North Sea Requiem Read Online Free PDF Page B

second, misgiving—wanting to keep Mae Bell and her exoticism all to herself—she dismissed as childish.
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    That same week, after the third edition featuring the lost leg, and just as Rob decided the story had, in newspaper parlance, lost its legs, he was on the right spot at the right time for the next episode.
    Rob picked up the phone, only because Joanne was out. “ Gazette . Hi, Frankie, what can I do you for? Tomorrow? Can’t promise. Okay, but only if it’s dry. Hector? Do I have to? Fine. See you then.”
    Hector came in half an hour later.
    â€œTomorrow we’re covering the shinty match at Bught Park.”
    â€œDo I have to?” Hector asked.
    â€œIf you want to make amends with Nurse Urquhart by making her husband look good, yes.”
    That settled, Hector and Rob agreed to meet at two the next afternoon. For once Rob hoped for rain. For once March did not oblige, behaving like June.
    The match started well. The locals were playing the team from Beauly, a well-supported, successful, and well-financed team—they had a change of shirts paid for by Lord Lovat, and they had won the Camanachd Cup a few times. Fast, noisy, the crack of stick upon stick, the players running from one goalmouth to the other with good speed, it looked to be a tight game—until halftime.
    Rob and Frankie were standing a little away from the huddle of players who were standing, or sitting, or crouching down, sucking on the obligatory halftime quartered oranges. They didn’t hear the remark that started the stramach until after Nurse Urquhart had shipped two players off to the infirmary, only a short walk away, saying they needed stitches. Seeing Hector standing near the players, snapping away, Rob suspected, rightly, that Hec had had something to do with the ensuing fight.
    â€œHello, Mr. Donaldson,” Hector had said to Double Donald, “have you recovered from the fright over the leg?”
    â€œWhat’s he got to do with it?” someone in the local team scarf asked.
    â€œHe dug the grave the leg came from,” Hector said.
    â€œAye, but it wasn’t anything to do wi’ him,” a man—Double Donald’s nephew, wearing a Beauly scarf, said.
    It took a moment for the man, a big man with a few whiskies sneaked from a hip flask in him, to work out what had just been said. He turned on Hector.
    â€œYou’re saying that this manny here”—he jerked his thumb towards Double Donald—“was in charge o’ the grave the leg came out o’?”
    â€œAye.” Hector, shielding his camera inside his duffel coat, was not liking the way the man stood over him, leaning forwards as he spoke. Or growled.
    â€œAnd what’s it all to do wi’ you?” the man asked the nephew, the Beauly supporter.
    â€œHe’s ma uncle,” the nephew in the rival scarf replied.
    â€œIs he now?”
    That was all the man needed. He stepped forwards. Pushing Hec out of the way, he hit the Beauly supporter full on the nose. The spurt of blood was instant and copious and sprayed onto the attacker’s jacket, but he didn’t care.
    â€œHey lads,” he shouted to the team, “this is the manny who dug up the leg.”
    â€œNo I never, I was the one who buried it.” Only after he spoke did Double Donald realize his mistake. I should have kept ma mouth shut, he thought as he sat on the damp grass with bright yellow stains on his face where Nurse Urquhart had applied iodine, her remedy for cuts, abrasions, gravel rash, and any ailment imaginary or otherwise.
    Although they pretended otherwise, Rob and Frankie enjoyed the stramash—which was off the pitch for once. And Hector, in spite of being told by Coach Frank Urquhart that he was mincemeat if he caught him, took some glorious shots of the game—stramach and all.
    â€œThat was great,” Rob and Frankie agreed when they had a