Page 8 of What Would Dolly Do?

He was definitely mocking me this time and I thrust my brush towards him, not caring about the arc of white paint flicking through the air as I rattled out questions like machine gun fire; ‘What d’you want?

There’s nothing here to steal you know …

have you been following me?’ My blood had run cold.

This guy looked worryingly familiar – more than our brief run-in on the police station steps merited – and now I could see him more clearly minus the oversized shades.

Had he been tailing me over the last few weeks?

I tried to rack my mind for where I’d seen him – the supermarket?

… the pub? … a street corner? There was something about him I found so disconcerting, like there was some memory or other nagging at me but I just couldn’t place it.

But more fool him! I had nothing worth stealing, although perhaps he’d overheard me talking to my solicitor and thought I was a jewel thief with enough loot to make it worthwhile tracking me down.

A splatter of paint hit the sleeve of his shirt and spattered onto his stubbled chin and across his face but he just shook his red head slowly and put his hands on his hips.

His answer came in a sort of cowboy drawl; ‘Well someone certainly has a mighty high opinion of themselves. Why in the world d’ya think I’d be following you? ’

I didn’t have an immediate answer to that.

My mind was still doing somersaults to figure out how the man who’d tried to take advantage of circumstances as I’d lain prostrate flashing next week’s washing had suddenly materialised in Sonny’s Bar several weeks later.

It just didn’t add up but he wasn’t backing off and that was causing my panic levels to rise.

‘DONALD! STELLA?’ I bellowed desperately hoping to summon someone, anyone to help me.

This guy could make a grab for the till at any moment and even though I knew there was very little in there I was damned if I was going to let him take it.

Perhaps it was the spirits he was after, I wouldn’t put it past him to try and whip a few bottles of the hard stuff from under my nose.

I saw his eyes flick towards the alcove behind me as Stella stepped into the bar with Donald following close behind.

‘I wasn’t sure about her writing on the toilet doors but I actually think it looks pretty good,’ Stella was saying over her shoulder, not caring a jot if I overheard the back-handed compliment. She’s a tell-it-like-it-is sort, is Stella.

‘It’d better not lead to more graffiti,’ Donald grumbled in response. Typical Donald.

‘What’s up?’ asked Stella as they spotted me in a stand-off with the red-headed stranger.

‘This … this … villain is trying to rob the place!’ I hissed with as much venom as I could muster, the sight of reinforcements having quelled the panic and let my anger rise to the fore.

‘I doubt it,’ said Stella.

‘What?’ I jerked my head towards her and caught her twitching her lips as if trying to suppress a smile. I looked back at Ginger and saw, no … did he just wink at her? Oh Jesus, were they in this together?

‘I saw you were advertising for acts to play here and I thought it might be cool to give it a go, but perhaps I’ll come back when your decorator has finished.

’ He nodded his head at Stella and Donald as he said this, ignoring me completely as he took one of my crumpled leaflets about Sonny’s Bar from his back pocket and laid it on the round bar table on his right.

With that he spun around, picked up the large guitar case I hadn’t spotted that had been propped next to the door and disappeared back up the stairs before any of us had chance to move.

‘Oh shit!’ said Donald.

‘What the fuck?’ exploded Stella.

‘Huh?’ I wasn’t sure what was happening but Donald and Stella appeared to be furious from the way they were staring at me with what strongly resembled utter contempt.

‘Do you know who that was?’ Stella spoke slowly and deliberately as if I was simple, stupid or senile.

I shook my head. I certainly didn’t have instant recall for every mugshot on Edinburgh’s ‘Most Wanted’ list, even though I had to admit his was an annoyingly handsome face when I’d looked at him square on.

‘That was Tom Coltrane!’ Donald breathed the words with a hint of awe.

It took a beat or two for my brain to recalibrate with this information.

‘Tom … Coltrane?’ I repeated the words to help my mind accept the notion.

Stella was losing patience now. ‘Yes Becky, Tom Coltrane, the country music star. The guy who swapped Scotland for Nashville and became a huge hit all over the world! Tom Coltrane! The guy who usually plays to hoards of screaming fans in stadiums. And he was here, in our bar, suggesting he might want to play a bloody gig for us and you brandished your daft paintbrush at him, accused him of being some sort of criminal and frightened him off!’

‘You muppet!’ Donald ended Stella’s tirade with a two-word payoff that clearly summed up their joint opinion.

‘But he tried to steal my handbag …’ I offered the explanation lamely as Stella bolted for the door, her bright red Doc Martens pounding up the stairs to street level chasing after Coltrane.

‘Unlikely,’ muttered Donald. ‘I’ve heard that his brother is a copper round here you know!’

‘Huh?’ I sank wearily onto a nearby bar stool desperately wishing some part of my life would start to make sense. It didn’t look like that was going to happen any time soon.