by Owen Mullen
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* * *
At first I didn’t understand what he was saying. Patrick was Mr Fix-it.
Celtic and Rangers. One ticket. ‘Stephen McNeil will be there. If not, he isn’t in the country. Last chance. Time we got the break of the ball.’
‘How did you manage it?’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘A magician never reveals his tricks.’
‘Full house, we’ll need another man.’
‘Got just the guy, could use the money too.’
‘Who ?’
He smiled a sly smile. ‘Wait and see, Charlie. Don’t want to spoil the surprise.’
I toyed with the idea of calling Cecelia McNeil and telling her. In the end I didn’t.
We met at ten at NYB. Kick-off was twelve-thirty. Pat Logue was on time and he looked fresh for a Sunday. I reckoned he hadn’t been drinking the night before. Sometime during the week he’d taken his clothes out of the flat, and though he hadn’t said, it was obvious he didn’t need bed and board any longer. Liam and young Patrick talked to each other and their father. I was still the invisible man. At ten to eleven I said, ‘Where’s your guy, Patrick. Have to go without him in another five minutes.’
He peered through the window. ‘He’ll be here. Stand on me. Solid gold. Know what I’m talkin’?’
Pat the Lad again. Negotiations with his wife must be going well. ‘That’s him,’ he said. ‘Let’s head.’
Outside I didn’t see anybody except the Big Issue seller. ‘Where?’
‘There. Tom. You’ll like him, he’s all right. Don’t mention the Burns thing, he’s embarrassed about it.’
My first reaction was dismay, then I remembered him charging Jimmy Rafferty’s heavies, giving me the advantage I needed. Tom was wearing his nice coat. It dawned on me why I liked it so much; it was mine, the one that had hung behind the office door, clogging up the energy. I thanked him for helping me.
Patrick chimed in. ‘He knows the score, Charlie. Had to buy him a phone. Doesn’t have one. It’s on the bill along with the ticket. Arm and a leg, by the way.’
‘Fine, fine.’
We drove down High Street and left towards Glasgow Cross. Along London Road police were everywhere. Patrick, Tom and the boys jumped out, I drove on, retracing the route I’d taken when Motherwell were the visitors. The best clue to finding where Stephen McNeil lived was the credit card he’d used in Shettleston. People use the shops closest to their home. If that was true, McNeil was in the east. At a match as big as this a vehicle was a liability; close to the ground on foot was better. When the Old Firm played at Celtic Park the east end became the Rangers end. He’d come this way.
If he was here.
I went through the lights into the housing scheme and parked. Three small boys ran to me – the biggest one handled the deal. ‘Watch your car, Mister?’
‘Watch it? What for?’
‘Case something happens to it.’
‘Something already did.’
‘It can get worse.’
‘Yeah, like what?
‘Spontaneous combustion?’
This young man had a future. I said, ‘How much?’
‘Fiver.’
I didn’t quibble and gave them a medium photograph of the queen. They took it and ran.
Celtic against Rangers claimed to be the oldest club football match in the world and football was the least of it. This was a meeting of enemies. In too many minds the game represented division; religious and historical enmity. A clash of beliefs. Ninety minutes of organised antagonism that often ended in violence.
I made my way through fans in red, white and blue, singing their songs, men shoulder to shoulder with their sons. I wasn’t a football supporter but even so I felt the tension, the sense of approaching battle and the atmosphere. Dangerous and dark. Jackie would call it energy. I had another word. I was witnessing a ritual, an initiation ceremony, the baptism of the next generation into the faith of the fathers.
The young were being taught to hate.
I didn’t get it. I wouldn’t bring any boy of mine within a mile of it.
Patrick and the others were eating burgers outside the main stand. Green and white were the colours now. We huddled in a circle. I was next to Tom. It was hard not to think of him as the Big Issue guy. Out of the blue he apologised. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘About Burns, I mean.’
‘What was that about?’
‘That accent. Then you ignored me, I took offence. Thought you were just another superior Tory bastard judging me.’
‘Got me confused with my father.’
‘So Patrick tells me. Sorry, Charlie.’
‘Why Robert Burns?’
‘Equality. He was a socialist, so am I. Anyway, I was wrong.’
Mystery solved.
People hurried to join the queues, their eyes on fire with anticipation and anxiety; men old enough to know better, gangs of boys, well dressed business types, even priests. So much for the spirit of the Saviour risen.
