Gardener, Douglas Sinclair, loaded the luggage and the passengers on to the Sweetheart Abbey school bus. “Where to now, Mr Petrie?” He told him to head for Dulce Cor cottage and saw the look of dismay on Gordon Buie’s face. “There is no way you can return to Stirling until this whole saga is resolved and your car is parked at Sweetheart, anyway.”
As the bus pulled out of Edinburgh Airport, Mr Petrie moved forward to Duncan and said in a low voice: “The sooner we get that chip surgically removed, the better. If anyone makes mention of it again, no matter how well you think you know them, you simply tell them it worked its way to the surface and dropped out during a shower and down the plughole.”
Mr Petrie, who was sitting with his back to Sinclair turned to the driver and asked him if there had been any unusual activity at the school. Sinclair, a handsome-looking, muscular man shook his head, replying: "Nothing that I have noticed. Apart from you and me, no one else has been at Sweetheart, although Dr Collins called to say he would be returning in the morning.
“I know the house heads are also arriving tomorrow night to prepare for the start of spring term next week. I have to go back to the airport for the school choir’s return tomorrow evening but if you need me for anything else, I am at your service. You seem a little on edge, Mr Petrie. Is everything Okay?”
It occurred to Mr Petrie he knew very little about the gardener who had arrived at the school last summer after the previous gardener had retired. He looked at him thoughtfully and, on the surface, Sinclair seemed pleasant, polite and hard working. Standing at six feet two inches tall, he cut quite a striking figure and his long hair was usually scooped up casually in either a man bun or ponytail, neither trend of which he approved.
He made a mental note to have the skelwarks do a background check since it seemed the school’s human resources department had not picked up on Dr Liam Wallace’s extracurricular activities and they could have been just as sloppy when appointing Sinclair. It was becoming difficult to know who he could trust.
“No, you’ve done a grand job. I’ve got your mobile, Mr Sinclair, if we need anything else, but Mr Buie and young Dewar will be staying with me until the start of term,” responded Mr Petrie. As they headed towards the city bypass, a blue Audi estate car with a driver and front seat passenger followed. This was quickly picked up by the old master whose sixth sense was tingling and on full alert.
About forty miles later, Mr Petrie shouted over to the driver: “Let’s take the scenic route today, Mr Sinclair, and go to Sweetheart via Wanlochead! There’s a small road on the right, the B797 I think, and it should make a pleasant diversion.”
Sinclair looked puzzled and said: “You want to go via the highest village in Scotland when snow is forecast on the hills?”
Mr Petrie replied quickly and in a slightly terse voice: “Aye, I do.”
Leaving no room for discussion or alternatives, the gardener, clearly not happy, did as he was told and indicated right as the turn off approached. Mr Petrie breathed a sigh of relief as the blue car continued on its route but his relaxed mode was short lived as a red estate carrying three people, two cars behind, also signalled right.
“It seems we have company,” remarked Mr Petrie to his two travelling companions.
“Aye,” piped up Sinclair. “I noticed them as we left the airport road.” Mr Petrie looked mildly surprised and asked if there was any particular reason his attention had been drawn to the red car.
“I noticed two hanging around the VIP lounge, no luggage, nothing. At first, I assumed they must be drivers waiting for a pick-up but when you arrived, they left and jumped in to the red car which is behind us now.”
“I’m very impressed,” said Mr Petrie. “Are you one of life’s keen observers?”
Sinclair laughed and said: “The only reason I’m driving a school bus today is because I didn’t pay attention to my surrounds. Let’s just say I’ve learned the hard way to be more aware of unusual behaviour and the people in the car behind fall into that category. Should I be concerned, Mr Petrie?”
Duncan turned to his grandfather and said: “Oh, no. I’m getting a bad feeling just now.”
The old man agreed and said: “I wouldn’t mind another of Mr Petrie’s knockout drops and then you can wake me up when this is all over.”
As the road narrowed and twisted and turned, the weather became more changeable and sleet soon turned to snow. “This bus does not handle well in this weather. I think it was a mistake to choose the B-Road as we’d have a better chance on the motorway. At least we could be in the public eye. Who are these people, Mr Petrie?”
He moved forward and sat in the passenger seat next to the driver. Shouting back at Duncan and his grandfather, he said: “Buckle up because I think we’re in for a rough ride for a few miles!” Just then, the red car appeared to shunt the bus. “I’m not sure if that was deliberate or if he is losing control as well but the conditions are worsening, Mr Petrie.”
“Look. I can barely see the road. It’s almost a winter whiteout. There’s a narrow hump backed bridge coming soon, if my memory serves me correct and…” Sinclair fell silent as he struggled to control the bus and its back end went into a spin, hitting something solid.
The engine stalled and there was complete silence inside as the driver looked at his three passengers. All were speechless as they rubbed past the condensation on the windows to see what was happening outside, but it was impossible to see anything. Sinclair wound down his window and was blasted with a howling wind and snow blizzard.
