Midnight Never Comes

8

The waters of Loch Dubh were as dark as the name suggested, still and calm in the pale, early morning sunshine and on the island in the centre, the grey, broken ramparts of the castle walls lifted above its trees through a faint, pearly mist that drifted across the surface.

There was no sign of life on the island, not that he had expected to see any and he lit a cigarette and took his time over fitting the fishing rod together. Behind him, the heather followed the slope waist-deep to meet the dark line of the trees above him and somewhere a plover called as it lifted into the sky.

A small wind stirred the surface of the water and within moments, small black fins appeared in the shallows where the flies danced. Suddenly, a trout came out of the deep water beyond the sand bar, a good foot into the air and disappeared again.

For the moment forgetting everything else, Chavasse tied the fly Duncan Craig had recommended, apparently one of the old man's own manufacture, and went to work.

Lacking practice, his first dozen casts were poor and inexpert affairs, but gradually, as some of the old skill returned, he had better luck and hooked a couple of quarter-pounders.

The sun was up now and warm on his back. He let out another couple of yards of line, lifted his tip and cast and, out by the end of the sandbank, a triangular black fin sliced through the water.

Two pounds if it was an ounce. His cast, when it came, was the most accurate he had ever made in his life, the fly skimming the surface no more than a couple of feet in front of that black fin. The tail flicked out of the water, the tip of the rod bent over and his line went taut.

His reel whined as the hooked fish made for deep water and he stumbled along the sandbank, playing it carefully. Suddenly, the line went slack and he thought he had lost it, but it was only resting and a moment later, the reel spun again.

He played it for all of ten minutes, moving up and down the sand bar, and in spite of the fact that he wasn't wearing waders, stumbled knee-deep into the water at the end to bring his fish to the landing net.

He turned to wade back on shore, an involuntary smile on his face and a harsh voice said, 'Well and good, me bucko, and a fine dinner we'll make of that.'

The man who had spoken was old-at least seventy, but he stood there in the heather like a rock, a shotgun crooked in his left arm. He wore an old tweed suit, patched many times and white hair showed beneath the dark green glengarry bonnet. His face was the colour of oak, seamed with a thousand wrinkles and covered with an ugly stubble of grey beard.

Behind him, the heather stirred and two men rose to stand at his shoulder. One of them was a tall, well-built lad with ragged black hair and a wild reckless face, his mouth twisted in a perpetual smile. The other was Fergus Munro, still clearly recognisable in spite of the livid bruise down one side of his face, the smashed and swollen mouth.

'That's him, Da, that's him!' he cried, his eyes wild, raising his shotgun waist-high.

'Easy now, Fergus. Easy,' Hector Munro said and moved down the bank to the shore. He paused a couple of feet away from Chavasse and looked him up and down. 'He doesn't look much to me, Fergus,' he said calmly and his right fist swung suddenly.

Chavasse was already turning and it connected in a glancing blow, high on his left cheekbone, the force half spent, but still sufficient to send him flat on his back into the shallows.

He came up on his feet with a rush and the old man's shotgun lifted menacingly. 'Not now, my brave wee mannie. Ye'll get your chance, but not here. Just walk slow and easy before me and mind how ye go or this thing might go off.'

Chavasse held his gaze calmly for a moment, then he shrugged and moved up out of the water and across the beach. 'Have you ever seen the like of that now?' Rory Munro demanded and burst into a gale of laughter.

'Nothing to how he'll look when I've done with him,' Fergus said and as Chavasse passed him, he gave a violent shove that sent him staggering along the path through the heather.

As they topped the hill, Chavasse saw smoke rising on the far side of the trees and heard the voices of children calling to one another at play. So-they weren't taking him to Donner, so much was evident and he realised that he had made a grave miscalculation. At the very least he could expect a bad beating and from the looks of them, neither Rory nor Fergus Munro was the type who knew when to stop.

They skirted the trees and moved down into the hollow containing the camp. The three wagons were old and battered with patched canvas tilts and a depressing air of poverty hung over everything, from the ragged clothes worn by the four women who squatted round the fire drinking tea from old cans, to the bare feet of the half dozen children who played in the far meadow where three bony horses grazed.

Fergus gave Chavasse a push that sent him staggering down the hill into the hollow and the women scattered quickly. Chavasse came to his feet and turned to meet the three men as they followed him.

Hector Munro sat himself on an old box vacated by one of the women, placed his shotgun across his knees and took out a clay pipe. Fergus and Rory moved in to stand on either side of Chavasse.

'An attack on the one of us is an attack on all, Mr. Chavasse, or whatever your name is,' Old Hector began. 'The great pity you weren't knowing that before, now, isn't it?'

'It is indeed,' Chavasse said.

His right elbow sank into Fergus's stomach and he swung to the left, chopping Rory across the right forearm so that he dropped his shotgun with a startled cry of pain. In the same moment, Chavasse turned to run and stumbled headlong as one of the women stuck out her foot.

He rolled desperately to avoid the stamping feet, aware of the women's voices, the stink of their unwashed bodies, old Hector's roar rising above all. And then another voice, strangely familiar, high and clear like a bugle call, lifted into the morning and hooves drummed across the turf.