Four girls in Celtic tops giggled by. Ginger hair and freckles, surrounded on all sides by testosterone. Out of date pop music drifted from the stadium over the stalls in the car park selling shirts and posters. Programme sellers shouted a linguistic shorthand I didn’t understand. Touts with tickets asked for silly money. When the kick-off came the gold dust in their hands would fade to worthless scraps of paper.
Some fans were drunk. Carlsberg for breakfast, Buckfast wine for lunch.
The Glasgow police excelled on occasions like this, but then they’d had plenty of practice; this was no ordinary meeting; trouble was always expected and rarely disappointed.
Celtic Park was a cauldron, electrifying, like the last moments before the Stones blasted into Brown Sugar and took the audience to another place. Was there really any chance of finding Stephen McNeil in this crazy circus, or was it a sad attempt to succeed for Cecelia McNeil and salvage something of myself? I’d have the answer soon.
Patrick organised his sons. ‘Remember, this is Celtic and Rangers. Sixty thousand rabid fans. Don’t noise anybody up. If you get separated, no heroics. I’ve promised your mother you’ll be fine.’
The boys would trawl for Stephen McNeil’s car and be in position when the game ended. Tom would stay outside the exit and follow McNeil. Pat Logue was point-man, seated in the same section; he’d let us know if our target was here. I would float.
Pat said, ‘Here’s hopin’, Charlie.’
‘Here’s hoping. And thanks, Patrick.’
‘No sweat. Wait ‘til you see how much I paid for the ticket. Might not be thankin’ me then.’
Jackie Mallon and Pat Logue between them had brought me back, otherwise I would still be staring at the walls in Cleveden Drive. I was involved again, exactly what I needed. Edinburgh Castle and Jimmy Rafferty were in the past. Eventually even Fiona Ramsay wouldn’t hurt so much. I hadn’t thought about her. Not once. My mind was focussed on the task. For today at least I was alive.
The text arrived before the game even started. From Patrick.
HES HERE
The second message came at the break.
ON HIS OWN
When Celtic scored I could’ve sworn the ground shook under my feet. Then the singing really got going. I pictured Pat Logue in the middle of it, completely at home, one eye on Stephen McNeil, the other on the pitch. At two ten a third text told me we’d finally got that little bit of luck Andrew Geddes spoke about. The mobile buzzed. I read the word and felt my chest tighten.
LEAVING
I was outside the main stand, a few fans keen to miss the mayhem at the finish were already there. Stephen McNeil walked right past me with Patrick and Tom behind. I couldn’t miss him. He hadn’t aged much from the photograph of him and Christopher. I studied the man who had broken Cecelia McNeil’s heart a second time, wondering what kind of human being could leave his wife to bury their boy alone. He wore a t-shirt, faded blue jeans, and a green and white scarf round his n
eck. He seemed ordinary. But no ordinary person could have done what he had done. The crowd roared. He quickened his pace; the scarf came off and was stuffed in his pocket. Stephen McNeil started to run. He was five yards ahead of Patrick when the wave broke over us.
One minute we had him, the next he disappeared.
A torrent of bodies washed through the gates, mad glee on their faces. Excited fans collided with each other, pushing and shoving. A youth fell full length. In seconds he would be trampled. His friend pulled him to his feet. He got up, laughed, and ran on. It was impossible to choose a direction; the volume of people carried us like a tide further and further from Stephen McNeil. A guy, head shaved, wearing a gold earring, barged into Patrick almost knocking him down. It was bedlam, much worse than I imagined. The mobiles were useless. My plan had been a pipedream.
We were lifted and thrown together. Patrick shouted ‘Where is he? Where’s McNeil?’
My reply was swallowed by the noise. He stabbed an arm in the air. ‘There! There, Charlie!’
I saw him. Then he was gone.
The human avalanche subsided as quickly as it began. The crush had taken us across the car park to the Rangers end. We’d been only an arm’s length apart, but at the height of the exodus it may as well have been miles. I was exhausted. Pat Logue wheezed like an old man.
‘Can’t believe it, ‘he said. ‘We had him. He was there.’
Failure was becoming my default position. We stood to the side in the aftermath, shaken, deflated and out of ideas. My phone buzzed.
SPRINGFIELD ROAD
HURRY
It was from Tom.
He was standing on the corner on the other side of the street. When we got to him he pointed. ‘Alhambra bar. Just ordered a pint.’
