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499 lines
28 KiB
HTML
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<title>11</title>
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<h1>11</h1>
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<p>The geese fell in love with Neil Cleary, and the fish, well they caused a hell of a stink in more ways than one. That
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was after Tam and Ed got out of Aitkenbar Distillery and after Jack Lorne had his hair dyed an odd shade.</p>
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<p>Tam could hear the birds through the ventilation gap as dawn broke in the east, honking in that aggressive
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territorial tone geese adopt. It had taken him two hours to finally get the connections made and he was
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confident enough that whatever he had done couldn't be easily discovered. The maze of pipes still did what
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they were supposed to do, for the time being at least. The final job had been to tighten a little grub screw
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into the tiny hole in the coolant pipe and seal it. The freezing spray simply shut off. By that time Ed was
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blue with the cold. </p>
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<p>"God, I'm f... f... chilled to the bone." He could hardly speak for the chattering of his teeth and Tam
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couldn't help grinning. Ed glared at him. </p>
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<p>"You did that on purpose." It took him almost a minute to get the accusation out. The blanket was down on the
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concrete and cold water pooled out from the fabric. Ed was scrambling to get out of his overalls. "Look at
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me. I'll get pneumonia."</p>
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<p>"It's only a bit of water. Us plumbers get wet all the time." Tam's neck was still sore from the cramp of the
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barrel, and Ed just happened to be the nearest and easiest to take revenge on.</p>
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<p>"If I snuff it, it's down to you." The overalls were off and Ed was trying to unbutton his shirt with stiff
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numb fingers. Above him the heat sensor winked its blue metronome. He got the shirt off and stood there
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shivering in his boxers, skin roughed and puckered with gooseflesh. He glared again at Tam. </p>
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<p>"This had better work."</p>
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<p>"Sure it'll work. Here, do you want something to heat you up?"</p>
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<p>"Give me your shirt."</p>
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<p>"Bugger off. I'm the tradesman here. You're just the hired help."</p>
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<p>"Thanks pal." Ed stomped off, swinging his arms out and then around himself, trying to get the circulation
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back. His jockeys dripped down his legs and left a trail on the floor. If it had been winter he'd have been
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in serious trouble. Tam heard footsteps on the metal stairs and then a door open on the far side of the big
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tank. A few minutes later Ed came back, wet feet slapping on the floor. He was buttoning a white lab coat
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that built for someone several stone wider. Tam burst into a gale of laughter. </p>
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<p>"What <em>do </em>you look like?"</p>
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<p>Ed stopped and looked down at himself, hairy white legs poking down beneath the hem, and then he started to
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laugh too. </p>
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<p>"Here," Tam said. "This is the second Easter miracle." He held up a tin mug that was chipped with long rough
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use. Ed took it, smelt it and his face lit up. </p>
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<p>"Where did you get this?"</p>
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<p>"Trust me, I'm a genius. You just have to know where all the pipes go, and a shifting spanner comes in fine
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and dandy."</p>
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<p>Ed took a big swallow of the overproof whisky and then coughed as it hit the spot. Colour came back into his
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cheeks. </p>
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<p>"Man, that goes down a treat."</p>
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<p>Tam started dragging the toolbag away from the wall towards the shelter under the big tank, out of the direct
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line of the heat sensor. He sat down with his back to a pillar and Ed joined him. He passed the mug back and
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Tam took a fine swallow. </p>
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<p>"Here's the good bit," he said. "If we have to wait for the morning, we might as well sit back and enjoy
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this."</p>
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<p>He dig into the bag and pulled out a long jointing compound tin, hut when he opened it, Ed saw a stack of fat
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roll-ups. </p>
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<p>"Finest Leb red," Tam said, handing one across. He lit up, sucked in and held it until his vision began to
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waver. </p>
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<p>"You're forgiven man, that's the business."</p>
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<p>Sometime in the morning, after Marjory Burns had stamped Ed's card again, the pair of them hid behind the
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barrels until Donny gave them the all clear, and Tam staggered out into the light of day, wove his way
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across the grass, and stumbled face-first into the chain-link fence. The boys had to haul him and his
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toolbag through the hole in the wire and drag him through the brambles. He was still singing an hour later
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before he fell asleep in the sun. Ed was sent home sick. </p>
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<p>The geese watchdogs had taken to the popcorn and somehow they had imprinted on Neil and now he couldn't get
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rid of them. It had been a good idea that for a while had worked just a treat but now it had developed
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unexpected complications. They had got used to coming to the fence for a feed, marching up and down, beaks
