The Interpretations Read online

  Praise for The Interpretations

  ‘Tightly written, packed with incident and neatly evo­king the time and place of its early 1980s setting, The Interpretations is full of good things.’ D. J. Taylor, author of Orwell: the life, Thackerey, Derby Day, At the Chime of a City Clock

  ‘David Shaw Mackenzie’s darkly compelling exploration of bullying and its lifelong con–sequences makes for a surprisingly warm and witty read. A hugely likeable novel.’ Zoe Strachan, author of Ever Fallen in Love, Spin Cycle, Negative Space

  David Shaw Mackenzie was born in Easter Ross in the Highlands of Scotland. His several careers have included social work, teaching, systems analysis, painting and decorating and fish packing. These activities have led him to various parts of the Middle East, Latin America, mainland Europe, the Island of Mull and back to Conon Bridge in Easter Ross. He now lives in London with his wife, Rachel.

  His short fiction has appeared in several major literary magazines and anthologies, including Stand Magazine, Chapman, Edinburgh Review, New Writing Scotland, News from the Republic of Letters and several editions of Best Short Stories. His first novel, The Truth of Stone, was short-listed for the Saltire Society First Book Award.

  www.davidshawmackenzie.com

  Also by David Shaw Mackenzie

  The Truth of Stone

  The Interpretations

  David Shaw Mackenzie

  First published in Great Britain by

  Sandstone Press Ltd

  PO Box 5725

  One High Street

  Dingwall

  Ross-shire

  IV15 9WJ

  Scotland.

  www.sandstonepress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form without the express written permission of the publisher.

  © David Shaw Mackenzie 2013

  Editor: Moira Forsyth

  The moral right of David Shaw Mackenzie to be recognised as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patent Act, 1988.

  The publisher acknowledges subsidy from Creative Scotland towards publication of this volume.

  ISBNe: 978-1-908737-27-4

  Cover design by Graham Thew, Dublin.

  Ebook by Iolaire Typesetting, Newtonmore.

  for Rachel

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  1982

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  2000

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  1982

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  Gilfedder

  A version of the final chapter (23), appeared in Lunch at Yes, New Writing Scotland 20, 2002, entitled Gilfedder, and was also selected for inclusion in Bringing Back Some Brightness, New Writing Scotland 22, 2004.

  The Wade Letter

  A section of Chapter 11, entitled The Wade Letter appeared in Chapman 106, April 2005.

  1982

  1

  It was a good punch and Gilfedder knew it. Kingsmill went down and stayed down.

  Someone said, ‘Jesus, Donnie.’

  The Mule pulled his gloves off quickly and threw them to one side. He knelt down and took Tom Kingsmill’s head in his hands. Blood was trickling from his mouth and nose and gashed cheek. The Mule looked up at Gilfedder and said, ‘Christ, man, are you clean daft?’

  ‘Leave him,’ Gilfedder said.

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘Leave him, I said.’

  The Mule shook his head. ‘Will you do the same to me, then, Donnie? Flatten me, too? Eh?’

  ‘I’ve a mind to.’

  The Mule turned his attention back to Kingsmill who was stretched out on the floor of the loading bay, his head lying on one extended arm, the side and sleeve of his thick green pullover soaking up the water, streaked with fish-oil and fish blood, that lay in shallow pools across the cold concrete surface. His right foot, in its scuffed yellow boot speckled with mackerel scales, lay on top of the last box of mackerel that Gilfedder had unloaded. A couple of fish had fallen out of it and lay on the floor in a sprinkling of crushed ice. There was nowhere in the loading bay, nor in the adjacent freezing hall, huge, cold, and empty, that was free of the thick, heavy smell of fish.

  ‘Give me a hand here, someone,’ the Mule said. He’d taken from his overalls pocket a clean white handkerchief, neatly folded, which he used to wipe Kingsmill’s mouth and nose. Now he dabbed at his cheek. ‘Give me a hand, eh?’ The Mule looked up.

  The seven other members of the nightshift stood in an uneven semicircle round the trio of Donald Gilfedder, the Mule and the unconscious Tom Kingsmill. Their dark orange aprons were smeared with fish detritus – scales, blood, bits of fin and gut – from that day’s work and maybe yesterday’s and last week’s as well. Their heavy rubber gloves stretched all the way up to their elbows. Some of the men stood on the loading bay; some were still up among the stacked boxes on the back of the half-unloaded lorry. Although reluctant to move because they were, all of them, afraid of Gilfedder, they sensed now a shifting of power. Gilfedder had stepped outside the world of WattWays fish processing plant; other agencies would soon be involved. Their sense of fear was about to be replaced by something close to blessed release.

  ‘Aye, come on then,’ Morrison said, stepping forward at last. ‘He’s in a bad way, right enough.’

  ‘Yes, come on,’ someone else said, throwing off his gloves. ‘Let’s get him inside.’

  For the first time Gilfedder found himself ignored. He reached behind his back and pulled apart the knot that held together the strings of his apron. He pulled the neck string over his head and flung the apron onto the nearest stack of mackerel boxes, on top of the gloves he had discarded some time before.

