The Last Sunset (16 page)

Macsorley went on, imbued with the spirit of
optimism: “You just don’t know how many might’ve heard the gunfire and
scarpered…”

Macmillan licked the last trace of flavour from
the muslin cloth. “Aye. Maybe yer right at that,” he murmured.

The skies were turning a paler shade of grey as
the morning light penetrated the thick cloud. There had been little wind
overnight, and here and there trails of smoke added their acrid breath to the
gloom.

Macsorley looked edgily at his corporal. “That
bright light we saw… at the end… above Loch Ness.”

Macmillan nodded faintly. “We’ve seen it in
training films often enough…”

Macsorley moaned softly. “Ah didn’t even know we
were at war with the Russians.”

“Well, somebody was lobbing nukes at us.”

“But how could things have got so bad…?”

Macmillan shook his head. He was too tired to
debate the issue, and was relieved when Macsorley took the hint and lapsed into
tortured silence. At some point sleep must have crept up on him again. He woke
to find himself alone once more. He sat for a few moments, blinking in the
light that flooded through the open doorway. The heavy blanket of cloud was
breaking up, allowing bright shafts of sunlight to play upon the glen. A breeze
had also sprung up, dispersing the haze of smoke that had gathered overnight.

It was 10.15 by his watch. He could see no sign
of movement amongst the walls and fields of Achnacon’s township. No soldiers.
No clansfolk. No Rae, Ferguson or Macsorley. Even the bodies had disappeared.
Bloodstained impressions in the grass showed where they had lain, but it was as
if they’d been resurrected with the first rays of the morning sun.

Macmillan located his boots; the soles had more
or less kept their shape as they’d solidified. He stepped gingerly beyond the
doorway of his little sanctuary. He still wore his camouflaged combat jacket
and shirt, but hanging below his uniform, like a shapeless ankle-length dress,
was Achnacon’s red phillamor.

He was greeted with an admiring wolf-whistle.
Macsorley lay on the hillside beside the hut, clad in the blue tartan plaid
he’d acquired overnight, a stalk of grass in his mouth.

Macmillan replied with a self-conscious twirl,
which brought the entire tartan ensemble down around his ankles.

Macsorley howled with laughter.

“Ah sharrup,” Macmillan growled. “How d’ye get
this tae stay up anyway? Does it no’ come with braces, or something?”

The younger man tutted in disgust, like a
disapproving tailor: “Braces? With the phillamor? Aw, Corp.”

He disappeared into the outhouse and reappeared
a few moments later with the corporal’s trouser belt.

“First of all ye spread the phillamhor out on
the ground like a blanket. Then ye feed the belt under the material about two
thirds of the way down.” Macsorley carried out the instructions as he recited
them. “Then ye gather up the material that lies above the belt intae pleats, so
it’s the same width as the belt…”

Macmillan awaited his involvement, Achnacon’s
plaid spread out before him like a collapsed tartan tent.

“Then ye lie down on top of it.”

“See if you’re taking the piss…?”

“Ah’m not,” said Macsorley indignantly. “This is
how they put on the phillamor. Ye lie on top of it, with the belt at yer
waist.”

Grumbling, Macmillan fastened the belt around
his midriff and struggled to his feet. He looked like he was wearing a long
dress that had been slashed to the waist. Clucking with disapproval, Macsorley
made some adjustments around his midriff, then gathered up the excess material
and pulled it over Macmillan’s left shoulder. Finally he produced a brooch from
his own phillamhor and fastened the remaining material to the front of the
corporal’s combat jacket.

“Perhaps, sir might wish to consider matching
shoes and handbag…?”

“How do Ah look?” Macmillan wanted to know.

The younger man stepped back to admire his
handiwork. “Well, no one’s gonnae mistake you for Rob Roy, but ye look… no’
bad. No’ bad at all.”

Macmillan took a few tentative steps in his new
battle dress. “Man, ye could definitely see yerself charging through the
heather in this…”

The other nodded sombrely. “Aye, well, you’re
no’ gonnae be charging anywhere for a wee while.”

