The Ossians Read online

  He finished the joint, extricated himself from Hannah’s limbs, pulled his jeans on and went through to the living room. Out the window it was a beautiful, clear winter day. The frost on the ground was slowly melting in the weak morning sun. He reached under the beaten-up old sofa and pulled out the kitbag he’d stashed when they got in last night. He unzipped it and started looking through the contents. There were three tightly bound packages a little smaller than shoeboxes, each with two words written on them in black marker. He flicked through them. ‘Dundee – Jim’; ‘Aberdeen – Kenny’; ‘Kyle – Susie’. He weighed them in his hand. Definitely drugs, he thought, but what kind? His fingers were itching to tear them open and find out. He put them back in the bag and lifted out a smaller padded envelope with ‘Thurso – Gav’ written on it. It flexed a little in the middle. Money? How much? He sized it up in his hands for a few moments, then slung it back in the bag. He had a rummage around and pulled out a sleek new mobile. He switched it on. The battery was fully charged. In the address book were only five names – Gav, Jim, Kenny, Nick and Susie – all with mobile numbers. Jesus, this was really happening. He was a fucking drug mule. Unless he didn’t go through with it. Unless he just phoned Nick now and told him to get to fuck, he wasn’t going to get involved in this bollocks for anyone. But he didn’t have the money he owed. And even if he did, Nick wouldn’t accept it now. And if he just refused to do it, he had no doubt Nick would chase him down and fucking kill him. He could take the bag to the police. But Nick would surely just deny all knowledge, landing Connor in the shit. And even if they believed him, and somehow nailed something on Nick, it wouldn’t be long before he was out again, looking for Connor. He was over a fucking barrel. Jesus. So. Drug mule it was, then.

  He put the mobile in his pocket, zipped up the bag and pushed it back under the sofa. He went through to the kitchen to make a start on breakfast. He wasn’t hungry, but he knew Hannah would be, and he wanted to have something ready for her.

  As he put the bacon under the grill, Hannah appeared in the kitchen doorway in just a short, tatty old Wilco T-shirt, her legs goose-pimpled as she stood watching Connor, who had his back to her, oblivious to her presence.

  Hannah recognised the addictive side of Connor’s personality as something she’d seen in her dad’s shambolic, drunken days down the dog track, the bookies, getting chucked out of casinos and winding up crying on the sofa at home, begging forgiveness. Maybe she hung in there with Connor because she’d seen her dad come through all that bullshit.

  He turned as if sensing her.

  ‘Hey, sexy.’

  ‘Hey, sexy, yourself.’ Hannah tiptoed in on the cold tiles and kissed him gently on the lips. She tasted the mixture of tobacco and hash from the joint he’d finished. She looked at his face. Apart from the bruising and cuts, there were tired lines criss-crossing his forehead and under his eyes, but despite all that, somehow, he was still a good-looking boy. ‘How’s that bashed face of yours this morning?’

  ‘Not as bad as it looks.’

  ‘Just as well, cos it looks pretty bad.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Did I miss much after I went to bed?’

  The five of them had sat up for a few hours drinking cheap whisky, skinning up and talking shite, all of them buzzing from the success of the show and looking forward to the tour. Hannah wasn’t sure what to expect from the whole thing, and she wasn’t convinced about Connor’s motives either, but she felt a small thrill thrumming in her belly when she thought about being on the road for two weeks. In the end, Hannah had gone to bed first, leaving Paul crashed out on the sofa and the other three jabbering away about Christ knows what.

  ‘Nothing exciting,’ said Connor, cracking an egg into a frying pan. ‘Paul was out for the count, and Danny walked Kate home shortly after you went to bed. I had a quick joint for the road and came through. You want coffee with this?’

  ‘I’d love coffee,’ said Hannah. ‘Bring it back to bed, will you? It’s freezing in here.’

  ‘Sure.’ Connor watched Hannah skip out the room, his eyes drawn to her arse cheeks poking out from under that old T-shirt. He smiled, shook his head a little and turned back to the cooker.