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pointing at the sky, honking anticipation. Then he had weaned them away from the front, scattering mounds of
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the stuff further and further way, until they became accustomed to gorging only a few yards from the
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cooperage at the back of the building, well away from the decant hall. </p>
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<p>"They can smell me half a mile away," he told Donny . "Either that or they're telepathic."</p>
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<p>The pair of them had lugged another couple of plastic bags of corn feed through the new-worn track in the
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bushes and far in the distance, the geese had already begun their cacophony.</p>
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<p>"Listen to them," Neil said. "They love this stuff, but as soon as I get anywhere near the place they start
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up that racket. It'll screw us for sure."</p>
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<p>"You think we should shoot them?" Donny asked. "I've still got my old slug gun."</p>
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<p>"Sure, great. Shoot the fuckers. Don't you think it might give the game away when they find dead bodies all
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over the place?"</p>
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<p>"If they keep that up they'll give the game away anyway. It's back to the drawing board."</p>
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<p>Neil had been taken completely by surprise by the amount of popcorn that erupted from just a small pack of
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kernels on that first night. His mother and his aunts had screeched like scalded cats when the stove had
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turned itself into a fountain of the stuff and the kitchen ended up ankle deep after the boys had made a
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fast exit. The women soon calmed down when he shovelled it up into a bin liner, but they were still finding
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pieces of corn in all sorts of corners. It was more than a week since he had first turned up to wean them
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away from the gatehouse and the first day they had set up such a commotion that the security men had come to
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investigate and he'd had to sneak away through the undergrowth. Now the problem was even worse. </p>
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<p>They reached the fence and two dozen big geese were strutting their stuff right up against the wire, ready
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for a feeding frenzy. They had long white necks and strong beaks and little beady eyes that had a mean look
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about them, but as soon as Neil started shovelling the popcorn through the wire they attacked it as if they
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were starving. The noise of their bickering could have been heard across the other side of the river, and it
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was just as well the birds were at the back end of the cooperage, where the high warehouse wall deflected
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most of the sound. </p>
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<p>"They're getting fatter as well," Neil said. "They must have put on a stone at least."</p>
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<p>Donny watched in amazement as the birds fought and squabbled amongst themselves, scraping up against the wire
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and flapping their wings with such force that the bushes rocked in the wind. White and grey feathers
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spiralled into the summer air. </p>
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<p>"What a commotion," Donny said. "You better tell Jack we got a problem."</p>
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<p>"He just said keep them away from the front."</p>
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<p>"But he never said you had to wake up the whole town."</p>
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<p>Donny had problems of his own to worry about. He'd been detailed to get the decoys and that meant recruiting
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his young brother and some of his pals to get themselves down the Kilmalid Burn with fishing nets made out
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of old onion bags, trying to catch as many minnows and sticklebacks as they could find. </p>
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<p>"What do you want them for?" Kevin Watson needed to know. </p>
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<p>"I'm going to breed them," Donny said. "What's it to you? Just get down there and catch me a couple of
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hundred."</p>
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<p>"What's the catch?"</p>
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<p>"No catch. I'll pay you"</p>
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<p>"How? You'll be on the dole in a couple of weeks."</p>
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<p>Donny grabbed Kevin by the collar and the boy's pal Danny Kane pulled back in case he got some too. Kevin was
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just as red-headed as Donny was, that fine, bright, corkscrewed electric shock sort of ginger that's never
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ever going to be in style until it's shaved right to the wood and maybe not even then. Kevin had been an
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afterthought child, if indeed any thought had been put into his conception at all by his parents. He was
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sixteen years younger than Donny, but you'd still know they were brothers. </p>
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<p>"Listen, you cheeky wee bugger. I got money."</p>
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<p>"How much?" Danny Kane had an eye to the main chance. He was Ed's nephew and every bit as smart on the
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uptake. </p>
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<p>"How much what?"</p>
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<p>"How much for a fish?"</p>
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<p>"Ten pence."</p>
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<p>"Get lost, cheapskate." Donny still had Kevin by the lapels. His brother's voice sounded strangled, which was
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not unreasonable under the circumstances. </p>
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<p>"What do you mean get lost? That's a good deal."</p>
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<p>"That's only a pound for ten. How much do you need?"</p>
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<p>"About a hundred."</p>
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<p>"A hundred my bum. It'll take us days to catch that many. A tenner for all that? No way."</p>
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<p>Danny Kane piped up. "Tell you what, make it a pound and you got a deal."</p>
