Chapter Twenty-Seven
KIT
Have you ever felt like the world is conspiring against you? Like everything you touch turns to complete and utter shit?
That would be my life since this morning.
First, the beast wouldn’t start. The gardener’s son had a look—he’s a mechanic of sorts. The fucking starting motor has gone, and after calling three garages, it’s clear these have to be ordered. It takes weeks, and I’ve got minutes to spare.
Should’ve bought a European car for up here. A fucking tank!
The hotel has a Town Car, but it’s picking up from the airport. And a hire car? Not a chance without heading into one of the nearby towns.
I’m cabbing it. Not a black cab, like you see in London, or a uniform company like you’ll see in any city in the UK. No, a minicab, courtesy of Aroon, the morning chef’s brother-in-law.
No sat nav. No aircon. I’m sweating buckets, and we’re fucking lost, despite passing a sign for the village the castle is nearby.Twice.
‘A police cordon—look.’ I pat the driver’s shoulder, whose name I’ve long forgotten, urging him to stop. ‘Where the orange bollards are.’
The car pulls to a stop in front of a pair of Scotland’s finest. I shove a handful of Scottish pound notes onto the front passenger seat, deciding I might do better on my own.
‘I’m looking for Claish Castle,’ I say, addressing the nearest of the policemen.
His gaze follows the minicab, and its black, spluttering exhaust emissions owning the road before answering.
‘Road’s closed, sir.’
‘Aye, I can see. But I’m looking for Claish Castle.’ Stick the use of your road; I’m not interested. ‘I’m late for a christening at the chapel there.’
The policeman turns his back to confer with his companion before facing me again and repeating the same thing.
‘Look, pal,’ I start, my temper fraying quickly. ‘I got stuck on the wrong side of a causeway, woke up to a car that wouldn’t start, have just endured the taxi ride from hell, and am only asking for directions to Claish Castle.’ I draw the name of the place out slowly, thinking the key might be in the enunciation. ‘I want nothing else.’
‘Where’s your present, then?’ This from tweedle-dumber who happens to be holding a clipboard.
‘What?’
‘Y’cannae go to a christenin’ w’out a gift.’
‘Who are you? The christening police?’
‘Stand aside, sir,’ says the first officer. ‘Jim, open the barrier. Car coming through.’
I step back from the road onto a grass verge just in time as a black Range Rover whizzes by.
‘Whis’ your name?’ the clipboard policeman asks.
‘Tremaine,’ I answer, watching the car rumble up the driveway. Was that Victoria Beckham? ‘Kit Tremaine.’
‘You’re not on the list,’ he replies. ‘We’ve got a Rory Tremaine, but no Kit.’
‘So I’m here—this is the castle?’
‘Aye, but you’re no’ listening. Your name’s no’ on the list.’
‘Give me a break,’ I say to the heavens then pull out my phone.
Two minutes later, Rory arrives in another Range Rover—white, this time—pulling up on the other side of the barrier.