  The Hawes Inn knew how to make money from the past. A chalkboard outside the whitewashed South Queensferry pub declared ‘Inn Keeping with Tradition, established 1638’. They were offering a set-price lunch called Robert Louis Stevenson’s Choice. Whether Stevenson would really have opted for Caesar salad and lasagne was open to debate.

  Inside, the walls were covered with prints of Stevenson and Walter Scott, alongside photographs of both Forth bridges under construction. A small red lamp hung in each window, partially blocking the extraordinary views over the firth. Swirls of flowery red dominated the carpets, chairs and curtains, and a thin aquamarine wash coloured the walls. Every few minutes the rumble of a train on the bridge overhead was like a grumbling, ghostly reminder of the past.

  Connor, Hannah and Kate sat at a table while Danny got the drinks. Connor smiled as he looked out the window. This place was perfect, he thought. A boozer with literary tradition dating back three hundred and seventy years, where some of the greats of Scottish writing had hung out, and now it was habituated by anodyne Sunday-driving families and aimless, lonely travellers. It felt a bit like those fake pubs you got in airports, he thought. The only difference was the view.

  Outside, the Maid of the Forth bobbed uncertainly on its moorings, clanking occasionally against a jetty. Small gulls huddled on the swirling, murky waters of the estuary, hunched into the wind and looking as if they’d rather be anywhere but there. Their tiny bodies rose and fell helplessly in the swell of brothy water that bubbled into froth as it hit the shore.

  Behind the ferry, stretching ominously into the distance, was the overbearing figure of the Forth rail bridge. The massive structure was like a giant rusty snake that’s swallowed three eggs, stretching its body in and out of the incessant wash, its continual degradation from the onslaught of wind and wave covered by patches of clumsy scaffolding, rough bandages wrapped around the snake’s underbelly.

  To the left was the sleeker presence of the road bridge. Like a scale model of the Golden Gate Bridge, the sorry, pale construction looked like it knew it was a poor imitation of a grander design. Connor smiled again as he thought of all the clumsy metaphors he could drop into the interview about to take place. He imagined the journalist rolling his eyes as he thought he had another pretentious rock musician on his hands, not realising that Connor was one step ahead, playing him and the media at their own game. Or was he? Playing them at their own game was still playing the game, wasn’t it? Connor massaged his brow as he felt himself sobering up and grains of speed disappearing from his bloodstream. Thinking too much. He was getting himself tied up in knots. Where was Danny with the drinks? Danny appeared on cue, clutching two pints and two shorts.

  ‘First drink of the day,’ he said. ‘Sun’s past the yardarm, so you’re all safe from becoming alkies.’

  ‘Where’s this journalist?’ said Hannah. ‘Don’t tell me we’re actually on time for once.’

  ‘Nope, he’s just later than us,’ said Connor. ‘How unprofessional. I must remember to write a letter of complaint to the editor.’

  Just then a slight man about their age approached the table. He had a long thin neck that made it look as if his head could flop off at any minute, and he wore thick-framed, oblong glasses, a stripy work shirt and a tank top with a diamond pattern on it. He looked like he’d get blown away in a breeze.

  ‘The Ossians, I assume,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘How could you tell?’ said Connor, looking round the pub. The place was full of young families, old folks and a handful of Mondeo-driving couples in matching waterproofs, all contemplating the lunch menu. He wondered how many were considering Stevenson’s Choice. ‘You trying to say we stick out in this homely environment?’

  ‘Exactly,’ said the journalist. ‘I’m Andy Tu
rnbull from The Scotsman.’

  ‘I’m Connor, this is Hannah, Kate and Danny.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you all. I take it you’re all right for drinks?’ said Andy, scanning the nearly full glasses on the table.

  ‘Double G and T, cheers,’ said Connor. ‘And get yourself something.’

  Andy returned with two glasses, pulled up a chair and started rooting around in a school satchel.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘this is a general piece for the arts section of the paper. It’ll be an introduction to The Ossians – how you formed, what you’re all about and what you’re into. I’m pretty interested in the whole Scottish identity thing, and the fact you’re touring up north. I’d also like to chat about what you hope to achieve with this EP, the tour and further ahead in the future. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds like you’ve already worked out what we’re going to say,’ said Connor.

