Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle Read Free Book Online Page B

as McLeod reached for me, his minions right behind him, a forest of arms my only view, I heard Duncan shout.
    “Is this what you’re looking for?”
    McLeod turned away from me, and I had a clear view across the room as the case came to its denouement.
    Duncan had what looked like a long wig in his left hand, and a burning candle in his right.
    “Burn it,” I shouted.
    But it looked like I was in no immediate danger. The undead were all focussed on Duncan. Nobody moved, the only sound the sputter of the flickering candle.
    “Burn it!” I shouted again.
    Duncan had other ideas.
    “I know how you feel,” he said to McLeod. “Every day, I want her back. Every day I miss her. But look at yourself, man. Do you want her back like this? Could you stand it? Here...”
    “No!” I shouted, but couldn’t stop him handing the wig to McLeod.
    “Let her go,” Duncan said softly. “Set both of you free.”
    McLeod didn’t move, just stood there stroking the hairpiece as Duncan put the candle under, first the wig, then the navy man’s long beard.
    He went up like a piece of dry paper, consumed to ash in less time than I would take to smoke a cigarette. At that point I expected the others with him to fall to the ground, or wither and turn to ash themselves.
    That’s how it works in the movies.
    But this was Largs, on a holiday weekend. Things didn’t work like in the movies around here. The undead milled around the room, seemingly devoid of purpose, maybe twenty of them in various states of decomposition.
    “We should burn these too,” I said, but I knew already my heart wasn’t in it, and I was glad when Duncan disagreed with me.
    “Just leave them to me,” he said. “I’ll take care of them, like I’ve always done.”
    By the time I left he had them all in the dining room, sitting over cups of tea that would never get drunk, fancy teacakes that would never get eaten.  
    That’s Largs for you.

 
     
     
     
    TURN AGAIN

    She walked down to the Promenade most days to check on progress. The wind-farm was going up fast, despite all the protests and hot air in the local press. After an initial flurry of excitement at the start of construction the townspeople harrumphed and went back to their more mundane concerns, leaving Patty as one of the few still interested in the new forest rising offshore.
    In recent days she had noticed the older man. He was always on the same bench and never spoke, just nodded as she passed.
    It was on the day that the fifth propeller was lifted into place that he did more than nod. He touched the brim of a battered hat, lifted it several inches, and bid her a good morning. That was enough to get them started.  
    Over the coming weeks she found Mr. Tullis to be an excellent conversationalist and a keen student of local history. Indeed, he had an almost encyclopaedic knowledge of so many subjects that she thought him to be a retired academic.  
    They never spoke of their own situations, for which Patty was grateful, but they did become friends, of a sort, and Patty found herself hurrying to the promenade each morning for her newest flash of enlightenment.  
    On the fiftieth day their talk finally turned to Mr. Tullis’ personal history. Patty knew that this was a turning point. Soon she would have to speak of herself, and at that point, their relationship would be changed forever. But for now, she was content to sit and listen to the old man.  
    He started in his usual round about way, by drawing attention to the wind farm.  
    “The last one goes up today,” he said. “Bringing our little meetings to a conclusion. I have grown fond of you, lass. And I owe you an explanation.”
    She did not ask the obvious question, afraid to break his flow.
    “I have been sitting here these past weeks, watching the farm grow, and considering the metaphors. As I have watched these shores all these years, so shall these wonders of science watch, drawing their circles in the sky in much the same way