She put a finger to her ear. ‘That’s right, Bill. Ronnie Wells has become a controversial figure since he took over the FWFPLH last May. He’s accused the Scottish government of abandoning Scotland’s rural communities in favour of an easy deal with Westminster.’
The mock burning was followed by a jaunty pair of JCB diggers lofting a massive banner of their own: ‘FARMING LIVES MATTER!!!’ strung up between their raised backhoes.
A mixture of cheers and boos rippled around the crowd as a handful of stodgy middle-aged men in bland suits clambered up onto a makeshift stage. The stodgiest and baldest of them shuffled over to the microphone.
‘Of course this is the Cabinet Secretary, George Rushworth’s, first public speech since the Arran-gate scandal, so we can expect some fiery rhetoric as he tries to put that behind him.’
There was a squeal of feedback as he tapped the microphone, then George Rushworth MSP’s voice crackled out of the speakers. ‘Can you hear me OK? Good. OK. Right. I know feelings are running high, but I want you to know that the Scottish government cares passionately about farming in this country!’
More booing.
Alfie took one hand off the steering wheel, plucked the whisky bottle from the cup holder at his right elbow and knocked back a swig. It burned all the way down.
Should’ve bought some of the good stuff, really. But how was he supposed to afford that? That was the whole point of this buggering exercise — how could he, or any other struggling farmer afford anything?
Still. Would’ve been nice.
The peaty fire spread out across his stomach then up into his chest. Then his brain, making it swell and tingle.
I mean, take this big John Deere tractor, did anyone out there have the slightest idea how much it cost to keep one of these things going? The maintenance and servicing was bad enough, but what about all the diesel? And that was on top of the massive expense of buying the bloody thing in the first place. You could get a two-bedroom flat in Aberdeen for less than one of these.
Another swig.
Might as well enjoy it. There’d be sod-all whisky after they caught up with him. They were probably quite strict about that kind of thing in prison.
Still, it wasn’t as if they’d left him any option, was it?
They had no one to blame but themselves.
The JCBs in front were all shiny and yellow, their banner strung between them crisp and clean.
Not like the chunk of farm equipment he was towing.
Look at it: lurking in the tractor’s wing mirrors. An evil black metal bomb. Big and dark and rusty at the edges. Ready to explode.
His radio bleeped at him as the Royal Bank’s crisp granite frontage drifted by on the left — and there they were. Hundreds and hundreds of them, waving their silly little placards, as if that would make any difference.
Nope.
Only one thing ever made a difference. In a war you had to fight dirty.
Henry’s voice crackled out of the set. ‘Go on, Alfie, let the bastards have it!’
Alfie checked his mirrors again — Henry was there, giving him the thumbs up from the cab of his Massey Ferguson.
It was time.
One more swig of whisky for luck.
Some of the crowd understood. Some of them were on the farmers’ side.
Shame.
But in any war there was always collateral damage.
Alfie grabbed his radio handset and pressed the transmit button. Hauled in a big whisky-smoke breath. ‘YEEEEEEE-HAAAAAW!’
He flicked the switch and pulled the lever.
And may God have mercy on them all.
II
‘Scottish farmers have every right to be angry. It’s vitally important that we sort this out, but we have to be realistic!’
Tufty shrugged. Playing it cool. ‘So...’ not quite shouting over the speech belting out of the PA system, but close. ‘After the funeral, I thought we could pop round and see Mrs Galloway. I think she’d want to know that Pudding’s in safe hands till she gets out of hospital.’
Constable Mackenzie nodded. ‘That’s true, but I don’t think she’d want to see me. After all, you’re—’
‘Nope. You arranged everything. You sorted out the crematorium. This wouldn’t have happened without you.’
She went a little pink again. ‘It was nothing really.’
‘You did a lovely thing for a poor old lady. That’s not nothing, it’s...’ Tufty’s eyes widened. ‘Oh God!’
The huge green-and-yellow tractor — the one crawling along behind the banner-flying JCBs — the one towing a big black slurry tank — the one whose driver seemed to be swigging from a bottle of supermarket whisky — gave a grumbling clunk and unleashed HORROR.
The spray nozzle on the back burst into life sending out a massive brown peacock’s tail of foul-stinking liquid. Its leading edge spattered down on the crowd and their placards, painting them with filth.
And that’s when the screaming started.
The brown tide crawled forward.
Spraying and splattering.
Drenching everything it touched.
Filling the square with the bitter-sharp stench of fermented pig manure.
The people on the right-hand side of the square — the ones closest to the stage and furthest from the spray — struggled back, trying to get out of the way before the storm arrived. But there was nowhere to go. No escape. They just bunched up in a solid clump as the slurry rainbow got closer and closer.
PC Mackenzie stared at him. ‘I don’t want to be covered in poo!’
In the middle of the square, the steaming brown arc washed over the national media’s representatives, smearing the right and left wing alike. A woman with blonde curly hair screamed into her camera as she became a brunette.
Oh no, here it came...
Up on the stage, Boring Speech Man stood rooted to the spot, his voice still belting out of the PA system as the slurry found him. ‘AAAAAAGH! JESUS CHRIST! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! IT’S GONE IN MY MOUTH!’
Closer.
Closer.
Tufty took a deep breath, grabbed PC Mackenzie and bundled her into a crouch, covering her with his own body — back hunched as foul coffee-coloured rain pattered against his high-viz jacket and drummed on his cap. Soaked into the sleeves of his T-shirt. Trickled down the back of his stabproof vest. Slithered between the hairs on his arms.
Argh, the smell! The smell! The smell!
It took a count of three for the downpour to pass.
Tufty straightened up and PC Mackenzie came with him. Staring around her.
From here right back to the Royal Bank, people were yelling and spitting and swearing. On the other side — the as-yet unspattered side — everyone was backed up against the Clydesdale Bank, scrabbling to escape with nowhere to go as the slurry wrapped them in its stinky embrace.
And finally, the tractor and its evil tank were past — probably busy painting the front of the building instead.
Steam rose from the crowd.
Someone retched. Then someone else. Then it was an epidemic, spreading through the crowd.
PC Mackenzie blinked up at Tufty, mouth hanging open. ‘That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’
A voice yelled out from the other side of the square: ‘OH GOD, NOT ANOTHER ONE!’
The tractor right behind the slurry tank was hauling a muck spreader — it hurtled chunks of straw-studded manure at the crowd.
Steel was over by the barrier, standing like a scarecrow, dripping. ‘Gaaaaahhh...’
Harmsworth, on her left, turned in small circles with his arms out — dancing with a large invisible bear. ‘No, no, no, no...’