Saltire prize winning writer John Aberdein offers a wry Orcadian take on the absurdities of the ‘war on terror’.  John’s new novel ‘Strip the Willow’ is published by Polygon in May.

The Ferryman It was a shock, though admittedly logical, when the ferryman asked to look up my arse.             ‘Your arse,’ he said.             That is the kind of brisk remark I was used to from him.  You’re talking through a hole in your arse was a particular favourite of his.              I knew that a fin de siècle French vaudeville star made a decent living doing just that, and not just talking––             Farting.  Farting Schubert.  Farting La Marseillaise and Rimsky-Korsakov.  If I’d been him, if I’d been Le Pétomane, that’s the title I would have given my autobiography – Farting Schubert.  I often wondered how he kept it in tune.

            Perhaps he had perfect pitch. 

            But vaudeville is vaudeville, and this was just a wee Scottish ferry. 

He was insistent.

            ‘Your arse,’ he said, brooking no denial, if such a phrase has meaning still.  I wasn’t even on the boat yet.  And that was precisely the point.  I wasn’t on the boat, and I wasn’t getting on until he had satisfied himself, so to speak.  He had already been through my bags and boxes, my anorak pockets.  I reside in a place where anorak is not a term of abuse.

            ‘Your arse,’ said the ferryman, as the queue got restless.

‘Why?’ I said.

            ‘Home Office,’ said the ferryman.

            ‘Home Office?’ I said.  ‘The Home Office wants to look up my arse?’

            ‘The Home Office wants me to look up your arse on its behalf,’ said the ferryman, called Mote, or Motte, or something.  Probably came over with the Moets of Chandon.

            ‘The Home Office what?’ I said.

            ‘Risk assessment,’ he said.  ‘Of all public transport travellers by air, land or sea.

            ‘Risk assessment.  Of all travellers? I said, stalling for a variety of things, such as waking up on a better planet. 

            Some in the queue were stamping, shuffling – fingering their belts.

It was a lovely day, I have to admit it.  The pathetic fallacy had not kicked in, pathetic really.  Instead of louring low cumulus boiling with squabs of rain, like a cauldron of twisting blubber on

the deck of the Pequod, it was quite sunny and mild, with enough breeze to keep the midges at bay, always a bonus.  The hills of Hoy looked close and easily mountable.  The last dive-boat was departing the harbour to visit the cold, fertile wrecks.  The in-between world was moving modestly through its morning, a cream butterfly down and out amongst fish-boxes, three great skuas taking it in turns to murder an albatross’s cousin.  The world is full of wonderful padding. 

            I moved to the back of the queue, to consider my options, if plural.

I got speaking to a woman there, I’d met her once before.  She was from Mumbai, very well-educated, a regular tour guide of the Caves of Elephanta.  She was over checking the Scottish scene.

            ‘What is going on?’ she said.  ‘Tell me.  What is the big hold-up here?  My taxi is waiting on the other side.’

            She was a Brahmin, so it was a bit difficult.  If she had been Untouchable it would have been easy.  But how do you explain to a Brahmin lady that a ferryman is poised to look up her arse?  Hindus used to be broad-minded, and we all have our tashed Kama Sutras somewhere.   But now, look at Bollywood.  A country of one billion with the collective imagination of a spent euphemism.  A cloud slips over the moon.  A bush rustles.  Get your kit off is a cry not heard in the land.

            ‘A bit of a hold-up,’ I said.  ‘Don’t know if it’s going to clear.  Tell me about your caves.’

‘The Caves of Elephanta are one hour’s boat-ride from Mumbai,’ she said.

            ‘Are they very deep?’ I asked.

            ‘Don’t interrupt,’ she said.  ‘There is no call for interruption.  The Caves of Elephanta are one hour’s boat-ride from Mumbai.  You must catch the boat at the steps below the Arch of Freedom.’

            I wanted to query that, the Arch of Freedom, but found it safer to hoist an eyebrow, two actually.  I have found my eyebrows prefer that, they have little independence.

            ‘It used to be called the Gateway to India, by the silly persons of your nation.  Now I call it the Arch of Freedom.’

            She was quite a short woman and so did not know that up ahead a ferryman was insisting on inspecting arses.

‘When you arrive at Elephanta Island and when you look in, the caves seem very black.  Do you know why?  It is because they are carved entire from basalt, a very black rock flowing always from the bowels of the earth.  It is a lava, and because it is new, it has very few flaws or cracks.’

