threshold. He neither looked in my direction nor said a word. There being nothing else for me to do, I lay down on my bunk and remained there the entire day.

* * *

This morning, after his usual enquiries regarding my wellbeing, Mr Sinclair asked whether I might be willing to meet a gentleman whom, he said, had travelled some distance to see me.

‘Have my crimes so elevated me,’ I asked, ‘that gentlemen now seek out my company?’

Mr Sinclair smiled thinly at my remark and informed me that it might benefit me to receive this gentleman. I naturally agreed, in the first place, as I did not wish to displease my advocate, but also as it is hardly the right of a prisoner to choose his guests. Mr Sinclair seemed pleased by my decision and went out into the passage where the visitor must have been waiting. The two men entered together and as neither wished to take the seat at my writing table, we all three remained standing, myself beneath the high window, Mr Sinclair by the table and the gentleman at the foot of my plank bed to the right of the door. Mr Sinclair introduced the visitor as Mr Thomson and explained that he was a most eminent practitioner in his field, although I do not believe he specified what field this was. I confess I found this gentleman’s countenance quite repellent and he must have felt similarly, for he gazed upon me with an expression of unveiled repugnance. He was a tall man — he had to stoop to pass through the door — with sharp features and small, blue eyes. He was dressed in a black suit with a white shirt fastened so tightly round his neck that folds of slack skin spilled over his collar. He was hatless and his hair was wispy and grey and no longer grew on the uppermost parts of his skull. He kept his hands clasped over his chest, the middle finger of his right constantly worrying a thick ring set with a green stone on the fourth finger of his left.

He then addressed Mr Sinclair. ‘He is certainly of the low physical type one would expect. Do you find him generally alert when you visit? Does he sleep a great deal?’

Mr Sinclair appeared uncomfortable to be questioned this way. ‘I find him extremely alert and to the best of my recollection I have never found him asleep.’

The visitor made a little clicking sound with his tongue. ‘He is likely disturbed by the grating of the key in the lock.’

He took two tentative paces towards me as though he was afraid I might spring at him. He stooped his head and spent some minutes running his eyes over my face and the rest of my person. I stood quite still, believing that there must be some reason beyond my grasp for his rude behaviour. Nevertheless, I felt like a piece of livestock. At length, he drew away and retreated in the direction of the writing table. He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the sheets stacked there.

‘And these are the pages you say he has been composing?’

‘Indeed,’ said Mr Sinclair. ‘He has been working tirelessly on them.’

Mr Thomson gave a little snort through his nose. ‘I very much doubt that we will find anything of interest contained there. I suspect, Mr Sinclair, that you are guilty of some naivety in your approach to your client, but I suppose that speaks well of you.’

He then flicked through a few of the pages. I had a strong urge to step across the room and snatch them from him, as I had no wish for him to read the words I had written and believed that were he to do so, it would be for the sole purpose of scoffing at my ill-composed sentences. I did not do so, however, as I did not wish to confirm the negative impression the gentleman seemed to have formed of me.

He then pressed the tips of his fingers of his two hands together and asked my advocate if he might leave the two of us alone for a few minutes. Mr Sinclair assented and made to quit the room. Mr Thomson arrested him with a motion of his hand.

‘Do you believe the prisoner to be a danger to your person?’ he said in a low voice.

Mr Sinclair smiled at this and replied that he did not. Nevertheless, Mr Thomson called the gaoler and kept him stationed by the door. He then quite slowly and deliberately pulled back the chair from my writing table and sat down, placing one foot on the plank bed and leaning his elbow on his knee.

‘Now, Roderick,’ he began, ‘it seems you have made an excellent job of drawing the wool over Mr Sinclair’s eyes.’

I did not say anything because his statement did not appear to require an answer.

‘I am sorry to say, however, that I am of quite different stock from your learned advocate. I have examined hundreds, thousands of your type and I’m afraid that I see you for exactly what you are. I’m afraid you will have a good deal more difficulty hoodwinking me.’