The Tasting Menu

Course 6 The Sky Is Falling In

Confit Poussin “lollypops”, sautéed Chicken Liver, Talisker-&-Cranberry jelly, Beetroot powder, and Micro Herbs

Sometime during the meal the fog had disappeared, leaving the sky full of stars. A rich inky darkness that faded to indigo where it kissed the mountain and treetops, with the Milky Way spread from horizon to horizon.

The sparkling heavens were reflected in the mirror-still loch, making it look as if Alex was floating in space as she sat on a rock at the water’s edge, her feet dangling just above the infinite void. Sipping from a tumbler of something.

At least she seemed to have sobered-up/calmed-down a bit...

Now the haar had disappeared, the other hotel “rooms” made pale white shapes in the moonless night, spread out along the shore, with the moorland sweeping out from the other bank, all the way to the island’s central peak. The primeval shadow of woods bracketing the whole scene.

Michael stepped off the path and walked towards Alex’s rock, carrying the bottle of white wine he’d liberated from the minibar in his room, and a couple of glasses. A peace offering of sorts. “Hey.”

She kept her eyes on the stars. Took another drink. “Don’t, OK?”

“You’re a silly prick, you know that, don’t you.”

“Easy for you to say with your film deals and your vaults full of cash.”

She never stopped, did she.

“I didn’t—”

“I helped you out with research and legal stuff and police procedure for decades, and what did I get?”

Michael let a long flat breath rattle free. “Come on, we’ve been over—”

“Sod all. That’s what.” This time it wasn’t a sip, it was a swig. “I get sod all and he gets a cushy retirement on the Costa del Crime!”

“I thought you helped because we’re friends, Alex. Just like Victor. ’Cause he doesn’t get a slice of the royalties either. All he gets is a slap-up meal in a fancy restaurant after every book launch, same as you. Because. We’re. Friends.”

Something moved in the deep dark water, sending ripples out to distort the reflections. Making the stars quake.

Suppose it was time she found out. “The reason Victor set all this up — the trip, the fancy restaurant, the swanky rooms — the reason he’s paying for all this is he’s dying.”

Alex snorted. “Fuck off.”

“It’s true!” Michael sat on the rock next to hers. “You saw him repeating himself, right? The ‘French Bob, dog food’ story? He does that all the time now. Not bad enough he’s riddled with cancer; the dementia’s getting worse.”

She stopped stargazing and stared at him. “Wait a minute, cancer? When did this happen? Dementia?”

“That’s why he disappeared for a couple months in June — first round of chemo.”

“He told me he shaved his head because someone said it made him look younger!”

Deep breath. “The point is—”

“Why did nobody say anything?” Her face pinched. “You bastards always do this.”

“Alex, please, this isn’t—”

“You’ve excluded me from the very start, haven’t you. You and Victor, in your little all-boys-together club, shutting me out!”

Here we go again...

“It’s not about you, OK? It’s about Victor.” Michael waved a hand in the vague direction of Victor’s room. “He’s dying. And instead of rallying around, instead of helping, you’re throwing a tantrum! Like a spoiled child.”

“I am not—”

“This trip’s the last one we’ll ever take together, OK? It’s meant to build memories we can hold on to after he’s gone.” He filled his voice with disappointment. “Is this what you want to remember?”

Silence settled across the loch.

Alex finished whatever was in her tumbler. Then looked away. Shrugged.

Michael unscrewed the top from the wine, filled one of the glasses and handed it to her. “There’s no vaults full of cash. Twenty years ago: oh yeah. But now?” He puffed out his cheeks, deflating along with them. “Before I met Victor, I was writing books full of existential angst and convoluted sentences, and they’d get rave reviews in the literary press, but no one wanted to actually read them. They certainly didn’t want to buy the things.” He filled a glass of his own. “Then I meet Victor in Barlinnie Prison—”

“You were doing a talk, he was doing six years. I know. Everyone knows.” A wee bitter laugh. “Joke’s on you, though. Swanning around like he’s Tony Soprano; Victor was never more than a low-level bagman for the MacDougals. A glorified accountant.”

Oh...

“Point is, he inspired me. He’s the reason I abandoned literary fiction and started writing gangster novels instead. He’s the reason I reached out to you for the police side of things. Bestseller lists, film deals, a villa in Provence, mantelpiece groaning with awards, two marriages, two divorces... I even turned down an OBE once, did you know that?”

Her eyebrows went up, so clearly she didn’t.

“And now look at me.” He took a mouthful of wine — cold and round and buttery. “My publisher’s rejected the latest book. Apparently people want their crime fiction ‘cosy’ these days.” His shoulder drooped even further. “No one wants gangsters anymore.”

Alex stared into her Chardonnay. “If it’s any consolation, no one wants retired police officers, either.”

Yeah.

Michael nodded, then raised his glass. “A toast.”

It took a couple of breaths, but she raised hers in reply. “Go on then.”

“Fuck the lot of them!”

A wee smile and Alex clinked glasses. “Fuck the lot of them.”

They drank, sitting there in silence as a shooting star streaked its way across the night sky. Strange to think that little rock had travelled millions, possibly billions of miles, for countless eons, only to go out in a fleeting blaze of glory on a cold Scottish night. And they were the only people to witness it. Bit heavy-handed as metaphors went, but appropriate, nonetheless.

Alex checked her watch. “Too late tonight. I’ll apologise tomorrow. And then I’ll batter the living crap out of him for not telling me he’s dying.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

And they did.