An Ocean Apart (22 page)

“Which means?”

“Which means that, at this moment in time the family's shareholding in Glendurnich is quite seriously eroded.”

“By how much, Duncan?”

“Well, I've found it bloody difficult to find out anything without causing suspicion. For some reason, Robert McLeod, the financial director, has never shown it in the accounts, but from what I can gather, I'm pretty sure that thirty-one per cent of the Glendurnich shares are now in the hands of the work-force.”

“Excellent! I mean, it's not a majority shareholding, but it's a real arm-twister as far as we're concerned. And you reckon that the family are unaware of this?”

“They may very well be, but I don't think that they have an iota as to what the possible implications might be. Anyway, they don't seem to know if they're coming or going at the minute. My idea of sending David Corstorphine out to the States seems to have killed two birds with one stone. I spoke with Charles Deakin in New York earlier this afternoon, and not only have we managed to engineer his company's appointment as the new distributor, but also David seems to have suffered some sort of breakdown during the meeting and ended up by storming out of the building.”

“Not the kind of behaviour one would expect from the marketing director of a bespoke malt whisky company.”

“Exactly. So I immediately called old Inchelvie in Glasgow to break the news to him, and told him that we needed a new marketing director in place immediately. I actually felt quite sorry for the old duffer.”

“And?”

“He agreed to it on a one-year contract. So you can tell Giles Barker to get up here straight away. He's got a new job!”

“Well done, Duncan. So what have we got? Deakin in the States, Giles taking on marketing. What about Robert What's'isname, the financial director?”

“That's fixed too. Robert McLeod is off to run some golf course at the end of the month, so I've appointed Keith Archibald of Northern Maltsters as financial director.”

“Brilliant. So we're just about ready to start the campaign. When do you think that you'll be ready to begin dangling the carrot in front of the work-force?”

“Not just yet, John. I reckon I'll have to do some pretty heavy spadework on the old man first. He's so damned protective of his son, and judging from Charles Deakin's description of his behaviour at the meeting in New York, I'm pretty sure that once David's back in this country, Inchelvie will have to come to terms with the fact quite quickly that neither of them is capable of running Glendurnich. At that point I'm sure he'll be more than willing to negotiate with us, especially if the work-force are on our side. That's how I read the situation anyway.”

“So, what's your plan of action?”

“Well, I'll get together a sale proposal with the help of Giles and Keith over here, and Charles Deakin in the States, and once I feel the time is right to approach Inchelvie, I'll coincide it with circulating the proposal to all the worker shareholders. It's a two-pronged attack, but it is imperative that Inchelvie and the workforce come to the same decision at exactly the same time. That about sums it up. Timing is of the essence.”

“Well, if you say so. But don't leave it too long. You know how important it is for Kirkpatrick to get hold of Glendurnich as soon as possible. It's the missing link.”

“Yes, I know.”

“All right then, and by the way, I have had words with the Kirkpatrick board, and they have agreed on your fee note of half a million pounds, but that obviously depends on the successful outcome of the deal. Nevertheless, you could let me know sometime whether you will be wanting that as a straight fee payment or whether you want a proportion paid in Glendurnich shares.”

“Right, I will do.”

“Okay—well, keep pushing it as hard as you can. I'll contact you in a week to see how things are progressing.”

“No, don't do that. Let me contact you. It's just that the old battleaxe on the reception desk at Glendurnich is as fiercely loyal to the Inchelvies as any, and I'm just not too sure how confidential telephone calls are when they pass through her switchboard.”

“Maybe a replacement is in order, then, Duncan?”

“Maybe. In time. Trust me, I'll play it right. There's too much at stake here.”

Duncan pressed the “end” button on the telephone and sat back in the BMW's plush leather driving seat, a smile of deep satisfaction on his face. Then, letting out a loud whoop of elation, he slammed both hands down on the steering wheel and pressed the accelerator to the floor, letting the powerful machine blast its way down the empty road, only easing back on the throttle when it had peaked at exactly twice the sixty-miles-perhour speed limit.

Chapter
  
FOURTEEN

Although his influenza bug had virtually burned itself out within the first twenty-four hours, David felt no desire to leave the haven of his room during the next few days. Time became an unimportant entity in his existence, and the hours were only registered by the sound of Carrie who, at his own request, would simply leave a tray of food or a cup of tea outside his door, without venturing into his room. Through his window, light gave way to darkness, then back to light, but he never attempted to coincide any form of living pattern with it. He tried to sleep as much as possible, desperate to break away from the repetitive thought process that constantly gnawed at his mind, but much of the time he found himself lying awake on the bed or pacing the floor into the early hours of the morning.

Since Wednesday, he had left his room only to use the lavatory, returning immediately so that he might avoid coming into contact with either Carrie or Richard. All pride in his own personal appearance had become as unnecessary as any form of daily routine, and he now constantly scratched at his face, which itched with two days' worth of stubble. Yet obtusely, it satisfied his frame of mind, accentuating his self-induced penance and in harmony with his own deep lack of self-respect. Self, self. That was all it was now. Self-respect, self-disgust. In the past, to think constantly of Rachel had been acceptable to him, but somehow everything had become distorted, and his thoughts now were only of himself—no, probably
for
himself, his mind relentlessly churning over and over a catechism of words that helped to prove just how miserable and hopeless a human being he had become.

That evening, as he had done countless times before, he rose slowly from the unmade bed and walked over to the shelf and leaned his hands on its rough surface, his head, feeling like a leaden weight, drooping so that his chin rested on his chest.

Christ, what was it? What the hell was it? He had been all right when he came over from Scotland, and then somehow everything had gone wrong. Why? He had to try to reason it out. He pushed himself away from the shelf and continued to pace the floor, then stopped abruptly at the window, his actions frozen as he looked out at the darkening day, the merest splinter of enlightened thought breaking through the throbbing dullness in his brain.

