The 'Sound' of the Rainbow (standard:mystery, 1797 words)
Author: KShaw	Added: Aug 22 2005	Views/Reads: 3260/2275	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Richard begins the search for clues regarding the disappearance of his Friend, Frank.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

We fished, and dreamt of the day when we would own our very own 
trawler. No cod, no herring, no salmon, no fish of any kind would be 
safe from our nets. We'd fish the seas clean and retire at thirty!  Not 
quite the way it happened. Twenty years later we were battling the 
Japanese, the Norwegians, and the Russians, anyone who thought whales 
more valuable as oil or lipstick. We were warriors, we thought, black 
priests, sea shepherds, call us what you will. Most of the time work 
was fun, though we took our falls from grace hard. Both being hurled 
fifteen feet into a vat of whale blubber, and fearful we'd be boiled 
alive! The Japanese skipper thought better of it, not because he was 
concerned about our lives, he wasn't, he was merely succumbing to the 
proximity of HMS Sirius, arriving in the brass nick of time. The 
Japanese whaling skipper had been moved to release us by the subtle 
persuasion of two gun turrets hiding 4.5” Vickers machine guns, aimed 
in his direction. Four naval mariners stretchered Frank out of the 
filthy vat, transferring us both to the warship where we received 
prompt medical attention and a stern warning from her majesty's 
government. We laughed. The Japanese whaling fleet had been sent 
packing, which itself was worth a broken leg and a broken wrist. For 
the next six weeks, Frank unwrapped my sandwiches, while I pushed him 
around the streets of Tobermoray. The media gave us the credit, but I 
often think about the smile on the face of the naval captain. Perhaps 
he loved whales just as much as Frank. Credit or not, I suspect we 
would never have been heard of again were it not for the prompt actions 
of Her Majesty's Navy. 

Frank enjoyed writing, often sending articles about island life to
magazines. He never saw himself as a celebrity, though often appearing 
on television and speaking on radio about environmental issues. It was 
something else I heard him say that I've never forgotten.   He was 
talking about the fishermen of Tobermoray. “These men,” he said, “are 
my friends and have contributed to my education. It might be that I 
learned a certain kind of knot, how to repair a lobster pot, or sort 
crabs, cut open a fish, but of these men not one taught me about love. 
Everything I learned was about hard times, beer, bread, and hard 
times.” 

I suppose I never saw Frank as a man in need of love. He was just Frank,
a warrior. 

We grew up learning the fisherman's language, a harsh language, loose
and harsh, the kind of language reserved for those living in poverty, 
or so it seemed. Then it became a language for those who competed with 
elements, and all its fearsome reality. 

Fishermen will tell you there are only two ways to gain riches; one is
finding it in yourself. They understand the word - know it as someone 
acquiring more possessions by decreasing those of someone else. I grew 
up among these people, and this is true. No one I ever knew concerned 
themselves with the idea. The language was about a richness of a life 
that involved hard work. Fierce manual labour could not, and was not to 
be compared to a man who sold well on the stock market. Wealth may 
divide lifestyles, but 'richness of life' separates individuals. I was 
never a fisherman at heart; I had some inner softness that let me down, 
an ache for beauty Frank said, persisting with me as a friend because 
he understood something I did not. These people went to sea to make a 
living, to make enough money for shoes, education, food on the table, 
and a roof over their heads. Ultimately, it was just this kind of 
industry that, in the end, Frank and I would leave Tobermoray to 
confront. 

Satisfied I could eat no more, and with a smudge of lipstick on my
cheek, I went off to search all Frank's usual haunts. I spoke to 
landlords, café proprietors, hotel owners, but all said the same thing. 
A week ago, he came by asking for his paintings saying he wasn't going 
to sell any more of his work. 

By evening, I hadn't found one painting. 

Ferguson's fishing boat was first to come round the point. I stood on
the quayside waiting to greet him, hoping he could tell me something of 
Frank's last sighting. The last message I heard from Frank was that he 
was working on a portrait. The subject was Angus Maxwell Ferguson, 
known to us all as ‘Fergie'.  I was assuming, hoping in fact, Fergie 
would know something no-one else did. A portly figure, free of worldly 
ambition, greeted me with the same joyous eyes I remember. He's shy 
with strangers, never marrying. A result, some say, of negligence in 
his personal hygiene. Fergie preferred a beer to a bath; even so, he's 
a popular figure in the town. His wide, punched nose and his full 
humorous mouth told all about his nature. Seeing me on the quayside he 
raised his flat cap. Four years had added much silver to his hair. 

Even before his boat was secured he said, “I did'nee get it wrong when I
tauld the wee laddie,” (Frank stood six feet three inches tall) “that 
it'd  kill his reputation if he painted me. I'ze reckon he be more 
famous now, they'ze all get more famous when thee dies, right?” I 
didn't reply, just shook my head. It was all I could do not to show 
disdain for the words he spoke; I still wasn't of the mindset that 
Frank might be dead.  “He's gawn, laddie, he was alwees going. The haar 
took'im and I reckon we should be thankful.” 

After a few more minutes, I shook his huge hand and walked back to my
car. The parking ticket on the windscreen flapped in the biting breeze. 
I looked down to see the yellow line along the kerbside. I picked the 
ticket off the frosty screen and slipped it out of its waterproof 
covering. It read, “Just writing something so the nosy bastards think 
I'm giving you a ticket. Frank was done, Richard, he was ready. See you 
in the pub, Alex.” God bless you, Alex, I thought, wondering how close 
he must be to retirement. I would have smiled but couldn't. The town, 
it seems, is convinced that Frank is dead. 


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