Whirligig (26 page)

‘I thought it was great,' said Coky. ‘Harry's pretty wonderful, isn't he?'

Claypole tasted acid in his mouth.

‘I suppose lots of women fancy him,' he said, and looked closely for Coky's reaction. It was not what he expected. She giggled. ‘You don't think so?'

‘I'm sure they do, Gordon.' She turned to him with a grin. ‘But they'd have to be a unique kind of chick to have any luck.'

‘Eh?'

‘You'd have to be a woman with a cock to get anywhere with Harry.'

‘Oh,' said Claypole. ‘Ah.' And his poor heart soared with hope once more.

‘Come and have a drink with me,' she said. ‘I noticed you haven't been drinking all evening. Is that for… your health, or… will you have a whisky now?'

If she asked him to, he would drink poison.

‘Yeah. OK,' he said, looking out across the dance floor as nonchalantly as he could manage. He saw the man he recognised from the community hall as Kevin Watt, the
Glenmorie Herald
journalist, and they met eyes. There was something about the man's expression that Claypole didn't like, so he looked away quickly and followed Coky outside. The garden was busy. Everyone searched for cool night air when they weren't dancing, and most were smoking. Claypole noticed the wide variety of different smoking apparatus. There were pipes, cigars, cigarillos, roll-ups and ready-made cigarettes of every description, from eclectic luxury to standard budget.

‘Scotland really likes a smoke,' he said as they sat on a bench.

‘Yup,' she said. ‘They make it look fun, don't they?'

He thought for a moment, and then asked her, ‘Have you given up?'

She smiled. ‘I was wondering when you were going to notice. That's why I've been trying to stay off the booze. Drinking makes me want to smoke, so… Enjoyed the wine tonight, though.'

He nodded. ‘That's why I thought…'

‘Yeah.'

And the two of them watched the gathering, passing lighters and cans of beer and hipflasks to and fro, and laughing.

‘Hey, Gordon.' She took the top off a flask and handed it to him. ‘What
does
the “S” stand for?'

Claypole tensed. Did he dare tell her? The one thing he refused to be was ridiculous. And yet, he could hardly demur again. Claypole looked into Coky's eyes. They were not swivelling exactly – but they were drifting
gently hither and thither in their sockets. Good, he thought. She might be drunk enough not to remember it later. On the other hand, perhaps she would go and blurt it to anyone who would listen. That's what had happened at school. All those boys in blazers they hadn't bought from Oxfam, whose fathers drove large cars and were still alive, would barge him around in the cold corridors. And even though that was ancient history, it still hurt.

‘My middle name is… Sisyphus.'

The silence was edible.

‘Yeah. My parents thought it was cool. Sisyphus was the king of Corinth who tried to get one over on the gods of Olympus. He was condemned for eternity to push a boulder up a mountain without ever getting to the top. Brr. My parents thought it was an interesting classical allusion. And because they were such smartarses, I got called Sissy for ten years.'

Coky nodded gravely.

‘That's nothing. I've got a
really
stupid name.'

Claypole looked confused.

‘What, Coky? It's a brr… nice name.'

‘Thanks, but…' Coky was shaking her head.

‘What is it then?' he asked.

‘Well, Coky is short for something, for a start…' The knobble on the end of her nose twitched.

‘Oh,' said Claypole. ‘I thought it was Lithuanian.'

Coky laughed. ‘
Lithuanian?
'

‘That's what you get for Googling,' he said sheepishly.

‘The name on my birth certificate is Cocaine.'

Claypole's mouth gently dropped open.

‘Yup,' said Coky, her jaw hardening. ‘And I have another name… Danger.'

Coky shrugged. Claypole's brow wrinkled. Then he smiled. Then he checked her expression to see if his smile was allowed. She sighed, and Claypole laughed.

‘As in…?'

‘Yup. Just so I can say… “my middle name is Danger”.'

‘Cocaine Danger Viveksananda. What idiots,' said Claypole quietly, but with feeling. Then he thought he might have offended Coky, so he apologised.

