Isserley was hastily correcting the startled swerve her car had taken towards the middle of the road.
‘Whit aboot “Over the Hill”?’ Dave persisted. Strumming one beefy hand against his ribcage, the other fingering the neck of an invisible guitar, he sang, ‘Been worried about my babies, I been worried about my wife; there’s just one place for a man to be when he’s worried about his life; I’m goin’ home, HEY HEY HEY over the hill!’
‘Are you worried about your wife, Dave?’ enquired Isserley evenly, keeping her eyes on the road.
‘Yeah, Ah’m worrit she might find oot whir Ah stay, hyuh hyuh.’
‘Any babies?’ She was being audacious, she knew, but she felt in no mood to waste time today.
‘Nae babies, hen,’ said Dave, sobering his tone abruptly and bringing his hands to rest in his lap.
Isserley wondered if she’d overstepped the mark. She shut up, pushed her breasts out, and drove.
It was a pity, Dave reflected, that this Louise was only taking him as far as Pitlochry. At this rate he’d get to Glasgow about four hours earlier than he needed to, and this girl wouldn’t be a bad way to spend that time. Not that he was a sexist, mind, but she had that upfront way of speaking that easy girls had, and she’d picked him up, him a big beefy guy, which let’s face it females almost never did. She had fantastic bosoms, and bigger eyes than Sinéad O’Connor even, and nice hair too, although it was a bit of a mess really, sticking out like a mop so he couldn’t see her face from the side. Maybe this was what women meant when they talked about having a bad hair day. Maybe he should mention something about bad hair days, to show her he had some idea about these things. Women liked to think there wasn’t a hopeless divide between the sexes; it was a real leg-opener, he’d found.
Maybe something would happen between them on the way to Pitlochry! Beds weren’t essential, after all. Louise could pull in at a layby and show him what she was made of.
Dream on, dream on, Dave. This is what would really happen: at Pitlochry she’d set him down at the roadside and drive off with a wink of her tail-lights. End of story.
But he’d get to see John Martyn, just remember that. Trying to get off with a woman was always a bit of an embarrassment when you looked back on it later, but a great musical performance was a warm buzz forever.
Thinking of which: what did this girl have in the way of music? There was a car cassette player just above his knee: plenty of time for a C-90 before Pitlochry!
‘Goat any tapes, hen?’ he said, pointing at the machine. Isserley glanced at the metal slit, trying to recall what had or had not been inside it when she’d first acquired this car, years ago.
‘Yes, I think there’s one in there,’ she replied, vaguely remembering being startled by unwelcome music when she’d been familiarizing herself with the dashboard controls.
‘Brilliant: put it oan then,’ he urged, smacking the thighs of his jeans as if to kick-start the drums.
‘Feel free to do it yourself,’ Isserley said. ‘I’m driving.’
She felt his gaze on her, incredulous at her carefulness, but there were cars overtaking hers constantly and she was too nervous to look down. Being driven around at high speeds by that maniac Esswis had rattled her and she was in no mood to exceed forty-five.
Dave switched on the tape player and sound issued forth obediently. At first Isserley was relieved that he’d got what he wanted, but she soon sensed that all was not well, and made herself focus on the music. It seemed to be submerging itself every few seconds, as if passing through watery obstacles.
‘Oh dear,’ she fretted. ‘Perhaps my machine is malfunctioning?’
‘Nah, it’s yir tape, hen,’ he said. ‘It’s loast its tension.’
‘Oh dear,’ repeated Isserley, frowning in concentration as a car behind her hooted its horn in apparent chagrin at her refusal to pass a tourist coach. ‘Does it need… uh… disposing of?’
‘Nah!’ Dave assured her, happily fiddling with the cassette controls while she endured the sound of beeping. ‘It’s just needin’ windin’ backwards an’ forwards a few times. Daes wonders. You’ll see. Folk throw tapes oot thinkin’ they’re deid. Nae need for it.’
For a few minutes more he busied himself with the tape player, then switched it on afresh. The song rang out of the speakers, clear and harsh as television. A twangy male voice was singing about driving a truck all night long, to put a hundred miles between him and a town called Heartache. The tone was one of jovial dolefulness.
Isserley trusted that Dave would be satisfied now, but instead he radiated puzzlement.
‘Ah goat tae say, Louise,’ he said after a while. ‘It’s funny you huvin’ Coontry and Western music’
‘Funny?’
‘Well… unusual, fur a wumman. At least a young wumman, y’ken. You’d be the furst young wumman Ah’ve met that’s goat a Coontry and Western tape in her motor.’
‘What kind of music would you have expected?’ Isserley enquired. (Some of the larger service stations sold cassettes; perhaps she could buy the correct ones there.)
‘Oh, dance stuff,’ he shrugged, beating the air rhythmically with his fist. ‘Eternal. Dubstar. M Pipple. Or mebbe Björk, Pulp, Portishead…’ These last three names sounded to Isserley like varieties of animal feed.
‘I suppose I have strange tastes,’ she conceded. ‘Do you think I’d like John Martyn? What does his music sound like? Can you describe it to me perhaps?’
Her question lit up the hitcher’s face with a glow of serene and yet intense concentration, as if his whole life had been leading up to this moment and he knew he was equal to the challenge.
‘He daes a loaty stuff wi’ echoplex – foot pedals, y’ken? It’s acoustic, but it soonds electric – spacey, even.’
‘Mm,’ said Isserley.
‘One second he’ll be playin’ this ril soaft acoustic guitar, next second it’s like WHAAANG! WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA, birlin’ all roond yir heid.’
‘Mm,’ said Isserley. ‘Sounds… effective.’
‘An’ his singin’! That manny sings like naebody oan earth! It’s like…’ Dave began to sing again, in a melismatic convulsion of slurring and growling which made him sound alarmingly drunk. For years now it had been Isserley’s policy never to allow a very drunk hitcher into her car, in case he fell asleep before she could make an informed decision about the icpathua. Had Dave greeted her with this extraordinary performance, she would definitely not have taken him. But, he assured her: ‘It’s deliberate. Like jazz, y’ken?’
‘Mm,’ she said. ‘So, have you seen John Martyn many times?’
‘Oh, six or seven, over the yirs. But he’s well intae the drink, y’ken. Y’canny be sure someboady like that isnae gauny pop off any day noo. Then you’d be tellin’ y’self, Ah couldy went and seen John Martyn, an’ now he’s deid! An’ whit did Ah dae instead, eh? Watched telly mebbe!’
‘Is that what you do with most of your time, Dave?’
‘Right, hen. Too right,’ he confessed emphatically.
‘During the daytime too?’
‘No, hen,’ he laughed. ‘Ah’m at work, then.’
Isserley digested this, rather disappointed. She’d had such a strong hunch that he was unemployed.
‘So,’ she persisted, hoping to uncover a reputation for poor attendance at his place of work, ‘you took the day off today to see the concert.’
He looked at her a little pityingly.
‘It’s Saturday, hen,’ he informed her gently.
Isserley winced. ‘Of course, of course,’ she said. All this, she was sure, was Amlis Vess’s fault somehow. His stupid act of sabotage had achieved nothing except to ruin her concentration for the rest of the day.