Page 5 of Dirty Rotten Love

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“I’m choosing to take it as one.”

Tam snorts. Dazza is smiling despite himself. Even Grigor, who has spent the last four hours wearing the expression of a man doing penance, looks fractionally more human.

“Tomorrow,” says Tam. “Aye, alright. Cards tomorrow.”

“And we fleece the new boy,” says Frasier, pointing at me with his pen.

“You are welcome to try,” I say generously.

There’s a warning whistle from the far end. MacLeod, appearing out of the dark, into the floodlight area, because of course he is, because he has an absolute gift for timing.

Everyone straightens up. Papers are checked. Faces go neutral. The transformation is instantaneous and slightly impressive.

MacLeod walks the line. He checks three things. He signs off the final sheet. He looks at all of us with an expression that gives nothing away and tells us the full force of his withering contempt at the same time.

“There are no shortcuts on my rig,” he says, quietly. “There are no exceptions. There is no check too small to do properly.” Another pause. “Good work tonight.”

And then he’s gone.

We all stand there for a moment in the yellow floodlight.

“Did he just…” says Dazza.

“Aye,” says Tam.

“Was that?”

“I think so.”

I am grinning. I can feel it and I cannot stop it and I don’t particularly want to. Good work tonight. From MacLeod. To all of us, obviously, collectively, not to me specifically, but still. Good work tonight.

“Right,” says Frasier, gathering his paperwork with the energy of a man who needs to lie down immediately. “I’m away to my bunk. At least there is only one of him.”

There’s a beat.

“He cannot be serious,” says Dazza.

“There can be only one,” says Frasier, pointing his pen at the darkness where MacLeod disappeared, doing a voice that I don’t recognize at all but that makes Tam and Dazza and Grigor all lose their minds simultaneously. Even the other lads are laughing, the proper kind, tired and helpless and good.

I look around at all of them. I have absolutely no idea what is happening.

“What’s the joke?” I say.

This makes it significantly worse. Frasier is actually wheezing.

“MacLeod,” says Tam, wiping his eyes. “Highlander. The film. There can be only one.” He looks at my face. “You’ve not seen Highlander?”

“I’ve not seen Highlander.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.”

Tam shakes his head slowly, like I’ve said something genuinely sad. “Away to your bunk, son. Your Ma will be along to tuck you in and sing you a lullaby.”

“Alright, grandad,” I grin.