Live and Let Liewell

We sat outside a little bistro on the Boulevard Boramar by the port of Collioure just a few miles into France from the Spanish border, Souness with his back to the wall, one hand on the stem of a Martini and the other resting on his chest where he kept his Beretta holstered.  The ripples on the sea glittered from the last rays from the sun as it set behind a hill where a windmill sat lazily as smoke rose from just behind it.  This was where Souness had dumped the helicopter before stealing a bicycle and giving me a backy into the village, me squealing all the way and complaining about chaffing from my corduroys.

We were waiting for Souness's handler to appear with documents to get me back into the UK, my passport, tickets and a suitcase full of corduroy having been left at my hotel in Barcelona after our impromptu departure.  It wasn't long before the handler arrived and I don't know why I was surprised as I caught a glimpse in the distance of a jovial old fellow in mutton chop whiskers as he whistled down the boulevard swinging a cane. 

'Well met,' grinned Donald Findlay as he stood in front of us regarding me with the usual amusement and blocking my view of a nubile young man in tight speedos I'd been eyeing up on the beach.  'Garcon, creme pour moi, s'il vous plait et un autre Martini pour le thug,' said Findlay, sitting down beside us.  'Don't understand a word the blighters are saying, don't ye know but I can order a drink in any language in the world' and he giggled, twirling his cane between two fingers and glancing at Souness who remained stone faced, keeping a vigilant eye on anyone who came too close. 

'So what are we going to do with you then Spiers, eh?' said Findlay, suddenly serious.  'Who knows what Tartaglia would have done with you had he got you back to Scotland, handed you over to Lawwell I'd wager, hey Souness?  Hand him over to Lawwell?'

'I'd have thrown him into the sea half way home, let the fish eat him,' muttered Souness.

'Now Graeme, we all know what a blood thirsty lunatic you are, that's why we love you.  That's why you're the best agent we've ever had and why, Spiers, you're still alive today.  We're going to get you back into the country but we must be sure first that you're going to be thankful.  Thankful enough to help us out with a little piece of mischief we've been planning.'  And so he told me some of his plan, not all of it obviously as no one ever tells me the whole story, leaving me to work it out for myself which is difficult when you're as shallow as I am.  As he was speaking we could hear bells and horns from some kind of parade in the alleys behind us and just as Findlay had finished filling me in, a little line of musicians dressed in white appeared, tootling away on their instruments and behind them some villagers carried a little statue of the Virgin Mary. 

'Very pretty,' sighed Findlay, sitting back and enjoying the moment.  'You know, here I am, this supposed Protestant monster and yet I'm appreciating a little moment of Roman Catholicism in this picturesque setting.  Off they pop to their little church and it's all very nice, very nice indeed.  I only wish the Scottish people would feel the same way about our own little parades; it's only a demonstration of a culture after all, hardly different from what we've just seen here.  No need to get all offended and write to the government, the newspapers, whoever will listen, quoting their favourite word, 'triumphalism' every two sentences and demanding an end to all sorts of freedoms the parades are celebrating in the first place, just to get one over those 'Orange bastards'.  Without seeing the irony of course.'  He sighed again but sadly this time, not in appreciation of a pleasant moment during a relaxing evening in the sun.

'These are strange days, Spiers.  Not like the last two seasons when we battled demons and foul creatures of the dark, super powered freaks and ghosts.  This season it's different.  This season we battle the government.  Well, the Scottish Executive but those Brigadoon Parish Councillors do like to call themselves the government.  I like to call myself a national treasure but I doubt many would agree with me either, eh Souness?' and he roared with laughter on his own, sitting back and sipping his coffee and wiping tears of mirth from his cheek.

'There's just one thing,' I piped up.  'If I do this for you, how about calling off Spring Heeled Jack?  At least from me?  He's making life a misery for us just now.'

Findlay looked at Souness who met his eyes and shrugged.

'He's not who you think he is you know,' said Findlay.  'Oh I know all you clever dicks think it's Jack Irvine creeping around terrorising you with his crickets and fancy tricks.  It's not.'

'Who is it then?'

'Someone worse, much worse...'