Death of a Dustman Read Online Free

all our rubbish into separate containers. There come the big bins.’
    Priscilla looked along the waterfront. A crane was lifting the first of the huge bell-shaped objects into place. ‘We don’t like change,’ she said. ‘They’ll rebel.
They won’t put a single bottle or newspaper in any of those bins.’
    ‘Ah, but you haven’t seen the green dustman yet. There he is!’
    Fergus, resplendent in his new uniform, had appeared. He was standing with his hands behind his back, rocking on his heels, his face shadowed by his huge peaked cap.
    ‘Heavens,’ said Priscilla faintly. ‘All he needs to complete that ensemble is a riding crop or a swagger stick.’
    ‘I think that uniform means trouble,’ said Hamish. ‘Have you noticed that traffic wardens and people like that turn into fascist beasts the moment they get a uniform
on?’
    ‘A dustman can’t do much.’
    ‘He can do a lot in the way of petty bullying. The Currie sisters didn’t give Fergus a Christmas box, and he didn’t collect their rubbish until they complained to the
council.’
    ‘Well, there you are. Any bullying, they’ll all complain to the council, and then it’ll stop.’
    ‘If that Fleming woman will listen to anyone.’
    ‘What’s her game? Is she a dedicated environmentalist? It said on the flyer that she was in charge of the council’s environment department.’
    ‘I think, talking of bullies, that she likes to find ways of spending the taxpayers’ money to order people around. In fact, here she comes.’
    Mrs Fleming drove along the waterfront while they watched. She got out of the car. Fergus strutted up to her.
    Priscilla exploded into giggles. ‘Would you believe it, Hamish? Fergus saluted her.’
    Hamish laughed as well. The summer days and lack of crime on his beat were making him lazier than ever and dulling his usual intuition. He did not guess that Fergus’s silly salute would
make Mrs Fleming not hear one word against him, and so set in train a chain of events which would lead to horror.
     
Chapter Two
    The wretch, concentred all in self,
    Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
    And, doubly dying, shall go down
    To the vile dust from whence he sprung.
    Unwep’t, unhonor’d, and unsung.
    – Sir Walter Scott
    The next collection day passed without incident, and the following one. But then the boxes and wheelie bins were delivered and Fergus began to take his revenge.
    The elderly Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, were the first victims. This was very unfair for they were among the few residents who had actually separated their rubbish into boxes and had put
the rest into the wheelie bin. They found the boxes had been emptied of cans, bottles and papers, but the wheelie bin was still full and on it was a note on green paper.
    It said, ‘Garden rubbish is to be burnt. F. Macleod. Environment Officer.’
    ‘What does he mean, “garden rubbish”?’ asked Nessie. ‘We haven’t got any.’
    ‘Haven’t got any,’ echoed her sister, who had the irritating habit of repeating the last words anyone, including herself, said. ‘I’ll get a chair, get a
chair.’ For the bin was too large for the small sisters to look into easily.
    Jessie carried out a kitchen chair and, standing on it, lifted the plastic lid and peered down into the bin. ‘There’s just those dead roses, the ones that were in the vase, that we
threw out, threw out.’
    ‘I’m going to write to the council,’ said Nessie.
    ‘He hasn’t taken the rubbish,’ complained Clarry.
    ‘Where’s the wee man’s wretched wheelie bin?’ asked Hamish. ‘You’re supposed to use it, not leave it in bags.’
    ‘Och, I thought that wheelie bin would be grand for the hen feed,’ said Clarry.
    Hamish sighed. ‘Get it out and put the rubbish into it, Clarry. We’re now living under a dictatorship.’
    And so it happened all round the village. After all, it was the villagers some years ago who had taken away the network-type metal baskets from the