Meeting

Kim Ayres.





Tradecraft it’s called. An ability much prized by western security agencies.

Scotland was pouring forth it’s bounty upon the land, upon the motorways and upon our undeserving heads in long vertical streams of soaking wet goodness.
So as I parked, there was not a soul to be seen. Noone, no dog, no birds no tumbleweed, no nothin‘.
I hopped out and bent back into the car for my jacket. I put it on and turned round.
Holy Mary Mother of Christ!
“Hi Ack.”
“Hi Kim.”
As we walked to the entrance of the licensed premise, I took note of the fact that there were no cars, side streets, doorways, lanes, shops, vennels, alleyways, from which he might have sprung.

Some hours later, as we parted, our plan of action agreed, I deliberately kept an eye on him as he stood there, inscrutable in the rain, watching me, even as I slung my jacket in the back.
I had to turn to get into the car, a matter of seconds only…and he was gone!

I stopped for petrol three times on the road, changing my route, doubling back, you know the drill. I had to be sure.