Death of a Bore Read Online Free PDF Page B

particularly incensed at being told their offering read like an immature school essay. Alistair
Taggart was told his story was incomprehensible because he had written it in Gaelic, and he was only allowed to read a few sentences. He looked for a moment as if he was going to strike John.
    And then it was Angela Brodie’s turn. Her husband had insisted. She began to read in a quavering voice, and then her voice grew more confident as she read on. It was a short story about a
newcomer trying to come to terms with life in the far north of Scotland. The hall was completely silent, everyone becoming wrapped up in the story.
    John sat biting his knuckles. He’s desperately trying to find something to criticize, thought Hamish.
    When Angela finished, there was a burst of applause. ‘Shows promise,’ said John sourly. ‘But you’ve got a long way to go before you can consider yourself a
writer.’
    Archie Maclean leapt to his feet. ‘No,’ he shouted, ‘thon was grand, and you’re the one that’s got one lang way tae go afore you can consider yourself a
writer.’
    There were cries of agreement.
    ‘The class is over,’ said John. ‘I will see what progress you have made next week.’
    He strode from the stage, hitched his coat down from a peg, swung it round his shoulders, and left with an angry banging of the door.
    Hamish looked around the hall at the furious faces, at the disappointed faces, and at the hurt faces. Being highland himself, he knew that a good lot of them would be plotting revenge.
    He left the hall and returned to the police station and got into the Land Rover. It was time to have a serious talk with John Heppel.
    The night was clear and starry, the air was more seasonably cold. He drove up the rutted track to John’s croft house crouching under the thick branches of a large oak
tree. Apart from the forestry plantations, there were very few trees in Sutherland because of the ferocious gales. To ward off fairies, there were rowan trees growing outside cottage doors, but
this great oak tree was unusual.
    Hamish knocked on the door. When John answered it, he stared up at Hamish and scowled. ‘What now?’
    ‘It iss about your behaviour this evening,’ said Hamish. John did not know Hamish well enough to be alarmed at the sudden sibilance of the policeman’s accent – a sign
that Hamish was seriously upset. ‘How dare you humiliate folks so badly? Who the hell do you think you are, you with your rotten manners? I want you to write letters of apology to the members
of your class and return their money. How much was the fee? Ten pounds? You are a fraud. You were supposed to be teaching them how to write, not demoralizing them.’
    ‘I am a literary writer,’ spluttered John. ‘I have my standards. I –’
    ‘I should ha’ never let that business about the graffiti go,’ said Hamish. ‘In fact, I’m taking the matter to Strathbane. They take racial insults very seriously
these days. I’ll have you out of Cnothan if it’s the last thing I do. Now, are you going to write these letters?’
    ‘Bugger off.’
    ‘Well, you asked for it.’
    Hamish turned on his heel. As he walked to the Land Rover, he heard the door bang angrily behind him.
    He was worried. He knew Lochdubh would never forgive John. In fact, he was so worried he forgot he had promised to have dinner with Angela and her husband.
    The next day he was about to go out on his beat, late as usual, when he saw the Strathbane Television van parked on the waterfront and Jessma Gardener interviewing Mrs
Wellington, who was surrounded by members of the writing class.
    Hamish walked forward to listen.
    ‘John Heppel is a fraud and a charlatan,’ boomed Mrs Wellington while the soundman struggled frantically to mute her voice. ‘He deliberately set out to shame all of us, one by
one. A lot of us showed promise, but I don’t think any of us will have the courage to write again.’
    Jessie and Nessie Currie pushed forward.