Macmillan looked down at the blisters on his
legs. This was the first chance he’d had to examine his injuries in daylight.
As he’d guessed, the damage was only superficial.

“You look like you’ve had the vindaloo from
hell,” said Macsorley.

Macmillan traced the soft contours of the
largest blister, which bulged from his right calf like a fungus. “Ah’ll be all
right so long as none of these things burst on me.” He lowered himself to the
ground. “Aw, man, what’ve we got ourselves intae here? This is a world that
knows nothing about antibiotics, or anaesthetics. God help us if we develop
appendicitis, or even a bloody toothache! There’s no such thing as electricity.
They haven’t even invented the steam engine yet…”

Macsorley sat down beside him. “Now there’s a
job for a couple of enterprising ex-squaddies…”

“What d’ye mean; become inventors?” Macmillan
laughed. “Ah don’t suppose you know any better than Ah do how any of that stuff
works. Even if we did, what’s the point? We all saw where that technology’s
gonnae take the world. There’s no point in speeding up the process.”

“Ye know, Ah was thinking about that overnight,”
Macsorley replied. “What was happening in the world back in 1976?”

“Ireland… Strikes… That’s about it.”

“Exactly. There was nothing going on. At least
nothing that would’ve led tae a nuclear war.”

“Aye, Ah suppose.”

“Ah think time is so messed up in this place
what we saw may’ve been way in the future.”

“Maybe. But, it might only’ve been five years
later.”

“Or five thousand.”

Macmillan could see the sense in his argument,
but was in no frame of mind to debate the issue.

“What did ye do with the bodies?”

“The what?”

“The bodies. Ah’m assuming it was you that
cleared up that mess this morning.”

“Aw, right. No. No, it wasnae me. Three young
laddies appeared just after daybreak. Achnacon must’ve sent them down tae lay
out their own people with some kind of dignity. Ah checked after they’d gone.
There’s eight of them laid out in one of the cottages.”

“Three young lads?” Macmillan said thoughtfully.
“Did you get talking tae any of them?”

“Naw, they kept their distance. Ah’m sure they
knew we were here; they looked over a few times, but it didnae seem right tae
disturb them, ye know?”

“What about the soldiers?”

“They’ve been piled intae one of the wee
outhouses.”

Macmillan breathed a long, slow sigh. “Ah wonder
how many of Achnacon’s people made it…”

“It’s been some night, eh, Corp?”

“Aye, it’s been some night, right enough. You
can cut all that ‘Corporal’ rubbish, by the way. The name’s Andy.”

Macsorley nodded. “Jamie.”

“Jamie.”

They were interrupted by a storm of whistles and
catcalls:

“…Ye see some ugly women in this job, but have
ye ever clapped eyes on such hacket-looking bints in all yer life?”

“Ah know. Ah don’t fancy yours much…”

“Naw, Ah don’t either…”

Rae and Ferguson were crossing the nearby burn.
Both had clearly spent a rough night in the hills.

“Morning ladies. Nice tae see there’s still
scope for self-expression in this man’s army…”

“Where did you two get tae last night?” asked
Macsorley.

“Escorting the civilians tae safety, of course,”
Rae explained brightly. “We figured we could leave you two tae look after the house.”
He turned around, appearing to notice the smouldering ruins for the first time.

“Oops,” he added.

“So, where are they, then?” Macsorley asked.

“Who?”

“Achnacon and his family. Where are they?”

“God knows,” Ferguson replied. “We lost track of
them during the night. Last saw them up in the hills somewhere.”

“So, what’s the score then?” Rae asked. “Ah
don’t know about you lot but Ah could eat a scabby horse. Don’t suppose there’s
anywhere we could get a curry around here…”

“There’s a dead cow at the back of those
cottages if ye’re that hungry,” said Jamie. He caught Andy’s enquiring look.
“They all look the same tae me, but Ah think it’s Achnacon’s cow.”