  A smile came over the journalist’s face. ‘Not at all. Say what you like. That’s the whole point.’

  He pulled a notebook and a small tape recorder out the satchel, put the machine on the table and started flicking through the pages of the notebook. He switched the machine on and a small red light glowed at them.

  ‘Ready to go?’ he said.

  ‘Is a photographer coming?’ said Danny.

  ‘Should be here in a while,’ said Andy. ‘Shutter-monkeys are lazy bastards. He’ll get here eventually.’

  Danny finished his pint. ‘Do you need all of us for this?’ he said.

  ‘Up to yourselves,’ said Andy. ‘I’d prefer at least two of you.’

  Danny pushed his chair back and got up.

  ‘I fancy a walk. Anyone else?’ He was looking at Kate, but Hannah replied.

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Let’s leave the siblings to it. We’ll see you in a bit.’

  She got up, smiled at Kate and Connor, and left with Danny.

  ‘OK,’ said Andy, leaning back in his chair. ‘Let’s start with the unusual band name.’

  ‘Ossian was a third-century Scots Gaelic poet,’ said Connor, rubbing his hands as if about to give a lecture. Kate sipped her drink and looked out the window. She knew she wouldn’t be speaking much. Connor continued. ‘A bunch of his work was discovered by a guy called James Macpherson in the eighteenth century, and published to great acclaim. Napoleon was a big fan. He was described as the Scottish Homer, and I don’t mean Simpson.’

  ‘So you’re saying you’re part of some legacy of Scottish storytelling?’

  ‘Not as simple as that. Most folk thought Macpherson made it all up, and he was discredited as a fake. It’s typical of Scotland that our oldest history and literature might not even exist. It might be an eighteenth-century fabrication, like tartan for lowland families. Everywhere you look, Scotland is made up of stupid myths and romantic ideals, most of which are fake, or more likely a mixture of falsehoods and reality. Tartan and shortbread for tourists. Fucking Brigadoon. And this place.’ Connor waved a hand around the pub. ‘Just a tourist haunt now, whereas once it was a place where our greatest writers hung out.’

  ‘Sounds like you hate Scotland.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Connor was getting more animated now, and occasional glances were being thrown in his direction from nearby tables. ‘I fucking love being Scottish. But it’s that whole corny Jekyll and Hyde thing, isn’t it? The dual nature of Scotland, blah, blah, blah. James Hogg and his justified sinner. Scotland’s always had this double life, the Deacon Brodie syndrome, so much so that it’s a terrible fucking cliché these days. But clichés are clichés because they’re true. I just thought Ossian was another side to that. People reinventing an early history of Scotland to give them something to be sentimental about. I see us as part of that schizophrenic heritage.’

  ‘This isn’t the kind of stuff you’d expect from a rock band,’ said Andy. ‘Is it the kind of thing your fans give a toss about?’

  ‘You think we should just stick to “Baby, I love you” or something? People underestimate the intelligence of music fans. We all love a shit-hot guitar riff, but you’re allowed to have a brain as well. I love bands that say something about the human condition, bands that are trying to find answers. But it’s not as if we spend every waking minute wondering about the nature of our nationality, or what life’s all about. We drink and sleep and screw and swear and argue and talk shite like everyone else. And only a couple of our songs are about Scottishness, anyway. There are also songs about relationships, politics, observations, stories, depression, insecurity, joy, happiness, all that pish. The stuff of life, you know?’

  ‘The St Andrew’s Day EP seems to be in a different league in terms of quality from the first two records, The City of Dreadful Night and RLS. What are you hoping to achieve with it, and with the tour of the Highlands?’