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<p>"A pound?" Donny 's voice raised an octave. "A pound. For a stickleback? We used to catch them by the ton
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when I was your age."</p>
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<p>"Aye, well, you can go and catch your own ton then," Kevin said, "seeing you're such a big hot shot
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expert."</p>
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<p>"Look, I'll give you twenty pence a fish."</p>
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<p>"Eighty," Danny said, grinning, and everybody could see where this would end up.</p>
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<p>Donny let go when it got balanced out at fifty pence and hit Kevin a perfunctory slap on the back of his head
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just for the hell of it. He'd have to ask Jack for a decent hit at the petty cash fund and he hoped there
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would be no problem there. There was no chance he'd come back and lose face with Kevin and that sly little
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Danny Kane by admitting he couldn't cough up. </p>
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<p>What he didn't realise was that Danny Kane was every bit as smart as his uncle and despite the fact that
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there was nothing better for twelve-year-olds to do in the high summer than spend a couple of afternoons
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down at the Kilmalid stream hooking out brown trout and little tidal flounders, he had, even at this age, a
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good estimation of time and motion and value for money. It was he who directed Kevin to build two lines of
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stones in a downstream pointing chevron and drive two stakes into the steam bed with the onion mesh bag
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stretched between them. After that the pair of them went fifty yards upstream, cut two straight ash saplings
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with a thick crown of leaves and used them to sweep right down the little stream, driving every little fish
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with the flow and into the bag. In less than half an hour they were trundling homewards pushing a wooden
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bogey with ten big sweet jars filched from the back of Thornton's shop, each filled with an assortment of
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gasping freshwater fish.</p>
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<p> If it hadn't been for Danny Kane's ingenuity, then things might not have turned out the way they did, and
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Donny Watson might not have ended up with an awful sore face and worse, but like the poem says, for the want
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of a nail, the shoe was lost, and so on right up to the end where that one nail ends up closing the coffin
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lid. But that's for later. </p>
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<p>On the day Neil took Donny down with him to feed the geese, the boys made it back home with the fish gulping
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for oxygen, and tipped them into the big plastic rain-butt behind the greenhouse that served as an ad-hoc
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watering can during the height of the summer. Fortunately for the fish, the tub was full of mosquito larvae,
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letting them gorge for a while until there were none left. Unfortunately for the little sticklebacks and
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minnows, there was a hairline fracture in the base of the butt, that let out a fine trickle of water which,
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as it was out of direct sight, nobody noticed. Even more unfortunate was the fact that the container sat at
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the corner of the house, and for half the day it got the direct rays of the sun in the hottest summer
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anybody could remember for a long time. Almost immediately the water began to heat up as its level lowered.
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Donny treated the captives to a huge handful of goldfish food from Ryan's pet shop and left them to get on
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with it, confident that they'd have enough to keep them going for the next couple of days. </p>
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<p>It came as a great surprise to him when he next inspected the tank to find it half empty, filled with a
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thick, foetid liquid, and giving off such a stench that he almost lost his lunch of pies and beans. And by
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that time things had moved on. It was too late to send the boys out on another fishing expedition and Donny
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had to think of another plan and that's what got him a really sore face and testicles and put the whole
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operation in serious jeopardy. </p>
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<hr />
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<p>Jack's brother Michael was a natural when it came to computers. Jack and their mother had scraped together
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six years before and bought him an old Toshiba at Christmas. Mike had learned to programme by hacking in to
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his games to gain more lives and become the envy of the gamers in street. It had seemed natural for him to
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progress through school and now be applying for a place in a degree course on programming. He was eight
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years younger than his brother and that gap was a huge chasm when it came to electronics. Jack could work
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the phone and the stereo and managed to laboriously type his course reports on the old Dell, but Mike seemed
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to be able to work the things telepathically. </p>
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<p>"You want me to scan it or copy it?"</p>
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<p>"What's the difference?" They were up in the loft that the pair of them had converted into men's territory,
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with Jack's desk jammed in at a gable corner and Mike's study area festooned with wires and hardware. Mike
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gave him a suffering look. </p>
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<p>"If I scan it, I use the scanner. It has word recognition of a sort and will convert it into type. Or I can
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copy the whole thing and jiggle it around to get the font right."</p>
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<p>"Don't you get technical on me," Jack said. Mike was more slender, but dark like himself. "Jiggle it around.
