– Cup ay tea or something stronger Bruce darlin? Maisie asks.
– I’d love to Maisie, but I can’t. Time is of the essence. Claire, my sweet, are you ready?
– Aye, she says. She’s got her knee-length fur coat on, and I hope she’s wearing what I specified underneath it. It looks like it as she’s on heels.
– Gie’s a flash then, I instruct.
She opens her coat, exposing the black bra, split-crotch panties, stockings and sussies. Phoah!
– Magic.
Claire goes to put a tracksuit top, bottom and trainers on, but I tell her to take them with her and come as she is. – The car’s warm, the engine’s running, I urge.
– Look eftir her now Bruce, Maisie half-warns as we depart, – she’s a good yin.
She fuckin well isnae half. I could gie the hoor one now.
– You know me Maisie, I smile. – Call me old-fashioned, but I believe that ladies should be treated with the utmost respect.
It doesnae take long tae hit the bypass. Deep Purple’s ‘Highway Star’, the orignial version off Machine Head, is blaring out the stereo. Ah’ve got the wheels, the hot chick, now aw ah need is a line ay posh! It’s as well that the road isnae too busy as I can hardly keep my eyes on it, with her sitting next to me and her coat sliding over those thighs, exposing the sussies. At one stage I thought, fuck it, I’m going to have to pull on to a slip-road and a country lane and blow some more OT dosh.
Funny, what stops me is having to listen to her whinging. She’s started to have second thoughts about the project. – Ah’m no sae sure aboot this, she says, lighting a cigarette.
– C’mon Claire, yir gittin good dosh for this. Besides, look on it as an education, a new experience beneficial tae yir career development, I reason. I’m sounding like Toal talking to a jug-eared raw recruit of a uniformed spastic before sending him down to Drylaw. – It’s a good dug. A sheepdug. A collie, for fuck sakes. They’re gentle, obedient dugs, known for it. And I guarantee that the video is only going to be for private use. Hector and myself. Two grand Claire. It’s good dosh.
– Aye . . . awright.
It’s just as well that Hector’s wedged up. Farmers always complain about their lot, but you never see a skint one. They tend to be the one profession that gets on well with the polis. They have the property, and we’re in the property protection business. So they have a tendency to be more instinctively well-disposed towards us than most. Like us, they tend to have a high depression and suicide rate. It’s that seasonally adjusted depression wi them. Look at that Ted Moult guy that did the Everest Double Glazing.
We pull off the road and up the gravel track towards the farmhouse. Hector has heard the Volvo tearing up and comes out to greet us in his usual hale and hearty manner. He’s a real fermin vermin archetype awright: stocky, ruddy, white hair and beard, tweed jacket, cords and boots.
– Hello Bruce.
– Hector.
His eyes open like saucers. – And what am I to call this lovely young lady?
– Claire, she says.
His face ignites further. – It’s an absolute pleasure and an honour my darling, he says, taking her arm in his and leading her to the Range Rover. I follow with the camera and tripod. It’s muddy, very fucking muddy and I’m trying to watch those new fawn flannels.
– Is this your farm? Claire asks Hector.
– All mine, my darling, all mine.
Hector’s House.
– From the road into town back there, he stops and sweeps his free arm around to the ugly, desolate brown mounds which tower over us, – right up to the base of them there hills.
Claire gives an impressed, evaluating smile. That lassie will go all the way to the top in her profession. She has that premium-range hoor’s instinctive understanding of value.
Hector gives a whistle, and from out of nowhere a collie shoots towards us like a missile. Just as you think it’s going to collide into us, it slows down and circles us a few times, yelping with excitement.
– This is Angus, Hector says proudly, petting the panting, enthusiastic beast.
We get into the Range Rover.
– It’s freezing, Claire says, lighting another fag.
– Angus here’ll warm ye up, I say, getting into the back after her, letting the dog sit on the front passenger seat.
Claire looks dubiously at her leading man.
– Silver medal at the Royal Highland Show in ninety-five, eh boy, Hector says fondly to the dog, starting up the car.
The mutt leans over and starts licking my hand with its sandpaper tongue. – He likes you Bruce, Hector observes, starting up the motor.
The track follows a serpentine route over frozen ground, cutting through a range of ice-encrusted trees into a clearing and down the hill towards the barn. As it dips, the path deteriorates into a patch of muddy swamp which has failed to freeze over.
I turn to Claire. – You should be used tae this sort of gig Claire, coming fae Aberdeen. Ewe’d have tae be good at your trade tae compete wi aw the sheep up thaire. Ewe’d have tae be good! Get it?
Nobody does, and the fucking Range Rover grinds to a halt, sticking in the mud. I look at my watch as the car snarls ineffectively, the wheels spinning, failing to grip.
Hector turns round in the seat. – Sorry Bruce, but we need a bit of your muscle. I’ve got tae dae this, he protests, shaking the wheel in response to my cold stare.
I get out of the vehicle, my feet sinking into the mud which covers my brogues. The bottom of my new slacks are fuckin . . . that useless auld cunt Hector . . .
I push in exasperation as I look at my watch and the motor springs free, sending a shower of mud on to my shins.
When I get back in Hector and Claire are grinning at me. – Sorry Bruce, but you’re no exactly dressed fir the ferm! Mind and no get a mess on Claire now!
I seeth silently as we get to the barn. It’s a huge, ugly, cold place, but it’s pretty isolated. I quickly set up the camera, though not fast enough for Claire.
– It’s freezing Bruce, hurry up!
The light’s still good, but it is cold. The frosted wind whistles around the barn with a clinical, cutting ozone smell of Arctic origins.
– Right Claire, I direct, – off wi the coat and oot ay they panties . . . if ye could jist lean ower that bar and spread those legs . . .
– How’s it lookin Bruce . . .? Hector says through pursed lips.
– Pit that fag oot Claire! A wee bit tae the left. . . . that’s it. Hector, it’s all yours.
Hector pulls the dug ower tae Claire and lets him have a good sniff of her. Then he starts pulling on the dog’s cock; at the same time he’s massaging his own through his troosers while staring at Claire. The dug’s tongue is hanging oot and his pink cock shoots oot like a plastic attachment on a toy, that Darth Vader’s lance in Toys Я Us.
Hector starts the ghetto-blaster which plays The Archers’ theme tune. That was his idea. He points the yelping dug at Claire, restraining it by the collar. Then he lets it go.
The animal ignores her completely, springing at me and attaching itself to my leg, thrusting ferociously. – Get that fuckin thing off me, I shout, trying to push it away, but the bastard’s nostrils flare and a low growl comes from its throat. I stagger backwards, knocking over the tripod and camera. Hector grabs the dug and pulls him off me, by which time my C&A’s troosers are covered in canine spunk.
– Her, no me! I shout at the stupid, panting beast.
We set it up again for another try. Once more, this daft fucking thing flies at me and attaches itself to me. – Jesus Fuck Almighty!
That thin pink cock rips and spurts against my flannels. – Fuckin new troosers!
– Sorry Bruce, Hector shrugs and grabs the yelping, demented beast by the collar. Claire starts laughing, a loud, horsey hee-haw.
– That dug’s a fuckin queer, I curse, pointing at the fucker.
Hector’s got the fucking audacity to look affronted. – That dug’s sired mair championship pups than you’ve had hot dinners son, he grumbles. – He just likes you.