‘No, you're right,' she said. ‘They were idiots. But my dad didn't speak much English at the time, and my mum was very young. Nineteen, she
says
.'

They both computed in silence.

‘So,' said Claypole. ‘We have that in common. Our parents were… Brr…'

Coky looked at him. ‘We're a bit more alike than somebody might think,' she said, ‘from the outside.'

‘Right.'

Claypole was stunned. We are not alike
at all
, he wanted to say. In almost no way similar, we are completely, wonderfully different. But, he wanted also to shout, we could be compatible. We could…

But he said nothing and just looked dumbly at her eyes as she smiled at those who passed by.

Neither Claypole nor Coky saw Kevin Watt approaching them from behind in the semi-darkness.

‘Fee. Fi. Fo. Fum,' said the journalist, and Claypole and Coky both looked round. ‘You might want to see tomorrow's paper, Mr Claypole.'

There was a dangerous expression on Kevin Watt's face as he produced a slim newspaper from his pocket. ‘You should have returned my calls.'

Gordon is a moron.

‘Gordon is a Moron‘, Jilted John

The Glenmorie Herald

WIND FARM CHIEF IS INTERNET FRAUDSTER

A special investigation by Kevin Watt

MORE controversy has hit the beleaguered Loch Garvach Wind Farm with the news that its spokesman, Londoner Gordon Claypole, may be about to petition for bankruptcy.

Mr Claypole, 35, who is a last-minute addition to the team trying to get planning permission for the controversial wind farm and yet confesses to having no experience of the energy business, has been discovered to be in severe financial difficulties. He claims to be a wealthy internet entrepreneur, but this reporter has discovered that he is nothing of the kind.

A credit check on Gordon S. Claypole reveals that his mortgage payments are nine months in
arrears, he has credit card debts of £40,000, and has exceeded his overdraft at Hunter Chase Bank. When asked whether Mr Claypole was being foreclosed upon over his debts to the bank, a spokesman said, ‘We do not comment, on individual bankruptcy cases at the bank.' But this reporter has discovered that there is a petition for bankruptcy pending for a G.S. Claypole at Mr Claypole's last known address. Mr Claypole's internet and television production business, Pumpkin Productions, has a winding-up order pending on it over unpaid business rates at its former headquarters in London's seedy Soho district.

This revelation follows on the heels of an ill-tempered community meeting on Tuesday, where many residents of the Loch Garvach area tried to voice their concerns about the wind farm to the company. Mr Claypole floundered in the face of locals' questioning. Councillor Helen MacDougall told the
Glenmorie Herald
: ‘He didn't know, or was unwilling to provide, the detailed answers that this community is entitled to. The plans for the Loch Garvach Wind Farm are clearly in chaos.'

Mr Claypole, who has refused to comment, spoke at the Garvachhead Community Hall, during which he claimed to be about to start a brand of women's underwear with Virgin boss Sir Richard Branson. In front of a packed crowd he said, ‘I am not an expert on wind farms. If you want an expert, go and hire your own.'

The Loch Garvach Wind Farm has been beset with problems ever since the development company Aeolectricity Ltd was liquidated in May. Mr Claypole is said to have taken a stake in
the venture, but Companies House records indicate that he has as yet paid nothing for his shares and he is not a director of the company.

As at the time of going to press, Mr Claypole was also in breach of contract on a car rental agreement, owing Henderson's Hire of Garvachhead £7,000, and had not yet offered any payment of his bill at the Loch Garvach Hotel.

Editor's comment: If this is the person the Loch Garvach Wind Farm company chooses to defend its planning application, does the council have any option but to reject the wind farm in the strongest possible terms?

With Kevin Watt standing some way off, Claypole and Coky both read the article. When he had finished reading, her blazing eyes were waiting for him.

‘Is this…?' Coky choked. She put her hands together in prayer. ‘Is it true?'

Claypole's mouth hung stupidly open.

‘Course it is,' said the journalist.

Coky turned to him. ‘Will you please leave us?'