  As four men now leaned over and tended to Tom Kingsmill, Gilfedder stepped round the fish box at Kingsmill’s feet and set off, striding quickly along the loading bay, past the cab of the half-unloaded lorry, down the ramp at the far end and then out of the huge hangar-like building which was WattWays fish processing plant, into the cold, dark air of the late evening.

  He walked quickly towards the outskirts of Dalmore. WattWays was about a quarter of a mile from the edge of the town and, for the three hundred yards or so after the street lights ended and before they began again, Gilfedder could see the sky, clear and cold and star-lit, not that he paid too much attention to it.

  At ten fifteen at night the road was quiet and he was glad of that. But there would be people arriving soon, he was sure. He had very little time. Within a couple of minutes he could hear a siren start up from the direction of South Mossfield. He could even trace the vehicle’s progress as it left the roundabout at the southern end of the new Duie Bridge and headed onto the immense span of the bridge itself. It would take at least a couple of minutes to reach the Broadleet Junction and turn towards WattWays.

  Of course, it could be the siren of an ambulance. But whether it was or wasn’t, other sirens would follow, he was sure.

  He speeded up and found himself jogging awkwardly, hindered by the heavy leather boots he was wearing. He reached the sign that said DALMORE, above which was the greeting ‘Ceud Mile Failte’. Into the town now,
he slowed to a walk as he was beginning to struggle for breath. They’d go to the plant first, he reckoned, but they’d soon head for his house. They knew where he lived.

  Dalmore Drive, Sheeppark Avenue and finally Proby Street. As he turned the corner, someone called out, ‘All right, Donnie?’

  He glanced across the street. He waved. ‘OK, Mac?’

  ‘Fine, fine. Thought you were on nights this week.’

  ‘Fish lorry’s late and I forgot my piece.’

  ‘Well, then.’

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Aye. See you later.’

  Gilfedder pushed on. He became aware of a siren that was very close. Very close. He slowed down.

  He was fifty yards from home, no further, when the squad car overtook him. As the vehicle pulled up and the doors opened, Gilfedder stopped. He stood quite still on the pavement, trying to regulate his breathing.

  Two policemen got out of the car and closed the doors quietly behind them. They walked a few paces towards Gilfedder and halted about ten feet away.

  ‘Hello, Donnie,’ one of them said. They were big men, both of them, but slightly overweight. Gilfedder was taller and lighter. ‘Not working tonight?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And why’s that, then?’

  ‘Oh, not feelin’ too well,’ Gilfedder offered.

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  The one who had not so far spoken said, ‘I think we’ll need a wee word.’

  ‘Oh? What word’s that then?’ Gilfedder asked and his tone was amiable, almost gentle.

  The first policeman smiled. ‘Not here,’ he said. ‘Down at the station.’

  Gilfedder shrugged. ‘Aye, well. No problem.’ He stepped forward. Both policemen took a couple of steps back towards the car. One of them opened the back door. Gilfedder smiled. The door partly protected this one so it was the other that he attacked first, taking a swift step forward and kicking him hard between the legs. Now that violence had begun, the door was no longer a protection for the first policeman; it was a hindrance. Gilfedder pushed against it, knocking the man off balance. As he went down, Gilfedder’s feet came into play again. Three kicks: knee, ribs, ear.

  The stupid cunts never learned, did they? No threats, no warning, no delay. Just in. Do it. God almighty.

  Gilfedder left the two men groaning on the pavement. He stepped past them and began to walk quickly again towards his house.

  Oh, he’d done it now for sure. ‘You’re for it, now, Donnie,’ someone at the plant had said to him. ‘You’re for it.’ That was just after he’d smacked that bigheaded cunt, Kingsmill. And now he’d decked a couple of the boys in blue as well. He was for it, certainly. No two ways. Yes, he was well and truly fucked. All hope gone. Get on, get in the house. But all hope gone, now. All gone.

  ‘Donnie?’ his wife called from the kitchen. ‘Donnie? Is that you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Something the matter?’ She stepped into the corridor.

  ‘Aye.’ Gilfedder locked the front door and slotted the chain catch in place. Then he strode past his wife and into the kitchen.

  ‘Donnie . . .’

  ‘Get upstairs,’ he said to her. He crossed to the back door and locked it.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  He turned to face her. ‘Didn’t I tell you something?’

  ‘What on earth . . .’

  They both heard the approaching police siren.

  ‘Oh, no, Donnie, what have you done? What have . . .’

  ‘Upstairs! Now!’ he shouted at her and she burst into tears.

  ‘Christ, Donnie, I can’t take it again, whatever it is. Not again. Please. Please.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Please, no.’

  Gilfedder came up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. He turned her round and pushed her towards the staircase. ‘You just get upstairs like a good wee wife and leave all this shite to me,’ he said quietly. ‘Go on, now.’ He pushed her until she reached the staircase. She took two steps up then collapsed, sobbing.

  ‘Go on! Up!’ he insisted.

  She took hold of the banister and pulled herself upright.

  ‘All the way now.’

  She began to climb the stairs.

  In the kitchen again, Gilfedder looked at the back door and shook his head. Half of it was glass.

  ‘Fucking useless. Well . . .’

