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'Jesus. How long are you going to Canada for?'
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'I don't know. We'll see. Maybe I'll like it.'
'You mean you might stay?'
'I don't know, Prentice. I'm not making any plans beyond getting there and
seeing what the job's like and what the people are like.'
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'Shee-it. Well, can I see you? I mean; I'd like to say goodbye.'
'Well, you going to Gallanach this weekend?'
'Umm . . . Would you, believe that this weekend I was intending to drive a
Bentley to
Ullapool, get a ferry to the island of Lewis, drive to the most north-westerly
point on the island
I could find and throw a paperweight into the sea? But . . . '
'Well, don't let me stop you. I've got plenty of family to see, goodness
knows.'
'But - '
'But I'm flying out from Glasgow on the Monday morning. You can put me up in
this palace you're living in, if you like.'
'Sunday? Yeah. Let me think; can't get a ferry on a Sunday, but I can get to
Ullapool on
Friday, travel over; back Saturday. Yeah. Sunday's fine. What time do you
think you'll get here?'
'Six all right?'
'Six is perfect. My turn to take you for a curry.'
'No it isn't, but I accept anyway. I promise not to throw brandy all over
you.'
'Okay. I promise not to act like an asshole.'
'You have to act?'
'Gosh, you know how to hurt a chap.'
'Years of practice. See you Sunday, Prentice.'
'Yeah. Then. Drive carefully.'
'You too. Bye.'
I put the phone down, looked up at the ceiling, and didn't know whether to
whoop with joy because I was going to see her, or scream in despair because
she was going to Canada. Caught between these two extremes, I experienced an
odd calmness, and settled for a low moan.
*
I was starting to think that maybe the Bentley wasn't really me. People gave
me funny looks when I
drove it, and I had already been stopped by some traffic cops on Great Western
Road the day I
drove the beast back from Lochgair to Glasgow. Is this your car, sir? they'd
asked.
With hindsight, perhaps saying, Gosh, I thought you only did this to black
people! wasn't the most politic reply to have made, but they only kept me
waiting for an hour while they checked up on me and scrutinised the car. I
spent the time sitting in the back of the police car thinking of all the
worthy causes I could give the proceeds of the Bentley's sale to (I certainly
wasn't going to keep Fergus's blood-money). The African National Congress and
the League Against Cruel Sports were two names that suggested themselves as
fit to spin Ferg's remains up to near turbo-charger speeds in his watery
grave. Thankfully the Bentley's tyres were nearly new and the lights, like
everything else, were all in perfect working order, so the boys in blue had to
let me go.
Anyway, it felt right that it was the monstrous burgundy-coloured Eight I took
to the Hebrides rather than the Golf.
I started out on Friday morning and took the A82 to Iverness, then crossed to
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the west coast and Ullapool. The drive confirmed that the Bentley would have
to go. It hadn't been as unwieldly as I'd imagined it might be, but I just
felt embarrassed in the thing. There hadn't been anything in Fergus's will to
say I couldn't do what I wanted with the car, so what the hell, I'd sell it.
I caught the afternoon ferry to Stornoway. I stayed in the Royal Hotel that
night, read history books about ancient wars and long-gone empires, and dipped
into our currently interesting times via the television. I stationed the
paperweight on the bedside table, as though to guard me through the night.
*
At ten o'clock the next morning I stood in a strong wind and light drizzle,
wrapped in my dad's old coat, near the lighthouse at the Butt of Lewis -
trying to think of a good joke about that to tell my brother - and wishing I'd
brought a brolly. I hadn't been able to decide whether this really was the
most north-westerly point of the island - there was a place with the
appropriate name of Gallan Head that might have done as well - but in the end
I thought maybe it didn't really matter that much, and anyway this headland
was easier to get to.
There were some cliffs, not especially high. I had the paperweight in my
pocket, and I took it out, feeling suddenly self-conscious and foolish even
though there was nobody else around. The wind tugged at the coat and threw
light, soaking spray into my eyes. The sea was tarnished rolling silver and
seemed to go on forever into the light grey watery expanse of spray and air
and cloud.
I hefted the glass ball, then threw it with all my might out to sea. I don't
think it would
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mattered especially to me if it had hit the rocks and shattered, but it
didn't; it just disappeared into the greyness, heading towards the piling,
restless waves. I think I saw it splash, but I'm not sure.
I had been thinking about saying something, when I threw the paperweight into
the sea; 'You forgot something,' had been the line I'd been toying with on the
drive up, through the peat-smoke smell. But it seemed trite; in the end I
didn't say anything.
Instead I stood there for a while, getting wet and cold, and looking out at
the waves and thinking of that wreckage, lying out there on the floor of the
Atlantic, a few hundred kilometres to the northwest, far beneath the surface
of that grey receiving sea.
Was Fergus Urvill anywhere, still? Apart from the body - whatever was left of
him physically, down there in that dark, cold pressure - was there anything
else? Was his personality intact somehow, somewhere?
I found that I couldn't believe that it was. Neither was dad's, neither was
Rory's, nor Aunt
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