            ‘That’s good,’ I said.

            ‘It is especially good because my ancestors have carved these caves, and created many sculptures on the walls therein, of Shiva as creator, preserver and destroyer, the Trimurti.  One Shiva head is fifteen foot high.’

            It occurred to me that a fifteen-foot god head would be impressive, but I did not say so

.

            ‘The caves are very cool,’ she said.

            ‘I think I have read about them,’ I said.

            ‘You must go there soon,’ she said.  ‘Fly to India.  Let me tell you what the Portuguese did.’

Somebody joined the queue behind me.  He was one of those irascible socialists who would make the world immediately better by mending their temper.

            ‘What did the Portuguese do? I asked.

            ‘Caught all wir fuckin fish,’ said the irascible socialist.  Them, the Spaniards, and the flamin Dutch.

            The Brahmin lady was relentless in her way, and obviously cared little for the species of fish referred to.

            ‘The Portuguese came with their cannon to Elephanta, and wheeled them inside the largest caves.  They used our statues for target practice.  They blew off Shiva’s lower limbs, they defaced a Krishna.’

            ‘Not good,’ I said.

            ‘That is why we throw off all imperialism,’ she said.  ‘That is why we have nuclear weapons.’

            ‘The land of Ghandi?’ I said.

            ‘Ghandi’s ahimsa has no role in a modern India.  India must have her bomb, to be respected.’

            There was a cry from up ahead.

            ‘Dump all thae Pakistanis,’ said the irascible socialist, ‘then ye’ll be safe.  Throw in a few Portuguese while ye’re at it.’

            ‘It is not appropriate for you to make fun of India’s plight,’ said the Brahmin.  We are surrounded by enemies on all sides.’

            Mention of enemies made me check up ahead.  The cry had come from an elderly artist, our archipelago is moving with them.  He was attempting to rebuckle his breeks, while being moved, by the elbow, towards a white unmarked van.

A couple of folk left the queue at this point, shaking their heads, which brought us immediately nearer the front.

            ‘Whit is it all aboot?’ said the irascible socialist.

            ‘Home Office orders,’ I said, ‘arse inspection.  I expect it’s tied up with Heathrow.’

            ‘A wee ferry tied up wi Heathrow?’

            ‘Well it’s the new bombs, isn’t it?  Liquid.  Spring water, baby purée, everything could be lethal from here on in.  Liquid bombs.  They don’t show up on X-rays, that’s for sure.’

            ‘Or body scans, nae doot?’

            ‘So now they’re looking in body cavities.  In case you’ve been stashing liquid bombs.  Every arse is a primary suspect.’

The Brahmin woman was notably pensive.

            ‘I think it will not be the day for me to cross.’

            ‘Got something nasty on you?’ said the socialist.

            ‘I was hoping to visit the cave on Hoy, the Dwarf Stone.’

            ‘The Dwarfie Stane is a very small cave, by anyone’s standards,’ I said.  ‘Just enough for two dead people to sleep side by side.  But it is hollowed out, and it is 5,000 years old.  Just a one-off really.’

            ‘Perhaps it was fashioned by Hindu wanderers,’ she said.  ‘Our religion is the oldest surviving, 5,000 years also.’

            ‘But no imagery,’ I said, ‘no carved god head.  Just the odd stone pillow, and a block to keep out rats and history.’

‘Speaking o history,’ said guess-who, ‘an speakin o rats, I mind I was at a Labour Conference once, it was at the seaside.’

            ‘They often used to be, I believe,’ I said.

            ‘An this guy got up, steely eyes, skull shaved like a billiard ball.  Four letter name.’

            ‘Rude? I said.’

            ‘No.  Redd,’ he said.  ‘Jon Redd.  Unassumin name, but an assumin little creep, let me tell you.’

            ‘You’re talking about a Home Secretary we know and love.’

            ‘Aye, right.’

            ‘I hear he speaks very highly of you.’

            ‘The only people Jon Redd speaks highly o is people higher than himsel.  Blair.  Bush.  But back in ’86 it was Neil Kinnock he was slavverin ower.’

            ‘I thought Neil Kinnock was well-equipped to do that himself?’

            ‘He’d been in the job a coupla years, Kinnock, fallin into the sea on camera or intae the bog o his own blether, an the next Election was gettin nigh.  So up like a monkey in a  two-piece suit gets Redd, up on the podium in the Winter Gardens, all gilded an seedy.’

            ‘Redd?’ I said.