“What a shame,” said Ferguson “That thing
should’ve got a medal.”

“We need to locate Achnacon,” said Macmillan.
“But Ah’ve got a feeling he’ll find us when he’s ready. Meantime you lads check
out the area. See what grub ye can find. Jamie, you show the others where the
dead’ve been laid, tae avoid those buildings.”

As they headed off Andy closed his eyes,
consciously blotting out everything but the singing of the skylarks and the
distant babbling of the burn. He could almost believe that everything was as it
should be; that when he opened his eyes again the glen would be studded with
mouldering ruins.

To his surprise he was not sure which reality he
would prefer. As he pondered this extraordinary thought a shadow fell across
his face. He opened his eyes to see Ferguson and Rae standing over him. Each
cradled a musket in his arms, the sun reflecting brightly on the long fixed
bayonets.

Andy jumped to his feet. “What the hell d’ye
think yer doin’?”

“Eh?”

“Calm down, man, it’s just a coupla muskets we
found in the grass.”

“Aye, they’re just souvenirs, Corp,” Ferguson
explained. “These things are like valuable antiques, ye know?”

Macmillan cradled his face in his hands. “Aw
God, stick a fork in me, Ah’m just about done.”

“You all right, Corp?” asked Ferguson.

The N.C.O. shook his head wearily. “Aye, fine,
just… just leave those bloody things here, lads. Okay?”

Macmillan could hear snatches of their
conversation as they returned to their search for food:

“…time of the month…”

“…next thing ye know she’ll be shaving her legs…”

Other than the carcass of Achnacon’s cow,
none of Macmillan’s foraging party found anything that resembled food. The
youngsters Macsorley had seen earlier had apparently stripped the area bare.

As hunger began to take its toll, Rae became
more and more belligerent.

“Ah don’t see why we cannae just lop off one of
its legs, or even take a whack out of its rump.” He indicated the smouldering
rubble of Achnacon’s house. “We could chuck the meat in there for ten minutes.
That should be enough tae cook it.”

“Ye cannae just start hacking up the family cow,
like it’s a bloody chicken!” Macsorley exclaimed.

“How no’? The
tcheuchters
used tae bleed
them during winter tae mix with their oatmeal. That’s where yer black pudding
comes from… Ah bet ye didnae know that!”

“Ah didnae know that,” said Ferguson.

“It doesn’t matter,” insisted Macsorley. “It’s
no’ the done thing, tae start eating the guy’s cow. These things were part of
the family.”

Rae towered threateningly over his comrade. “How
would it be if Ah pulled one of
your
legs off and chucked
that
in
the fire instead?”

“Ach, get lost, ya big swine…”

Macmillan stepped in before things got out of
hand. “Right, that’s enough. Rae; you and Fergie take a wander down the glen
tae the next township; see if there’s any food there. Jamie, you do the same in
the other direction.”

Macsorley and Ferguson began to move off, but
Rae stood his ground.

“That’s another thing,” he growled. “Me and
Fergie were talking earlier; we reckon that we’re no’ on any parade ground any
more. We reckon you’ve been demoted tae the rank of lost numpty, same as the
rest of us.”

Slowly Macmillan rose to his feet. He stood toe
to toe with his mutinous soldier, glaring into his eyes.

“Ferguson?” he barked.

“Aye, well, it’s like; we were just talking and
that. Ah mean we were just, ye know, saying like,” Fergie mumbled.

“Macsorley?”

“You’re the boss, far as Ah’m concerned,
Corporal,” the young man yelled back.

When Macmillan spoke again his voice was low and
full of menace. “Seems it’s down tae just you and me then.”

“Come on, big man. This is stupid,” said
Ferguson.

Rae shook his head. He stared unwaveringly at
the N.C.O. “What are ye gonnae do? Put me on a charge? Report me tae the
Company Sar’nt Major?”

“Chentlemen! Chentlemen! This is not the time to
be warring among ourselfs…” said a familiar voice.