Flower of Scotland 2 (8 page)

"What’s it for?"

"Well," he said. "Originally it was for the home entertainment industry. They wanted something that could track and monitor how you played games … you know, all the little twitches and movements of the controller that are different for every individual? They wanted to use the learning power of the new chip to tailor each game to each person, so that the computer can learn what you’re good at … and more importantly, what you’re bad at. They’ve even been experimenting with voice recognition and vocal control to get rid of manual controllers completely."

"That must take a lot of computing power."

"You’d better believe it," he said. "This wee beauty can go ten times faster than anything else on the market. It’s right up there with the Cray that gets used for weather forecasting."

He hadn’t noticed it, but he’d lost his accent as soon as he started talking technology, and lapsed in to his ‘Sunday’ voice. He stopped talking when he saw that I had switched off.

"OK," he said, taking pity on me. "Here’s the gen. Once they started building it in the lab they realised they had a side effect. It worked even better than they imagined at collecting information and recording it. It’ll record onythin’ that ye play to it, and they havnae reached its limit. It’s a bottomless pit, like."

I’ll admit it. I was amazed. "You mean you could put the complete works of Dylan into that little box? Clear off a whole shelf of albums and replace it with a fag packet?"

He laughed. "Ye can dae that already wi’ an IPod," he said. "Naw. This is a wee bit special…there’s mair tae it," he moved over to the stereo and plugged his new toy in. "Jist you wait. It’s gonnae blaw yer heid aff."

The box intrigued me, I must admit. I’m not too hot on technology, but even I know that Sony don’t let stuff like that out of their research labs - especially not to a long haired ageing hippie enthusiast who just happened to want to hear how it sounded.

I suspected a put on. "Hey John, what else does it do?"

He turned, a questioning look on his face. "Whit dae ye mean?"

"Well, does it make coffee? Or does it light your fags for you?"

He was annoyed with me - I could see it. It was a rare sight. John rarely lost his cool, but he was close to it now.

"Ye think ah’m hivin ye on? Let me tell you boy, this is effin huge. The hale world needs tae ken aboot it."

I finally saw the look of guilt on his face.

"Oh John. You didn’t?"

"That ah did," he said, finally smiling. "And no’ fae Sony either. This wee beastie came fae the Uni … fae the biotech research lab. Ah heard aboot it on the grapevine, like. I wiz oot the back hivin’ a fag and wan o’ the techie guys telt me all aboot the side effects they’d found. The fella’ telt me it sounded better than his Hi—Fi….and he’s got a Bose 1740! Ah kent there and then that I hid tae hiv a look at it. I slipped in tae the lab later. There wiz naebody lookin’, so ah thocht ah’d jist take it for the night, just tae try it oot."

I saw now why he had invited me - he needed someone to tell him it was all right. He’d stolen a piece of technology, worth God knows how much, and was using it to record his album collection, and he wanted my approval. Sometimes I wondered if he would ever grow up.

"Ye hiv tae hear it," he said, fiddling with something at the back of his box of tricks. I knew that it didn’t matter to him what the connections were - he was able to knock up anything electrical in no time. He was talking, still trying to convince me that what he’d done wasn’t really bad. He was back in geek-speak, and his accent disappeared again.

"They’ve been having some trouble with the buses and RAM connectivity in the lab. And they’ve not quite found the correct resistor to maintain a steady current through the bionic parts of the cell. But the recording and playback has been perfected, and you know what I’m like with the electrics. I’ve knocked up an interface for it. Just wait till you hear it."

He did something at the front of the box and the music began.

Have you ever wanted to hear John Lennon sing Bat out of Hell? Or Madonna murdering When I’m Sixty Four?

"Whit is this shit?" John whispered.

"Sounds like those intelligent proteins learn just a wee bit too quickly," I said.

We both sat there, stunned, as the amalgam continued. Celine Dion and Janis Joplin duets, Jimi Hendrix and Slash throwing riffs at each other. Weird is not the word for it.