“Stay in the bus,” commanded Mr Petrie. “If we can’t see them, the chances are they can’t see us. Start the engine, Sinclair, there’s a good lad and let’s see if we can’t move forward.”
Sinclair looked at him and shouted back: “Move forward, move forward?! What don’t you understand about ‘I can’t see a bloody thing in front of me?’” Two loud bangs and a shattered side window persuaded the driver it was safer to drive than not.
“My God, we’re sitting ducks. Was that gunshot?” he asked, as he turned the ignition key. The engine fired up and unable to move forwards, Sinclair put the bus into reverse. The wipers cleared enough snow from the screen to make them realise that the bus had crashed and wedged itself into the hump back bridge in the village.
Two more shots were fired which spurred the driver to twist and turn the wheel while accelerating before he manoeuvred the bus into a position to move forward. The next two miles were a series of slips and slides and then the weather began to clear enough for them to realise that the red car was no longer following.
They would find out later that it had overturned near the bridge and tumbled into the river, killing both driver and front-seat passenger. The Dumfries media would report it as the tragic deaths of two foreign tourists in a hire car caught up in a snowstorm. There was no news about the existence of a third man.
By the time they had descended from the hills onto the A76 for Dumfries, the sun was breaking through the clouds and the only sign of inclement weather was a bit of slush on the side of the road. “Next time we’ll stick to the main routes, I think,” said Mr Petrie out loud.
"Erm… Douglas, can you see that this quarter window and back window panel are replaced quickly. Here’s some money which will more than cover it, but I’d rather no one knew about what just happened.
“Are we all agreed on this, then?” he asked out loud, but there was no response. An hour later, the bus pulled up outside Dulce Cor and Sinclair turned to Mr Petrie and asked what he would say about the bus. "Don’t worry. I’ll give you a report which should satisfy the headmaster. We just don’t need to mention the red car or its unsavoury occupants, okay?
"I will take full responsibility for the drive through Wanlochead. Just replace those windows soonest, please. Once inside the cottage, Mr Petrie showed his guests to their twin-bedded room with en suite and while they unpacked, he went back downstairs to make some tea.
“Life always seems so much better with a good, strong cup of tea,” he said to himself. As he went for the tea caddy, he noticed a note from Salar requesting an urgent meeting. Retrieving his tablet from his briefcase, he saw it was flashing with several messages from Merrick, each one terser than the previous.
The Council of Anam Cara was holding an emergency meeting and his presence was requested. As he handed his houseguests cups of tea and biscuits, he said: “I have an urgent meeting I must attend. You’ll be perfectly safe here and I want you to make yourselves at home. Do not open the door to anyone and I will be back shortly.”
Mr Petrie grabbed his briefcase and left through the front door. Normally he would have used the secret passage underneath Dulce Cor but he didn’t want to share such an intimate detail of his life with anyone. Instead, he went to the chapel and, using a skeleton key, opened the door and followed the spiral stone staircase down into the crypt.
He pressed his hand against a stone panel and the sealed entrance opened up for him. Within minutes, he was travelling through a network of tunnels until he arrived outside the door of the Anam Cara Council’s chamber. Several skelwarks stood silently and observing as was their habit. One opened the solid wooden door for Mr Petrie and he walked in to an antechamber waiting to be summoned.
After a few minutes, a skelwark emerged from the council chamber and beckoned him to enter. He took a deep breath and walked in to the ebony panelled circular room which was dominated by a large, round table of green onyx and gold. Salar, in flowing drapes of white silk sat on a majestic-looking ornate, golden throne and the rest of the seats were taken by the other five members.
Merrick sat in her trademark black catsuit next to Benyellary, a willowy, fragile-looking individual with strong pre-Raphaelite features framed by long, gently waving locks almost as flame red as the wrap around flowing gown. Kirriereoch was equally striking as an albino with short, cropped white hair, while Tarfessock with shoulder-length brown hair, looked exquisite in a gown of peacock colours and was the only one in the group to have facial hair neatly trimmed, almost manicured to perfection. Shalloch’s olive skin had an almost translucent glow which clashed with the thick, wiry, layered and multi-coloured dreadlocks.
Each member of the council was striking, formidable and almost androgynous but their indeterminate sex only served to make them more awesome. One of the skelwarks brought a chair to the table and Mr Petrie was silently encouraged to sit down as Salar waved an inviting hand in its direction.
“The Council is deeply disturbed by recent events and so we’ve held an emergency session,” opened Salar in Mr Petrie’s direction. "We have known, for some time, the capabilities of the infinity cell and have deliberated its usefulness in the twenty-first century.
"Merrick and Tarfessock think it should be utilised for the betterment of the planet and, indeed, in some ways they are right. The third world would benefit greatly from the technology of the Infinity Chip which would do away with the need for fossil fuels. The environment would benefit instantly in terms of clean air, rivers and other waterways.