That's it. You
were
all right when you came over from Scotland. You had felt quite happy being one of the crowd in the airport, because no one knew you, no one cared about you, no one had any idea of your past, present or future. You were a carefree nonentity. But that all changed the moment you walked into this house, because Richard
knew.
It's not just that you screwed everything up over here. You're frightened, aren't you? Frightened of your own identity, frightened to go back to Scotland, frightened to re-enter that tight claustrophobic environment where everyone knows you and everyone cares about you, and everyone looks at you with sad eyes, and talks about you in low whispers.

He walked over to the bed and fell back on it, gazing up to the ceiling. Keep thinking—that's it—keep thinking. What the hell
do
you want, David?

“I want to be—
alone!
” he said out loud, “just—
unknown!
I don't particularly want to be—David—fucking—Corstorphine—any bloody more!”

He turned over on his side and clutched his knees up to his chest. Free from responsibility, free from identity. It sounded like the song of a protest march. He snorted out a weak laugh and shook his head, the action amplifying in his ear the scraping sound of his stubble against the pillow. It was an impossibility, he knew that, but at least it was something on which he could concentrate his mind, something on which he was quite happy to expand his thoughts. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in two days the tightness in his head slowly abated.

He was awakened the next morning by a burst of sunlight shining through the window and onto his face. Blinking, he turned his head towards the door to avoid the brightness, and in his drowsy state suddenly became aware of an overpowering smell. He opened his eyes and found that he was lying with his hands linked above his head, his nose resting about six inches from his armpit.

“Bloody hell!”

He pushed himself up from the bed too quickly, and for a moment weaved unsteadily about in the centre of the room while his headspin subsided. He pulled off his T-shirt and forcefully discarded it onto the shelf, knocking over a small vanity mirror onto the floor in the process. He froze momentarily and stared down at it, wondering whether he had just condemned himself to a further seven years of bad luck. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up. It was unbroken. With a sigh of relief, he replaced it carefully on the shelf, and in doing so caught a fleeting glimpse of his new self. He held it up close to his face. His hair stuck up in punkish peaks from his head; his face, under its dirty cover of stubble, was pale and drawn, and the dark brown rings that surrounded his eyes seemed to sink them back into the depths of his skull. What did he look like? What single word could possibly describe this disgusting apparition?

A slug.

That was it. He was a slug—hiding away under its stupid, bloody stone.

The deep anger that suddenly built up within him seemed to trigger off a defence mechanism in his brain. That's it—no more. He glanced at his watch. It was seven-thirty. Right, you stupid prick, time to get your act together.

He grabbed a towel, picked up his sponge-bag and and walked out across the landing. He stopped. The door to Richard's room was still closed and he could hear him quietly snoring from within. He scratched at his head. God, what day was it? Richard must either be working from home that day or it was Saturday. In either case, he didn't want to be seen in his present state. He tiptoed into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

At first the water was cold, but it suited him, invigorating his mood as he scrubbed hard at his body with the sweet-smelling soap. Then, as the stream of water began to heat up, he poured out a dollop of shampoo and gave his hair the same purging treatment, repeating both operations before turning off the shower and stepping out of the bath, clean and renewed in body, if not in mind.

Five minutes and one and a half disposable razors later, he had rid himself of his stubble, finishing off by splashing stinging handfuls of after-shave onto the uncustomary softness of his face. Lastly, he gave his armpits an extra-long spray of deodorant before gathering up his belongings and heading back across the landing.

His room smelt so dank and airless when he returned to it that he immediately opened the window as wide as it would go, instantly feeling the warmth of the early-morning sun on his bare chest. He took a clean pair of jeans, shirt and boxer shorts from his suitcase and, having dressed, sat back on his bed and looked around. He didn't want to be there any longer. Its atmosphere had become too oppressive, too reminiscent of depression. He wanted to get away from it. In fact, right away from the house, away from where he was known.

He jumped up, galvanized into action by this thought. Picking up his wallet from the shelf, he put on a pair of boating shoes, then opened the door and quietly made his way downstairs and into the kitchen. He unsnibbed the French doors and let himself out onto the deck, carefully closing the door behind him.

He stood for a moment gulping in deep, reviving breaths of the fresh warm air before taking the wooden steps two at a time and walking down the driveway. He stopped at the bottom, looked up and down the street, then, with a decisive nod, turned right towards the main street.

The slug had made it.

It was too early for any of the shops to be open, so he strolled along the sidewalk looking in the windows at the goods on display. There were already a number of people about, walking dogs or carrying newspapers under their arms, and many of those who passed him smiled and said “Good morning.” He reciprocated the greeting, each time feeling his spirits lift more.

Half-way along the main street, David came across the highest concentration of people outside the Leesport Deli. Men dressed in shorts and T-shirts leaned against large pick-up trucks parked at the side of the road, discussing their forthcoming day's work over bulging rolls and huge Styrofoam cupfuls of steaming coffee. The sight and the smell suddenly made David feel ravenously hungry, so he entered and joined on the back of the queue at the far end of the shop, filling in time until it was his turn by studying the menu on the long pegboard that hung above the counter. A continuous banter went on between those in the queue and the three young men in white aprons that served behind the counter.

“Who's next?” one of the young men called out, wiping his hands on his apron.

Already waiting for their order, those in front of David stood aside to allow him through to the counter. “How can I help you?” the young man asked, smiling at David.

David looked up at the list above his head. “Can I have an egg-and-bacon roll, please?”

“Okay, coming up.”

The deli-man turned and bumped into one of his colleagues. “Lose some weight, Joe!” He let out a raucous laugh and ducked as Joe swung a mock punch at his head. He turned back to David. “How would you like your egg?”