The 'Sound' of the Rainbow (standard:mystery, 1797 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Aug 22 2005	Views/Reads: 3457/2417	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Richard begins the search for clues regarding the disappearance of his Friend, Frank.

The 'Sound' of the Rainbow 

Copyright KShaw2001 

Chapter 2:  Friends 

Frank was born on the isle of Barra, an island at the southern tip of
the Western Isles. He came to live on Mull after his dad died; a man he 
never spoke about. We fished together as boys, drank together as 
teenagers, hit on girls together, and one angry time hit on each other, 
he cracking my lip, me putting a bruise around his eye. It was, of 
course, a dispute over a girl. We were thirteen and passionate about 
everything. 

Driving over the hill and looking down on the colourful mosaic of shops
that edged the harbour, I could see several small trawlers tied up, 
deserted, as if a flu epidemic had happened and everyone had stayed 
home. I drove slowly down the hill and saw the new fire station. For 
over twenty years the idea was in debate, most saying that the original 
was at the wrong end of the town. When I got there, I saw that the old 
fire station was a new crab market. I stopped the car, got out and drew 
into my lungs great gulps of the familiar. The odorous crab boxes, 
dried lobster baskets, spilt diesel, red chains, blue chains, oil 
barrels, polypropylene ropes that criss and cross and dangle over the 
harbour walls, spent fish nets, and a myriad of  obsolete and rusting 
buoys piled high on the quayside. Beyond the harbour wall, I could see 
the Kilchoan ferry plugging its way from Ardnamurchan. I dragged my 
overcoat out of the car and pulling it on thought about the perfect 
breakfast.  I strode into town. When the sun shines down on this small 
harbour, with fishing boats lining its quay, their blues, reds and 
purples reflecting in the water, when gulls continually menace the 
children standing with pieces of bread in their hands, and the smell of 
the fishing industry fills my nostrils, I know there isn't a more 
beautiful place in the world. 

Frank, as well as being a trawler-man, was a sailor, a writer, and an
artist. His paintings sold from many of the local ‘artsy' shops north 
to south of the island, though most, he told me, sold on Iona, a small 
island at the southerly tip of Mull, the adopted home of Saint Columba, 
an Irish Priest. Other sold from exhibitions held in different 
community halls. The pub landlords played their part, displaying his 
work above every bar in the town, as did café's, hotels, and even the 
town's bank. 

I pushed open the door and heard the familiar sound of the bell
jingling. My nostrils flared on getting the scent of bacon and sausage 
frying in a huge iron pan. 

“Aye, lawdy, ceud mile failte, he come wi the wind an gang wi the
watter.” 

“Hello Aunt Maggie, long time.” 

“Ye can be heard whaur ye're no seen, laddie. Come giv yer aunt a hug.”
She came around the counter with her arms held open. The new blue rinse 
suiting her years. We talk regularly on the phone but hadn't hugged 
each other in four long years. She made up for that gap of affection 
and then pointed to a table by the window. I pulled out a chair. 

“Sit yenself doon an I'll fix yer breakfast.” She said, resting the
flats of her hands on my shoulders. “On the sea sail, on the land 
settle, you'll no find him, lad. The haar was always goina tak him. He 
was different, he was.” She lightly tapped my shoulders and went to 
make breakfast. A couple of regulars, Bert McClellend and Jock Stewart, 
nodded their recognition. I held up my hand in salute then rested my 
elbows on the blue and white gingham table cloth, interlocking my 
fingers and resting my chin. As I looked around, I could see several 
small nails protruding from the ice blue coloured walls, bordered with 
the cliché shell pattern. I knew those nails once held Frank's 
paintings. The one I always wanted, the one he'd never sell, hung on 
another wall.  I had the awful feeling I wouldn't find that one either. 


I stared out the window, letting my thoughts drift. Frank and I sat
together on the wall opposite, letting our legs dangle over the edge. 


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