However, it was all to no avail. Five weeks before the election, he had had to undergo an operation on a delicate part of his anatomy, and even though he craved notoriety and publicity for himself, he was mortified when some Conservative-voting doctor or money-grabbing porter in the hospital had leaked it to the newspapers. Most of the tabloids had picked it up, but the most humiliating for Maxwell was the Daily Star, which printed a short, four-line paragraph directly opposite the right nipple of the Page 3 girl under the headline “Borthwick Drops a Ball.” It was assured that everyone was going to read it.

Maxwell had thereafter gone to ground, or to be more precise, had hidden himself for a week beneath the stiff white sheets of his hospital bed before leaving the scene of his betrayal in sunglasses and a broad-rimmed hat to return, tail between legs, to the neat little council house of his doting mother in Inverness. There, he had been able to unleash the full power of his political authority by banning her from reading a newspaper or watching any programme on the television. Not that anyone in the media was remotely interested in Maxwell Borthwick anymore.

But then he had bounced back, still fired by his convictions, and found himself a job as a junior councillor with the Highland Regional Council. It was only a stepping-stone, in Maxwell’s view, until the realms of Holyrood opened up their arms and welcomed him as a key figure in the development of the New Scotland. Until then, he made sure that he was going to be seen in all the places where he felt there were ardent, “grass-roots” feelings for his policies. Places like the Cormorant Café in Oban.

He took the cup of coffee that Eck had banged down on the counter, and having poured the contents of the saucer back into the cup, he gently stirred it with the bent teaspoon as he glanced around the place.

“My wordie, he’s seen us,” Ronnie said, rubbing his fingers across his forehead.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Maxwell said brightly, his voice sounding like an over-revving chainsaw. “Would you mind if I have a seat at your table?”

“Ye can have mine, if ye like,” Billy said, getting up from his chair.

“I’m sure that Mr. Borthwick can quite easily pull one over from another table,” Ronnie responded, giving Billy a look that dared him to leave at his peril.

“Of course I can. No need to move, Billy.” He put his cup down on the table, and as he turned his back on them to retrieve a chair, Billy shot Ronnie a sneering thanks and sat down again.

“So,” said Maxwell, spilling his bulk over the edges of the red plastic chair, “what’s the trade been like?”