With a nod that was at once gracious and triumphant, Kevin Watt left them, and she turned to Claypole again.

‘Is it true?' she asked again, her blue eyes turning moist.

Claypole blinked slowly and beheld a look of profound disappointment on Coky's face that made his eyes burn.

‘Brr,' he said quietly. ‘I didn't have any choice.'

She sighed. ‘But Gordon, you can always tell the truth.'

He looked at her naïve, imploring face and was suddenly angered. What did Coky know of what he could or couldn't do? She who had never been caught between a rock and a hard place because… well, let's face it, because her family probably owned all the rocks and all the hard places, and if not the Devil too, then certainly a chunk of the Deep Blue Sea.

‘Oh yeah?' he snarled offensively. ‘And you always tell the truth, do you?'

‘What do you mean?' She gulped.

‘Gah. Brr. You… you're this great eco-warrior – sorry, eco-
accountant
– right? But you shoot birds like they're fish in a barrel; you have no problem taking flights left, right and centre; and you tool around the hills in a gas-guzzling Land Rover. Funny kind of ecological balance sheet you've managed to draw up for yourself. Why are you really doing the wind farming anyway?'

She was too shocked to speak. He couldn't stop himself.

‘You're doing it for the money, aren't you? Everyone does. There's always money at the heart of it. You couldn't hack it doing PR or whatever it was, and now you've run back to the family and wangled a cushy number for yourself. Is that your plan? Get a mug like me to do the dirty work and Uncle Perry will sling you a big bung if it all goes right? Well, cheers. Brr. Now I'm fucked. So thanks very much.'

Tears welled up in her eyes, but Coky fought them back. Instead, she rose slowly from the seat and looked down at him.

‘I may not be the world's greenest…' she began. ‘But that's not why I… It's got nothing to do with money. It's about something much more important. Things you wouldn't know about. Family.'

‘Oh, right,' spat
Claypole, also getting up from his seat. ‘So just because my family are all… you think I can't understand? Well, fu-'

Seeing the expression on Coky's face, he recalculated. It was not Coky's nature to be unpleasant or hurtful. Perhaps she had meant that he did not understand
her
family, not that he didn't understand families in general, just because he no longer had one.

‘What do you mean?' she asked.

‘Forget it.' He backed away from her and kicked the ground. He could not look at her. ‘I thought… because you said… I thought you were having a dig, because of my mother…'

‘What about your mother?'

‘Doesn't matter,' he said. ‘I think I'd better go.'

He turned around, but did not walk away, hoping Coky would stop him from going. She did not, and was swallowed by the small crowd that had gathered.

Claypole padded away from MacGilp House alone, his footfall heavier than it had ever been. He ambled fatly, weaving from one side of the road to the other. He might have had the appearance of being drunk, should anyone have been watching. But Claypole was horribly, dreadfully, achingly sober.

Halfway down the drive to MacGilp House, their camper van hidden from view, the less sober Lachlan and Milky contemplated their motives silently for the crime of kidnap.

Lachlan had no sympathy with the sort of environmentalism that espoused wind farming. Merely making more electricity by slightly better means was no
substitute for doing without electricity at all, as he did. Capitalism had caused all the environmental problems the world was currently presented with, and he had no reason to suppose that capitalism could solve them. Lachlan didn't need the economy, and the economy didn't need or want him. But his disapproval of the Loch Garvach Wind Farm had nothing to do with economics. It stemmed entirely from its potential impact on the birds. For it was Lachlan, being both cheap and available, who had performed the ornithology survey for Aeolectricity, and it had become apparent to him that there was a pair of golden eagles nesting above the Giant's Table. There were also two pairs of merlins, and some other raptors nearby. He had informed the company of this impediment to the scheme, by written report because he felt it was more professional, but it had not responded before going bust. His attempts to discuss the matter with Peregrine had been rebuffed, at first with absent-minded giggles, but lately with a threatening silence. Lachlan's care of the grouse on Peregrine's land was in large part because he regarded them as food for the birds of prey that were his true passion. Anything that threatened these birds of prey must be stopped.