After we’d had a beer, John did some experimenting. What he had stolen turned out to be the world’s best mixing machine. It could pick up the nuances from one musician and transport his playing style into any other song. After a while we had Hendrix playing on Stairway to Heaven and Eminem dueting with Otis Redding and Sam Cooke.

"Yer bloody right," John said. "It’s effin’ brilliant man. It’s yer ultimate Karaoke boax!"

I could foresee some problems, which I pointed out to him. It wasn’t ours, we didn’t know how it worked, we had no idea how to program it, and it seemed to play what it wanted, not what you wanted it to. We were arguing about it while Elvis sang with Robert Plant on Bohemian Rhapsody. Then Hendrix came back … only it wasn’t quite him.

Hey Joe started.

"Haw Jimmy, where ye goan wi’ yon shooter?"

It had picked up John’s accent perfectly.

"Did you record yourself?" I asked.

He stared back, wide-eyed, and shook his head.

"Then I think we’re in trouble."

I turned towards the machine, but my coordination was off. I knocked over my beer can. It fell on its side and beer bubbled over the box.

It soaked in, and the box seemed to swell and grow, so slightly that I wasn’t quite sure what I was seeing.

Britney Spears came on singing "Little Old Wine Drinker Me," then thick black smoke started to curl from the rear of the box.

We both lunged for the power cable. I reached it first, but I was too late to stop the box from overheating. It exploded, sending a small cloud of oily smoke out to hang in the middle of the room.That wasn’t all. Our clothes were covered in tiny yellow dots, like pollen grains. Looking around I could see that the whole room was spotted with them, including the sleek black casing of John’s stereo.

I managed to pull one off my T-shirt and rub it between my fingers. It burst with a tiny popping sound leaving an oily smear across my palm.

"What the hell is this?" I asked, showing John the smear.

He looked over at me, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and wonder.

"Spores," he said in a hushed voice.

We spent the next hour cleaning up, breaking the remains of the box into as many small pieces as possible and cleaning the oily grease from the surfaces in the living-room. The yellow dots were the most persistent but we managed to get rid of most of them after I discovered that they could be taken off our clothing with a piece of Sellotape. We spent a good half hour trying to track them all down. We burnt the Sellotape and afterwards went for a walk and distributed the remains of the black box in various locations as we made our way round the pubs. When we split up later that evening, both more than a little the worse for drink, John made me swear an oath of secrecy, just like when we were kids.

Over the next week we scanned the newspapers and TV reports for any mention of the black box, but all was quiet. John was getting paranoid, seeing secret service agents around every corner and it was becoming harder and harder to coax him out of his flat. He kept complaining about problems with his stereo system, but that was an old story. He always had problems with his system.

Maybe I should have listened more when he was talking about the problems - but then again, I don’t think it would have made any difference. There was only one thing that stood out as being out of the ordinary that week, and I didn’t make the connection at the time, but I can now see how it all fits in.

It was Wednesday night. John called me and his tone was strange. I’d heard him excited before of course, but this time there was something else there, something that sounded like fear … or madness.

"Pit yer telly on tae BBC 1," he said, "Tell me whit ye see."

I did as I was told.

"The Prime Minister is giving a party political broadcast," I told him. "He’s sitting at a desk looking serious."

And then John asked a strange question. "Whit’s he wearing oan his heid?"

I was stumped. "Just his hair," I said. "What’s the problem?

"You don’t see the ‘See You Jimmy’ hat?"

I laughed, just about the same time as he started to sob.

"Are you all right John?" I asked.

He took a while to answer.

"Jist a wee bit worse the wear fur drink," he said. "Don’t mind me."

He hung up.

I didn’t think any more about it until later that week.

I was watching the news on the TV. The Prime Minister was on again, being interviewed over Foreign Policy.

"So Prime Minister," the interviewer said. "What are you going to do about the situation in the Middle East?"

The PM jutted out his chin.

"Let me tell you boy," he said, "Ah’m fair scunnered wi’ the hale business. As ah wiz telling the Chooky Embra ower a swally, it’s long past time we gave them a doin’, so it is."

I watched, open mouthed, as he put his arm around the interviewer.

"See you, ya bampot; you’re ma best pal by the way."