The women broke and ran and Chavasse staggered to his feet backing against the steps of one of the caravans as Asta Svensson and Max Donner rode down into the hollow. Chavasse was aware of Fergus slipping under one of the caravans, disappearing into the heather like a wraith and then Donner arrived like a descending angel, his face dark with wrath.

The hooves of his horse scattered the fire and he kicked the shotgun from Hector Munro's grasp, a blow from his mount's hindquarters sending the old man staggering. He continued across the hollow and up the other side, reining in sharply, but of Fergus there was no sign.

Asta swung to the ground and ran to Chavasse. She wore cream jodhpurs, leather jacket and white blouse, open at the neck and her hair was plaited into two short pigtails.

'Are you all right, Paul?' she said anxiously, unaware in the excitement of the moment that she had used his first name.

He grinned and held her hands. 'Just fine. I do this sort of thing most mornings. Gives me an appetite for lunch.'

Donner rode into the hollow and reined in his horse. When he looked down at Hector Munro, his face was dark and threatening. 'I told you I wanted that son of yours.'

The old man returned his stare impassively and Donner turned to Chavasse. 'I'm damned sorry about this.'

'He was fishing in the loch,' the old man interrupted. 'Trespassing. We were only obeying your orders.'

'Shut your damned mouth, you rogue,' Donner cried and his riding crop fell across the old man's face.

Munro staggered slightly and looked up with the same calm expression. 'I will remember that, big man.'

'Any more of your damned insolence and I'll have you off my land,' Donner shouted.

'I do not think so, Mr. Donner,' Hector Munro replied.

The riding crop rose again and faltered. For a moment, Donner held the old man's gaze and then he turned his horse, hauling on the bridle viciously.

'For God's sake let's get out of this kennel,' he said and spurred forward.

Chavasse gave Asta a push into the saddle and vaulted up behind her. 'Ready when you are,' he said and she laughed and urged the horse up out of the hollow and across the meadow, passing the children who were chasing each other back towards the camp in full cry.

Donner was waiting for them on the other side of the wood, standing beside his horse smoking a cigarette, the reins looped over his arm.

'Sorry about that,' he said as they rode up. 'If I'd stayed, I might have gone too far. I'm afraid that old goat really had me annoyed.'

Chavasse slid to the ground and moved to meet him. 'My fault, really. If I hadn't gone fishing where I shouldn't, none of this would have happened. Actually my uncle did tell me to stick to the stream, but I didn't think it was all that important.'

Donner looked him over and frowned. 'You're wet through. Better come back to the house with us. I'll fix you up with a change of clothes. You could stay to lunch.'

'That's nice of you,' Chavasse said. 'But I'd rather get back to the lodge. My uncle's promised to introduce me to the finer points of deer stalking this afternoon.'

Donner shrugged. 'All right, make it dinner tonight. Seven-thirty suit you? Of course I'll expect Colonel Craig as well.'

'Fine by me,' Chavasse said.

Donner climbed back into the saddle and Asta said suddenly, 'Deer stalking-that sounds simply marvellous, I don't suppose your uncle would have room for another novice this afternoon, would he?'

Chavasse hesitated, knowing that she would be in the way, and Donner grinned suddenly, as if perfectly aware of his dilemma.

'A good idea, angel. I'm sure Colonel Craig won't mind and I've lots of paper work to get through this afternoon.'

And looking up into her shining face, Chavasse was trapped. 'One o'clock on the dot,' he said, 'and we'll be leaving the lodge on foot.'

'One o'clock it is,' she replied and turned to follow Donner who was already cantering away along the track.

Chavasse reached for a cigarette, but his hand found only a soggy, waterlogged mass. He sighed heavily, turned and started to walk back towards Ardmurchan Lodge. Ah, well, he could still do all that needed to be done that afternoon without her being any the wiser as long as he was careful.

And for a while that afternoon he almost forgot what he had come to this wild, remote place for as they climbed the glen away from the lodge, cutting deep into the hills.

The colonel and George Gunn followed in their own good time and Chavasse and the girl forged ahead, leaving them far behind as they pushed through the heather towards the first great shoulder of the mountain.

She wore a plaid skirt and sleeveless white blouse, a yellow scarf around her hair and as she climbed ahead of him, he was suddenly happy. The air was like wine, the sun warm on their backs and when they reached the top and looked down, the colonel and George seemed very far away.

They moved on and a few minutes later, came over an edge of rock and the mountain fell away before them to the glen below, purple with heather, sweet smelling and beyond, shimmering in the heat haze, the islands were scattered across a calm sea.

The wind folded her skirt about her legs outlining the clean sweep of the limbs and when she pulled off the yellow scarf, the near white hair shimmered in the sun. She fitted the scene perfectly-a golden girl in a golden day and he was suddenly sad, because below in the valley was Loch Dubh, the island in its centre like a grey-green stone, and he had work to do and whatever happened she would be hurt by this affair-that much at least was certain.

'Quite a sight,' he said. 'Let's see if we can spot any deer.'