            ‘No.  The Gardens, he said.  It was on TV.  Shame really.  He’d been rantin on podia most o his semi-adult, had Redd, practisin all the usual tricks: wee joke tae kick aff wi, a coupla jibes at Thatcher, for her privatisations, her foreign garrison costs.  Then three groups o three, a risin rhythm, finishin up wi a clinchin cliché.’

            ‘Nice.’

            ‘But no this day, no in Redd’s case.’

            ‘What went wrong?  Falling rhythm, groups of two––?

            ‘Na.  The cliché bit back.’

All this time we were shuffling forward.  The Brahmin lady was looking through a pair of opera

glasses, as the three great skuas dismantled the oily bits on a gannet.

            ‘Tell me.’

            ‘Well Labour had been through dark days, according to Redd, massive factory closures, massive unemployment, massive lack of perks in the House of Commons.  We only had ourselves to blame, lack of discipline, lax leadership, longest suicide note in history, et cetera.’

            ‘Always wondered about that one, I said.  ‘Do they know there’s a competition?’

            ‘Who?’

            ‘The suicides.’

            ‘Anyway.  So he’s windin up, it’s the peroration, ye can aye tell, because it starts wi  but.’

            ‘But––?’

            ‘But.  But with Neil Kinnock at our helm, we can put these storms, these dark days, these rocky shores behind us––’

            ‘Three.’

            ‘And with Neil as our pilot, we are ready on the runway, ready to take off, ready to lift up --”

            ‘Three.’

            ‘So, comrades––’

            ‘They still used that?’

            ‘So, comrades, climb aboard, raise up your hearts, and cast your gaze forward––’

            ‘Then the clincher, surely?’

            ‘Because, comrades, with Neil driving our train, our express, this wonderful engine of the Labour Party, I tell you now, I can see shite lining at the end of the tunnel–’

            ‘Shite lining!  On TV?’

            ‘Shite lining live.  The BBC are probably holding the tape, against the evil day.’

            ‘Prescient guy Redd, then, eh?  Cabinet material?’

            ‘Solid as wood.  Spot you a terrorist at three paces.’

The ex-gannet had been ripped to a sticky gristle.  The Brahmin lady had tired of the spectacle and was gazing up the hill, where a huge five-storey mansion was being completed, just below the summit, dominating the town.  It had twenty-five bedrooms, and seventeen garages, all of them en suite.  If you sell your boat and quota for several squillion, and pay off your men with a bucket of whelks, such things are always possible.

            ‘Some call it the Taj,’ I said.

            ‘I am sorry?’

            ‘Taj Mahal.’

            ‘It lacks many domes.’

            ‘True.  But like the Taj, it has one flaw.’

            ‘Tell me.’

            ‘Unlike the Taj, the flaw is visible.  From all over Scapa.  That’s why we call it––’

            ‘Scapa Flaw,’ said the irascible socialist.

I suppose we were getting into tunnel mode, chummy as evacuees in a London Underground, swapping bits of badinage as the tiles trembled or fell.  The Brahmin and the irascible socialist were getting conversant.

            Another van drew up and unloaded a hooped shelter, like a pergola covered in plastic.  This was in order to speed up throughput, else we would miss the next day’s tide.  The ferryman was taken off the job, heroic amateur with his thumb in the dyke.  In moved the professionals, oozing assurance.

            No government can be too swift in attending to fundamentals. 

Soon it would be my turn, to expose myself for inspection, for intimate scrutiny, for total evisceration should my betters decree.  If needs be, I would carry my suspect innards in a clear plastic bag, and taste them with a teaspoon when required.

Now I am not particularly shy about my arse, per se.  No doubt it does a better job than my face, in many respects, and is a notch higher on the scale of necessity. 

            But––

But I decided to swim.  Across the tide, across heat-seeking jellyfish, floating voters, across the bull-nosed big wash of Trident. 

            Just before stepping off the pier, I blew a fart.  If I’d had one iota of Le Pétomane’s skill, I would have blown a few bars of something rousing, like 500 Miles by the Proclaimers.

Who knew where I would land up?   I hadn't a clue.  I'd make a piss-poor terrorist, but a pretty good errorist.  Perhaps members of the current Government would catch me on a fishing expedition.             Ex-MI5 Director, Ms Stella Rimington, was frank in the Guardian: you might recall her gist.  Roughly––             The Westminster tribe?  They mainline on macho.              Errorism about terrorism is in their veins. John Aberdein