Wilson Smillie

 Thomas Jefferson drank whisky from a crystal glass, while an eightsome reel hurled dancers across the floor. His name was a ruse and celebrating the arrival of the New Year was not on his mind. The letter he’d received in the morning post, containing secrets barely known, was very much on his mind. It terminated with a command that he attend this ballroom to discuss said secrets, or face losing treasured body parts; sans anaesthetic.

Quivering with rage at the temerity of the writer, he’d necked a large one to calm down, before destroying the letter in the open fire of his sitting room, as instructed. For the rest of the day, he prowled the house like an old tiger looking for a kill.

The Walter Scott room in Edinburgh’s Balmoral Hotel was heaving with sweating kilties and their ladies, but he’d found a spare corner with a field of view, two comfortable seats and a low table. A waiter approached to discuss terms: another large Balvenie; neat.

He detested public gatherings; the meeting was running late, and the longer he sat, the more his anxiety grew. If called to account by someone wearing the plaid, he’d willingly admit all that bound him to this northern race of men, was his thirst for the aqua vitae and the pursuit of money.

So here he was; a prophet of the filthy lucre feeling like a banker in a Jobcentre.

He glanced at his watch; it said Rolex.

A stunning woman cut through the swirling dancers like a sloop on the wind, sailing straight for him. The band, distracted by the cut of her prow and breadth of her beam, lost their reel and crashed on the shore. Strawberry-blonde and full-bodied, wearing a little black dress over endless legs on Louboutin stilettos, she folded herself into the chair opposite him, opened her LV shoulder bag and placed a large envelope on the table between them.

Kilted sporrans quivered at her passing.

‘Want a drink?’ he asked, unsure what was appropriate, given the style of her arrival.

 ‘Champagne!’ she declared.

The accordion band salvaged their gig, wound up a Dashing White Sergeant and encouraged the animals to return to the party. He beckoned the waiter again.

‘Cristal …’ she announced. ‘The 2002 if you have it, or the 2004 if you don’t. One bottle and one glass … the gentleman doesn’t mix his drinks.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ her disrespect irritated him.

‘Open the envelope.’

‘Later.’

‘I’m Elspeth.’

‘You bitch …’

‘Your wife hates you, doesn’t she? After this is over, we’ll go up to my room, so you can be really fucked over by a woman. But only if you open the envelope, like a good boy.’

‘What’s this all about?’

‘They won’t wait.’

He opened the envelope. It contained two black-and-white photographs. In the first, coconut palms enclosed a crescent of beach around a ruffled sea. A pontoon was moored offshore, showing a young Afro-Caribbean boy performing a sex act on a salt-and-pepper-haired Caucasian man of sixties vintage. The shot focused on exposing the man’s sun-wrinkled hands, holding the boy’s head tight against his naked groin.

‘Turn it over,’ she commanded.

‘A black SUV limousine is waiting outside. It will leave at 9:15, and if you are not in it, you will die.’

The Rolex said he was playing it tight.

The other photograph was a close up, of sand mixed with Afro-Caribbean hair. The boy’s throat was slit open, exposing the ugliness of raw meat. Life spilt down his chest in a gush, caressed away by a wave.

‘This is outrageous,’ he coughed, bluster overcoming his bladder. He turned the photograph over without instruction.

‘Hand the envelope and photographs to Elspeth along with your credit card.’

‘Why should I go in this car?’ he demanded, nervously.

‘You know why.’

‘Do you have any idea who I am?’ He stood up to leave.

 A mask dropped over her face. ‘I came here to meet a wealthy businessman, who’d buy me a bottle of expensive champagne. Then he’d go to the car.’

She reached across and took the envelope and photographs from him. ‘Credit card!’ She held out her hand. ‘The waiter is here. PIN number.’

‘0842. And it had better only be one bottle.’

** ** **

Outside in the street, he stood a moment, gathering his fears. He’d prepared for a man-to-man discussion; a negotiation, a meeting of minds, a crossing of palms; followed by whisky to seal the deal. That’s how his business went.

The game had changed to his disadvantage, but he still had cards to play.

Darkness had sucked the heat from the city long ago, and it was busy with people and cabs coming and going under the harsh lights. Strangers crossed his line of sight, their drunken singing amplified by the sandstone canyons of North Bridge, as Edinburgh ran up through the gears of its winter festival. No one showed an interest in him. The limo waited patiently, its side door open, guarded by a bull of a man wearing shades, earpiece and suit, and matching grey tie.

Walking towards it, he glanced over his shoulder, expecting a surprise attack; but none came. Bull Man gestured, and like a rat entering a baited trap, he stepped inside. The door slammed shut behind him; eight empty seats, darkened windows, a plush interior, and no means of escape.

‘Sit on right side,’ a Polish-sounding voice snorted through an intercom.

He sat opposite the door. The seat was soft leather and heated; he settled into it, wondering how they’d been able to track him on the deserted Caribbean island.

The SUV turned away to the east, signalling the beginning of the end of the life he despised.