  He took what he reckoned was the heaviest of the kitchen chairs and wedged the back of it under the door handle.

  ‘Waste of fucking time . . .’

  He threw the chair to one side. He pulled the fridge across the floor, ripping the cable from the wall plug as he did so. He tipped it onto its side, the contents sliding from shelves and spilling or breaking, smashing, splashing inside. He heaved it against the door.

  The siren had stopped.

  He heard fists rapping sharply on the front door.

  ‘Gilfedder! Police! Open up. Come on now, open up.’

  Gilfedder stood on a chair to reach into the top shelf of one of the kitchen cupboards. Carefully he pulled out something long and thin, wrapped in a grey blanket. He set this bundle on the kitchen table. Peeling away the blanket he exposed a double-barrelled shotgun, an over-and-under, of clean, oiled, gleaming metal and wood. Back on the chair, he reached into the cupboard again and retrieved a box of cartridges.

  His wife was at the kitchen door. She caught sight of the shotgun in frenzied alarm. ‘No, Donnie! No! No!’ She rushed at him and grabbed his shoulders. ‘Please! No! Don’t be . . . don’t . . .’

  He pushed her away and swatted her face with the back of his hand. She turned with the force of the blow, lost her footing and fell to the floor.

  ‘Now you just leave this to me,’ he said calmly. ‘You just get upstairs and I’ll be up myself directly. But you have to go now.’ He reached down, grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to her feet. He pulled, half-dragged her to the foot of the stairs and pushed her up the first few steps one more time. ‘Go on!’ he told her. ‘Upstairs, all the way.’ Whimpering, she took hold of the banister.

  ‘Gilfedder! Open up now! Come on!’

  In the kitchen, Gilfedder pushed two cartridges into the shotgun and snapped it shut. Back in the hall, he faced the front door.

  From the top of the stairs his wife said, ‘Please, Donnie, please don’t do anything . . .’

  ‘Into the bedroom, go on now,’ Gilfedder said.

  ‘We’re coming in, Gilfedder!’

  ‘Aye, like fuck,’ Gilfedder said quietly. He stood at the foot of the stairs, looking towards the front door. In a few seconds, he knew, they would start to break it down.

  ‘Gilfedder!’

  In the tiny hallway the noise of each discharge was huge, a catastrophe to the senses, as he fired both barrels at the top of the door. Wood and glass disintegrated. Splinters of both flew about the tiny space like a thin, sharp fog. As the noise of the shotgun abated Gilfedder heard the screams of his wife from the top of the stairs and he heard shouting outside. ‘Back! Back! Come on! Fucksake, get out of there!’

  ‘Aye, fuck off,’ Gilfedder said quietly. ‘Just fuck off.’ He reloaded the shotgun and raised it as if to fire again. But he changed his mind. He lowered it and slipped on the safety catch. Then he turned and made his way quickly upstairs.

  Over a period of twenty-five years or so, Chief Inspector Alex Crathie had developed with some care the manner with which he answered the phone. The ‘Crathie’ he delivered into the mouthpiece fell just short of being a shout. It wasn’t quite rude enough to jeopardise the relationships he had with his superiors but those further down the line than himself were made to understand by the tone of this single word that their message, whatever it was, had better be both worthy of his attention and brief. Those who had known him for some time learned to decipher the relatively small range of intonation that Crathie employed. They could tell when he was tetchy or under pressure or merely exhausted. They even knew when he was in a goo
d mood, though these occasions were rare. Crathie himself was unaware of these subtleties. For him, the way he said his own name in response to a phone call was exactly the same every time. And his wife confirmed this. When he answered the phone at home, she told him, he was rude. She had asked him, several times, to change. And he promised to do it – one tone for work, a different tone for home. But he never quite succeeded. Crathie found change difficult.

  On this occasion, at work, he let the phone ring three times before answering. When he said ‘Crathie’ it was still robust, almost combative, but it had weariness in it, from what had been a long day, tempered by a certain relief. His holiday was to begin the next morning. He was going to Orkney to visit his daughter who had recently moved there. He had never been to Orkney and both he and his wife were looking forward to the trip although he conceded, privately, that it was a bugger of a place to get to.

  Crathie listened. For about half a minute he said nothing beyond a few quiet grunts. Then, by the time he said, ‘Gilfedder? Did he, by God,’ he knew that almost certainly the Orkney trip was off.

  Fifteen minutes later Crathie was in Proby Street. He had just got into the passenger seat of a white police van and he had a clear view of the front of Gilfedder’s house which was about sixty or seventy yards away. Behind the wheel of the van sat one of his team, named McCall, who was looking at the house through a pair of binoculars. As Crathie settled in next to him, McCall lowered the binoculars and said, ‘I hope you’ve brought lots of coffee with you.’

  ‘Like that, is it?’

  He put the binoculars to his eyes again. ‘We’re here for a while, I’d say.’

  In the houses adjacent to Gilfedder’s, people were emerging from front doors and, escorted by police, creeping along walls to get out of range. In a lane near where Crathie and McCall were stationed, residents were coming out into the street. They had left, by the back doors, houses that were opposite Gilfedder’s.