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Is that in the manual?"</p>
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<p>Mike laughed. "It's quicker to scan. I got a program here that will do a great imitation."</p>
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<p>"Then that's the one I want. I need it to look like the real thing."</p>
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<p>He handed over the papers that Jed had sneaked out of the dairy. </p>
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<p>"I need this and this," he said, spreading the sheets. He took out another paper unfolded it. "And can you do
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me something like this?"</p>
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<p>"Carson Convoy? Who are they?"</p>
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<p>"Can you do it?"</p>
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<p>"Does the pope wear a pointy hat?" Mike glanced up from the sheet of paper. "This is a lease document. What's
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it for?"</p>
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<p>"Trust me, Mikey boy, you don't want to know. Anybody asks, you know nothing, right?"</p>
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<p>"What are you up to, Jack? Anything to do with those guys that duffed us up?"</p>
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<p>Jack ruffled his bother's hair and Mike dodged out of the way. He'd always hated that. "Yes and no. I'm
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trying to get a few things sorted out. And get a few people sorted out while I'm at it."</p>
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<p>"But this is a hire agreement for trucks. You fake them and you're in deep shit."</p>
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<p>"Look kiddo, we copy these and print them out, making them look like the real McCoy, and then you forget
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about it, or I make you eat the damn things. Got the picture?"</p>
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<p>"Don't get shirty, shorty."</p>
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<p>Mike pulled back and looked Jack in the eye. "Listen Jake, you sure you're okay? I mean, if you're up to
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something that could get you the nick, I mean.... "</p>
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<p>"Nothing like that, egg-head. You're the brains of the family. I'm the brawn. You get this fixed for me and
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I'll see you're fixed okay. Trust me, I'm your brother."</p>
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<p>"That never made any difference before now," Mike said, but he was smiling now. </p>
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<p>"Trust me or I'll kick the shit out of you."</p>
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<p>"That's more like it."</p>
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<p>"And we need a web site of our own," Jack said.</p>
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<p>"Who's we?"</p>
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<p>"Need to know," Jack said. He thought he should just engrave that phrase on his forehead. "And you definitely
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don't."</p>
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<p>"You have to start telling me something sometime. I can fix up a website, but I have to know what you want in
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it."</p>
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<p>"A whole lot of lies," Jack admitted.</p>
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<hr />
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<p>Kate never recognised him at all. Joanne Cleary was an expert and Ed's girlfriend Donna Bryce had teamed up
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with her to put fifteen years on him. He had done the deal backstage at the Starlight show, when the rest of
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the cast were swilling beer and cheap white wine after the final curtain on the last night, air-kissing and
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signing programmes and pretending to be real actors. Kate had given him the big posters he needed and after
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the party he had gone home and sat up half the night, working a few things out.</p>
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<p>Donna spread newspapers on the kitchen floor, slipped an old tablecloth around his neck and began to cut his
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hair, starting with the hank that fell down over his eyes. She worked fast, talking all the time, while Neil
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and Jed watched. Joanne was the direct opposite of her brother, fine featured and dark, with eyes that were
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almost jet black and an olive complexion that contrasted with his freckles. She took after their mother in
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looks and temperament and her three years at the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and drama were paying off
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here. She sat at the kitchen table, preparing her make-up box while Donna began the bleaching process and
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then added the colour that converted the former black into a steely grey. She blew dried Jack's hair into a
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short slashback style and stripped off the tablecloth. When he turned round, even Joanne was amazed. The
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change in style and colour had added ten years to him. It was up to her to do the rest with the collection
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of brushes and skin tones and latex.</p>
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<p> When they had gone, he put on his grandfather's old brown tweed suit and when he looked in the mirror, he
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almost stepped back in real amazement. A stranger stared back at him over the top of grandad's rimless
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glasses, a stranger who looked remarkably like the photograph of the wold man that stood on his mum's
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dresser.</p>
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<p>Jack's eyes were the same blue they'd always been, and his brows still dark and thick, but it was the face of
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a forty-year-old who bent forward to examine him. He had one thumb hooked in the belly pocket of the
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waistcoat, faint crows feet around the eyes and a sharper nose. He smiled and the brackets on either side of
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his mouth appeared deeper and darker. </p>