He took the binoculars from the case which was slung around his neck, focussed them and worked his way carefully across the great slope of the deer forest.

'See anything?' Asta demanded.

There was a sudden movement and a stag moved out of a corrie perhaps a quarter of a mile away and paused in the open. Chavasse pulled Asta close with his free hand. 'Down there by that grey outcrop of rock. Can you see?'

He handed her the binoculars and the breath went out of her in a long sigh. 'I'd no idea they were so handsome. Oh, blast, he's moved out of sight.'

'Probably got wind of us,' Chavasse said. 'From what my uncle was telling me, they can, even at this range.'

She handed the binoculars back and moved to the very edge of the slope and he sat down, his back against a boulder and focussed on Loch Dubh. The grey, broken walls of the old castle sprang into view. There was a square tower at one end, typical of Scottish keeps of the period, which seemed in a reasonable state of repair, but nothing moved.

He followed the shore line carefully, pausing at a wooden jetty. A motor boat was tied up there. As he watched, Jack Murdoch appeared from an arched entrance in the castle wall and walked down through the bushes to the jetty. He dropped into the boat and cast off. Chavasse was aware of the engine, echoing faintly in the valley below and then Murdoch spun the wheel and moved away.

Chavasse lowered the binoculars slowly and when he looked up, saw that Asta had turned and was staring at him, a slight frown on her face. 'Isn't that a motor boat down there on the loch?'

He nodded and got to his feet. 'It certainly looks like it.'

'That's strange,' she said. 'Max told me at lunch that there were terns nesting there this year. That he didn't want them disturbed which was why he's banned the fishing this season. I should have thought a motor boat would have disturbed them even more.'

'Oh, I don't know,' Chavasse said. 'He probably wants to keep an eye on them.'

She still looked dubious and, in a deliberate attempt to steer the conversation away from the dangerous course it had taken, he pointed down the hillside to where a stone hut nestled in a hollow a couple of hundred feet below.

'That'll be the deer stalker's bothy my uncle said we'd make for. Come on-let's see what you're made of.'

He grabbed her hand and plunged down the mountainside and Asta Svensson shrieked in delight as they rushed downwards, stumbling over tussocks, never stopping until they reached the hollow.

They went over the edge, sliding the last few feet and then she lost her balance and fell, dragging Chavasse with her. They rolled over twice and came to rest in the soft cushion of the heather. She lay on her back, breathless with laughter and Chavasse pushed himself up on one elbow to look down at her.

Her laughter faded and in a strangely simple gesture, she reached up and touched his face gently and for one long moment he forgot everything except the colour of that wonderful hair, the scent of her in his nostrils. When they kissed, her body was soft and yielding and she was all sweetness and honey, everything a man could desire.

He rolled on his back and she pushed herself up on one elbow, looking utterly complacent. 'Not unexpected, but very satisfactory.'

'Put it down to the altitude,' he said. 'I'm sorry.'

'I'm not.'

'You should be. I'm fifteen years too old for you.'

'Now that's the English side of you coming out,' she said. 'The only country in Europe where age is presumed to have a dampening effect on love.'

He lit a cigarette without answering and she sighed and leaned over him, a frown on her face. 'Each time we meet I have the same feeling-that somehow, you are in two places at once. Here in person, somewhere else in thought.'

'You're a romantic, that's all,' he said lazily.

'Am I?' she said. 'But this raises limitless possibilities. I can imagine anything I want, for example.'

'Such as?'

'Oh, that you are not what you seem to be. That you followed me over the mountain for a deeper reason than you admitted. That you aren't even a university lecturer.'

'That's licence, not imagination,' he said lightly.

'Oh, but I'm not the only one to think so.'

He turned to look at her sharply and, suddenly, his face was wiped clean of all expression, the face of a stranger. 'And who else indulges in this kind of fantasy?'

'Max,' she said. 'I heard him talking to Ruth last night. He told her to get in touch with Essex University. To check on you.'

Chavasse laughed harshly. 'Perhaps he wonders whether I'm after your money. I don't think he's pleased to see other men in your life.'

She rolled on to her back and stared up into the sky, her face troubled. 'He's over-protective, that's all. Sometimes I think that perhaps I resemble my mother too much for his comfort.'

Chavasse reached out and took her hand gently. 'Are you afraid of him?'

It was a long moment before she replied. 'Yes, I think I am, which is strange, because just as surely, I know he could never hurt me.'

She drew a deep breath and scrambled to her feet. 'But this is nonsense. I came out for the deer-stalking, not psycho-analysis.'

A cry drifted down to them on the warm air and they looked up to see Colonel Craig and George Gunn above them on the shoulder.

'This way, you two,' the old man cried.

She turned to face Chavasse, her face calm and yet there was something very close to an appeal in her eyes and he took her hands in his.

'I would never willingly see you hurt, Asta. Do you believe that?'

Something seemed to go out of her in a long sigh and she leaned against him. 'Oh, I needed to hear that, Paul. You'll never know how much.'

He kissed her gently on the mouth and when they went up the hill, they walked hand in hand.