I realised how far things had gone when I was waking over to John’s place. Several people walked past looking at their iPod; they were obviously not playing what was expected. I stopped one of them - a guy I knew vaguely through an old friend - and he let me listen to what was supposedly Franz Ferdinand, but had turned into Harry Lauder. And instead of Roamin’ in the gloamin’, he was Wankin’ doon the bankin’.

I passed the TV rental shop and Billy Connolly was being interviewed by Ewan McGregor, followed by Sean Connery reading the weather, while on another TV set in the window massed ranks of pipers and drummers marched through all the capital cities of the world playing ‘Scotland the Brave.’And everywhere, if you looked closely enough, there were thousands of the tiny, yellow, pollen like grains.

It took five minutes shouting and three minutes’ worth of threats of physical violence before I could get John to open the door. He was drunk and had been crying, and I could see why as soon as I entered the living room. His stereo system - all those sleek black boxes on which he’d spent the best part of ten thousand pounds - had been reduced to a pile of broken rubble, its electrical intestines strewn across the floor.

I was almost speechless.

"Who? What?" I managed to say, then, seeing the look in his eyes, "Why?"

He motioned at the centre of the room. He’d moved the television back in and he was watching a game show. Rabbie Burns was the question master and the panel contained Scotty from Star Trek, Lulu, Sir Walter Scott and Mel Gibson in full Braveheart make-up. Suddenly it changed to a football match. I didn’t have my glasses on but I knew something wasn’t right. As I moved closer I could see what it was. The players were all mutton pies on legs, kitted out in full football strip.

Behind me John roared with laughter and cried, heavy, sparkling tears.

"Ye see whit we’ve din? We’ve made telly watch-able. We let the wee buggers oot and they’ve goat everywhere."

He seemed to be genuinely amused.

"Is it no’ just pure brilliant?"

After thinking about it for a bit I had to agree with him. The programmes were a definite improvement on what passed as entertainment on British television.

"But what if the authorities find out?" I wanted to know.

He passed me a beer and we settled down in front of the TV.

"Ye’ll be a hero. Apairt fae wan wee thing."

He was being serious for a moment and I saw his look stray to the remains of his stereo. The tears were back in his eyes.

"Don’t try listening tae the radio. The wee bastards like Jimmy Shand."

Jim McLeod waved to the departing dinghy but old Joe didn’t wave back and in less than a minute the Zodiac was lost from sight round the headland.

"You’ll be OK on your own," Joe had said as he left. It hadn’t been a question. Jim stood on the jetty, conflicting thoughts running through his mind. Of course he was proud that Joe thought him capable enough of running the light on his own. But that had to be balanced against the fact that he faced the prospect of two nights on his own on this lump of rock with only the North Atlantic weather for company.

Still, it couldn’t be helped.

The call had come through just an hour ago. Joe’s wife had been taken to hospital. The old man had taken a bit of coaxing but eventually Jim had got him into the dinghy.

"It’s probably nothing," the old man said.

"That’s true," Jim replied. "But you’d never forgive yourself if it’s more than that. Away wi’ you. I’ll be fine here."

Joe took his time preparing, and Jim caught him looking at the radio, expecting a call that would tell him the three-hour trip across the Minch wouldn’t be required. But no call had come, and finally the old man had bowed to the inevitable and headed off at speed.

He’d only been gone two minutes, and already Jim found the quiet pressing in on him, an almost physical presence. To make matters worse, a front hung offshore and was rolling in fast. By the time Jim walked up the jetty and into the old lighthouse rain had started to patter on the cobbles and darkness was gathering.

He went inside and shut the weather out. The first order of business was to get the light started. He almost ran up the stairs to the light room.

Beyond the glass everything was awash, the rain running in a flat sheet down the window like a huge water feature. Jim switched on the light and the horn. Up here the noise was almost deafening. He had turned away at the second woot to go back downstairs, when an answering noise came from out to the west. He wasn’t really sure he’d heard it at all… it had sounded like chanting.

He strained to see through the glass, but there was only watery grayness beyond. He put his nose up against the window. As if from the far distance he heard it again, the sound of a choir joined in singing.