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<p>"Now would you look at that?"</p>
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<p>The Irish accent came out of the blue, unplanned and spontaneous, but it fit with the image. He had the right
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colouring and the right suit. "Top of the morning to you, and bottom of the afternoon as well, begod."</p>
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<p>He grinned at himself and knew he could pull this off. Jack walked back into the hallway and began to strip
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the jacket off when the door suddenly opened.</p>
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<p>"What it the name of christ...." His uncle took one look and for a man on the other side of sixty he was on
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him faster than even Jack himself would have believed. The old man flung a straight punch which caught him
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right on the cheek with a meaty thud. Jack was standing with the jacket peeled off, his arms still jammed in
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the sleeves, defenceless. The punch was hard enough to rock his head to the side. Two quick belly blows
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doubled him up as he struggled to free himself and knocked the wind from him before he could get a word
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out.</p>
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<p>"Scumbag," Sandy grunted. Jack got his arm out of a sleeve, trying to shake the old man off, still unable to
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catch his breath. "I'll teach you to break in on me."</p>
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<p>He'd always been strong, Jack knew that, but he was still surprisingly fast. Jack squirmed out of the
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head-lock, managed to push himself to his feet, grab a breath.</p>
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<p>"Stop it, Sandy . You're killing me."</p>
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<p>Sandy Bruce raised a gnarled fist to catch him another one on the eye and Jack blocked it with his left,
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grabbed the wrist and hung on tight.</p>
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<p>"Honest. I give in."</p>
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<p>"Jack?" Sandy pulled back, startled. "What the hell.....?"</p>
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<p>"Yeah, it's me. I never expected you back for ages."</p>
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<p>"For heaven's sake, boy. What in the name's happened to you?"</p>
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<p>Jack held on to the wrist, just in case. Sandy leant forward.</p>
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<p>"Is that my glasses?"</p>
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<p>"No, it's grandad's old pair."</p>
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<p>"And what's happened to your hair, man. You look like you've seen a ghost." He pulled back further. "Just
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what are you up to?"</p>
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<p>Jack eased himself upright, and pulled Sandy up to his feet. He sat down while his uncle got his own breath
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back.</p>
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<p>"Put the kettle on. I suppose I'd better tell you the score before you kick the living shit out of me."</p>
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<p>Sandy made a cup of tea and then he broke the first of the two rules of business. He told his uncle
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everything.</p>
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<p>They welcomed him at Dunvegan distillery and insisted he took a dram of the finest malt that was even older
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than he was. It had taken two hours and twenty minutes to get from Levenford to the bridge across the sound
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to Skye, and then another hour to cross the whole island to get to the little distillery nested in a narrow
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little glen, huddled in from the big winds and storms that swept in from the other side of the Atlantic. The
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time factor bothered him and his backside was numb and sore. Tam was used to travelling about on the big
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Dragstar and maybe his skin was calloused by now, but three hours on the rough roads north wasn't merciful
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on the tailbone and Jack needed a hot bath to soak the stiffness out. He glanced at himself in the mirror of
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the hotel bedroom, and realised he felt the way he looked. Tam stayed out of sight when he called for a
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local cab to take him up to the distillery and none of the Dunvegan union men who had been down protesting
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at the closure gave him a second glance. He got a tour of the premises and the stock, and Alistair Sproat
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called from Aitkenbar just to make sure everything was going to plan. Jack didn't even have to concentrate
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on the accent. The very fact of wearing his grandfather's good tweed suit just brought out whatever Celt was
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in him. His cheek still hurt, but Neil's sister had smoothed over the abrasions with some thick cream and
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managed to get it to match the other one.</p>
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<p> "Mr Gabriel," Sproat had shaken his hand, strong and surprisingly firm when Jack had expected it to be weak
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and sweaty.</p>
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<p><em>Never make assumptions, they just make an ass out of u and me. </em>Was that from one of the business
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course chapters, or had he heard it in a movie? Jack shucked the thought away, needing to concentrate. This
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was the difficult part. The rest of it was just down to timing and organisation and making sure everybody
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did their bit.</p>
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<p>Margery Burns had given him the eye when he sat down in the neat reception area with the big coffee table
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books that showed the basics of how whisky was made at Aitkenbar. She brought him a coffee and looked him up