"However, other members of the council believe it would be hijacked by the stronger elements in society and be put to an alternative use to oppress and control populations. Benyellary and Shalloch think the human race is too immature to handle such knowledge and Kirriereoch is concerned that its power will corrupt this world even more.
“I want to know what you think, Mr Petrie.” He looked around the table and sighed: "This invention would undoubtedly benefit the planet from the great oceans to the rivers, streams and waterways. It’s hard to imagine any disadvantages until you factor in the human being.
“Already there are dominant nations, criminal syndicates and powerful politicians who have shown they are prepared to kill in order to get their hands on this advanced technology. Far from bringing peace, it seems in the wrong hands it will fuel wars, oppression and tyranny.”
Salar nodded thoughtfully and invited the rest of the council to voice their opinions. It was clear from the questions and the debate that had preceded the meeting, the issue of the Infinity Chip had divided the normally harmonious Anam Cara.
"It is the majority opinion here today, Mr Petrie, that human beings cannot be trusted with the advanced technology of the Infinity Chip and so, until we think man has become sufficiently developed and mature, we may store it in the Cabinet of Secrets. The final vote will take place this evening after everyone has spoken.
“Kirriereoch will visit you in the morning and remove the chip from the boy’s neck so it can be prepared for deep storage in the Cabinet, as I think it will be many decades before we can consider releasing this technology. Moira and Douglas Dewar were decades ahead of their time and these scientists paid with their lives for their brilliance. Enough blood has been spilled on this issue.”
Mr Petrie left the chamber and hurried back towards Dulce Cor through the subterranean route which led him once again into the Chapel crypt. Making his exit, he arrived back at his cottage where his houseguests were waiting patiently.
“Apologies for being absent this last hour but I do have some good news. Arrangements are being made to surgically remove the chip from Duncan’s neck. It’s a minor procedure and will only involve a localised anaesthetic. Once that is gone, my boy, you should be able to resume a normal life and continue to make a nuisance of yourself in my history classes.”
That evening Duncan had an early night in preparation for the operation the following morning while Mr Petrie offered his prized whisky collection for Gordon Buie to sample. As he opened the cupboard, he looked in amazement: “Why some of this whisky is more than hundred years old. Surely that wee green bottle can’t be, is it? Is that whisky from the old Glenavon Distillery in Ballindalloch?”
Mr Petrie laughed: “I see, you know your drink. Of course the distillery is long gone but if you want a dram…”
Gordon Buie interrupted before he could finish the sentence. “No, no. You mustn’t. I’ll satisfy myself with a glass of Jura and toast my ancestors.”
The two men sat back and talked over old times at Sweetheart, remembering masters and incidents that raised an eyebrow or two back in the day. As the whisky flowed, it seemed to relax their tongues and they chatted like old school friends. A knock at the door interrupted the jollity and Mr Petrie went to see who would be calling so late at night.
A small figure draped in a dark cloak stood at the doorway and a slender blue arm extended towards him with a note. Once passed on, the silent messenger vanished into the night. Mr Petrie went and sat down and opened the folded paper. It was a message from Salar informing him that the council had, as expected, voted 4-2 in favour of archiving the Infinity Chip.
“Is that bad news?” enquired his guest but Mr Petrie just shook his head and said: “Now let me charge your glass again, Gordon. It is not often I receive company, and so I am going to exploit the situation.”
Feeling slightly emboldened by the single malt, Gordon Buie said: “I still do not know your first name and I looked at my old school records and I couldn’t even find an initial.” Mr Petrie looked down into his glass and swirled the amber liquid around until the scent of the whisky’s caramelised orange segments and warming mulled wine filled his nostrils. Lifting his solemn face and looking directly into Gordon’s eyes, he said: “The last person to call me by my first name was my wife and I vowed then no one would ever utter it again. Of all the precious memories I have, it was our final conversation.”
The eyes of both men became moist as they sat back and reflected on the precious memories life had given them. “You know a secret shared is a burden halved, Mr Petrie. If these last few days have taught me anything, it is that you are not who you seem to be and the purpose of your life is far removed from keeping alive the flame of Scottish history.”
Mr Petrie looked at his friend and deliberated if he should share his secret or not, a secret he had kept from his wife and one that he had held close for more than five hundred years. He finally broke his silence and said: “If I offered you the gift of immortality, what would you say?”
Gordon Buie reflected on the idea and then laughed shaking his head: "Good God, no! What a curse! I can’t think of anything worse. Maybe if you offered me this when I was youthful, I would take your hand off, but now, having lived such a full life when my time comes, who knows? I may even embrace the Grim Reaper.
“There are two things we cannot escape in life, Mr Petrie, and that is: taxes and death. Everything else, as you know, is more or less in our own hands.” The two continued talking until well after midnight before they retired.
***