  ‘It’s not about achieving anything. It’s just about putting our music out there, hoping to entertain people and make them think a bit more than they did before. We like telling stories and we like loud guitars and we like making people think about their lives. As for the tour, why not go up north? Apart from anything else, we’ll be following in the footsteps of James Macpherson – maybe we’ll unearth our own semi-fabricated Scottish legend, who knows? I’ll let you into a secret, Andy, I’ve never been further north than Aberdeen before, in my own country for fuck’s sake, and frankly I’m disgusted with myself. There are things to experience, places to see and people to meet up there, just the same as anywhere else in the world. It’s always the stuff on your doorstep that you never notice. Like this place – I’ve lived in Edinburgh for five years and I’ve never been here before. How many people spend their whole lives in Edinburgh and never even see the sea close up? Look at that bridge out there. The sea, the sky and the coastline, the smell of salt air and the sound of trains overhead. It’s living, you know? Experience.’

  Connor was shouting and waving. People were looking at their table. He stopped to catch his breath.

  ‘How about another drink?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ said Andy. Kate nodded and Connor went to the bar.

  ‘Is he always like this?’ said Andy.

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘And you’re twins.’

  ‘For our sins.’

  ‘How is that? I mean, how do you get along?’

  ‘We argue all the time,’ said Kate. ‘He acts up, I slag him off. And round it goes. Just the usual brother–sister shit.’

  ‘Is there tension in the band, then?’

  ‘Probably a lot less than in other bands, because we know each other so well. It might be Connor coming up with ideas for songs, but the rest of us back him one hundred per cent. If we didn’t all love him, and the music, we wouldn’t be here, would we?’

  ‘I read that you all live together, Monkees-style, is that right?’

  ‘The other three share a flat, but I’ve got my own place.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I just like my own space. I always have. Maybe it’s a twin thing. When Connor and I came to Edinburgh we didn’t live together, or really hang out together all that much to begin with. I guess we just wanted a bit of distance from each other and from our schooldays. Connor knew Hannah and Danny for a while before I met them, but we’re all pretty close now.’

  Connor returned with a handful of drinks.

  ‘Been getting the inside track from Kate? Very wise. Don’t listen to a fucking word I say, it’s all bullshit.’

  ‘I’m interested in the kind of music that influences you. Some people might think it’s strange, if you’re so into Scottishness, that the stuff you sound most like is all relatively underground American music of a certain flavour. I’m thinking of Sparklehorse, Bright Eyes, Midlake, Rilo Kiley or The Hold Steady.’

  ‘All good bands but, no offence, Andy, I hate that fucking question. The assumption is that because we’re Scottish we have to sound like Jimmy Shand or some Runrig piss-take or the fucking Proclaimers. Fuck that. Look, I love
loads of bands and artists from all over the world, not just American ones. There’s Biffy Clyro, Mogwai, Boards of Canada and King Creosote among plenty others here in Scotland, but then there’s also dEUS, Super Furry Animals, The Arcade Fire, Sigur Róas and a hundred more around the world. But there is something about the American alternative rock aesthetic that predisposes me to it. Don’t ask me how or why, it just does. So it seems perfectly natural for us to sound the way we do. And anyway, I think The Ossians’ sound is pretty diverse.“Declaration Of Arbroath” is pure punk noise, whereas “The Sleepwalker” is a lo-fi, psychedelic thing. And there’s everything else in between.’

  He glugged his pint and smiled.

  ‘I take it you’ve read a lot?’ said Andy. ‘You seem to know a bit about Scotland’s history and literature.’

  ‘A bit,’ said Connor. ‘I guess a lot of that comes from Hannah being a history teacher. I’m just a fucking pleb with no higher education, but there’s always interesting shit worth reading lying about our flat.’

  ‘How did you and Hannah meet?’

  ‘Me and Kate moved to Edinburgh five years ago, and I met Hannah and Danny in my first week here. They’re my two best friends. We were just hanging around at the same gigs and parties and stuff and we got to know each other. We were all in different bands at the time, the usual bullshit, and eventually we got together. But I started going out with Hannah straight away.’

  ‘And how is it being in a band with your girlfriend?’

  ‘Not a problem. We get on great. I probably save all my arguments for Kate.’ He glanced at his sister who made a tight-lipped, sarcastic face. ‘And Hannah’s a shit-hot guitarist, so there’s no problem there.’

  ‘Sometimes you seem to have as much to do with literature as music. Are you a fan of modern Scottish authors?’