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and down, taking in the good handmade suit cut in a classic style, and the thick grey hair. Jack nodded, not
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risking a smile just in case any of the latex peeled away from his nose.</p>
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<p>"You're from Ireland?"</p>
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<p>He nodded again, wishing she would go away. She'd made sure her fingers touched his when she passed the
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coffee and he wondered if Jed knew he wasn't the exclusive stable jockey. Maybe he didn't care.</p>
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<p>"And are you staying here today?"</p>
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<p>He shook his head, lowered his voice and the Ulster accent didn't let him down.</p>
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<p>"I'll be flying back tonight."</p>
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<p>"That's a shame," she said, and smiled, letting him know that if he changed his mind, accommodation would not
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be a problem. She was either making up for lost time or really going for revenge. Whatever way, she was
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doing a fine job.</p>
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<p>Sproat saw him in to the board room, narrow and panelled, with a big mahogany table from the golden days of
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the past before the big conglomerates began to squeeze everybody and before designer drinks took the wind
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out of the old whisky sails. Jack concentrated on his manner, glad that he'd spent the night going over
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everything, predicting any questions. If Margery Burns hadn't recognised him, nobody would. The octagonal
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rimless glasses gave him an air of aloofness, and that was no bad thing.<em> We never get a second chance to
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make a good first impression.</em> Another rule. He was well primed.</p>
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<p>"A client of mine understands you have a fine supply of whiskies that you might be looking to move on," Jack
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said. </p>
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<p>"There's always a possibility of business," Sproat said urbanely.</p>
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<p>Jack had seen the books. Margery was truly helpful, if extremely insistent. It had not been an easy thing to
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keep out of the grasp of those red nails.</p>
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<p>"We'd be interested in an initial tranche of a hundred barrels of eight-year-old. You have that, plus another
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hundred of five and a considerable bulk of under-age that's going to take a bit of moving. There's a
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possibility we could be talking about a fairly sizeable order."</p>
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<p>"I have to say you're very well informed, Mr Gabriel." Sproat was smiling as he crossed to the ornate
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tantalus that caged three exquisite decanters.</p>
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<p>"Call me Michael," Jack said. "Everybody else does. Sure, it's best to do the homework first, so you can
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enjoy yourself afterwards."</p>
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<p>"I've done some homework myself. Your brokerage is fairly new."</p>
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<p>"Brand spanking new. It's a branch-out, some young heads and some old money. It's just a change of market. We
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|
were mostly in the Balkans until the market fell away, if you understand. Now there's better business in the
|
|
Baltic. They're fed up with the Vodka and like a taste of the ould stuff, even if it's costing an arm and a
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|
leg."</p>
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<p>"Yes, I saw that on the web-site." Sproat poured two manly glasses. </p>
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<p>"If we don't take care of the customer, somebody else will. My clients believe in that philosophy and if
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you're interested, you can get a better deal than from any of the big boys. There's a lot of new money over
|
|
there looking for a place to come in out of the cold, if you take my meaning. Good quality Scotch is in big
|
|
demand, and over there, quality remains long after the price is forgotten."</p>
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|
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|
<p>"Over here too," Sproat beamed. Jack had done his homework and he knew just how keen Sproat was to empty the
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warehouses now that the deal was almost complete with the developers. Everybody knew he'd be doing a stock
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|
clearance and the buyers would be waiting to the last minute to scoop low at auction. Anything that upped
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the price and achieved a quick sale would have the gleam of gold over it.</p>
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<p>"Tell me Michael, do you play golf?"</p>
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<p>"Indeed I do. You'll be looking for a challenge would you?"</p>
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<p>"I'll fix up a game at the club," Sproat said.</p>
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<p>"Good. You do that." Jack was well into it.</p>
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<p>"Now, we also understand that your place on Skye, well, that's just going to be empty warehousing now."</p>
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<p>"There's interest from the tourist board," Sproat said. Dunvegan was tiny, not a major part of the set-up.
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"They've applied to enterprise for money to turn it into an attraction."</p>
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<p>"Shame to see it change business," Jack said. "Now, we would be needing somewhere to store and mature."</p>
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<p>He could see the money signs light up in Sproat's eyes. Jack lifted his glass and allowed himself to drain
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it. It was the smoothest whisky he had ever tasted in his life. He wondered where he could get a bottle for
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Sandy.</p>
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