We waited outside a fish and chip shop for McNeil to reappear. Rangers fans anxious to put distance between themselves and the defeat ran on by. He wasn’t long. The boys hadn’t found his car because Stephen McNeil was on foot. He crossed at a set of traffic lights. A mile further on he turned off Shettleston Road, not far from the Tesco where he’d used his credit card. We kept our distance, from him and each other. It was still possible to suss we were there and change his plans. He didn’t.
I was nearest when he ducked into a tenement building. I raced to stay with him. The close smelled of cigarette smoke and cat piss. I crept up the wide stone stairs in time to see a door on the first floor shut. Patrick and the Big Issue guy, I’d never get used to calling him Tom, were at my shoulder. Pat Logue said it for me.
‘219C. We’ve found him, Charlie. We’ve fuckin’ found him.’
Thirty-Seven
Cecelia McNeil was wearing a blue overall and yellow plastic gloves. Her hair was tied back, two clasps held it in place. The look was severe but that wasn’t what struck me. She had aged. Deep lines ran from the edges of her mouth and her eyelids were hooded. An aura of defeat covered her like a cloak. ‘Mr Cameron.’ She was surprised to see me. ‘I wasn’t expecting you. It’s a holiday.’
Easter Monday was a family holiday. This lady had no family.
‘Can I come in, I have some news?’
In the living room boxes sat on top of each other, a few already sealed with thick brown tape, others only half filled. Most of the furniture had been removed and the wallpaper seemed more faded than I remembered. ‘I’m almost ready,’ she said. ‘Another day or two should do it. How rude of me. Do you want tea? Can’t offer you much, I’m afraid, I’m running everything down.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘What’s the news? Has Stephen gone south?’
‘No, Mrs McNeil, we’ve found him.’
I thought she was going to fall; she staggered and grabbed the sofa. I caught her arm and helped her sit. ‘Would you like a glass of water?’
‘No. No. It’s shock, that’s all.’
Her body shook and the dam broke. She covered her face with her hands. Tears trickled through her slender fingers. She made no sound. I held her hand until it stopped. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and blew her nose.
‘I’m so sorry, Mr Cameron. That wasn’t what I expected after all this time.’
It had been forty seven days. She looked like someone wakened from a dream trying to work out where they were. The chaos in the room puzzled her.
I went to the kitchen and brought her water. ‘You’re a kind man, Mr Cameron. That first day in your office I knew, I knew you’d find him. And you have.’
I told her the street and the number. She didn’t write it down or ask questions.
‘I still haven’t had your bill. Tell me how much it is and I’ll pay you now.’
‘That isn’t necessary. Really it isn’t.’
‘No, I insist. The labourer is worthy of his hire.’
I could argue. ‘I’ll figure it out and send you an invoice. The important thing is you can talk to Stephen. Persuade him Christopher’s death wasn’t his fault.’
She brightened. ‘Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll have to alter my plans.’
I left her at the door happier than I’d seen her. It dawned on me I had a lot to do with it. From here on it was between her and her husband.
NYB was jumping. The forecourt of the Italian Centre was a suntrap. Under the Martini umbrellas people drank coffee and chatted. It might have been Paris or Rome except it was Glasgow on a sunny day. Fine by me.
Jackie was in her element, she stuck an elbow in my ribs and nodded at the entrance.
‘Red Door. Toad God. “Oh ye of little faith”, Charlie.’
It was hard to disagree. ‘Mr Strang left a couple of books. Put one on your desk in case you need any more convincing.’
Patrick wasn’t around. It wouldn’t be a surprise if Gail had him up a ladder painting the kitchen ceiling. I settled down to read about Feng Shui, the ancient art of Chinese blah, blah, blah...’
Tuesday came and went. Mrs McCall was especially nice to me since her windfall and Tom didn’t hound me when I passed. I made sure I always had coins; I liked it better this way. A memorial service for Peregrine Sommerville was being held next month. The great and the good would be there. My father was head of the organising committee and, as Perry’s oldest friend, he would give a eulogy. My parents lived in a strange world. I was glad I wasn’t part of it.
And I finished Mr Strang’s book.
On Thursday I got a call from Andrew. He sounded grim. ‘I’m in the east end,’ he gave me the address, ‘there’s something you should see.’
A feeling of foreboding gripped me. I drove on Duke Street, an almost straight line all the way to Shettleston. Police cars were parked outside, officers barred the entrance to the close keeping the crowd of chattering neighbours at bay. I asked for DS Geddes and Andrew came down. He took me upstairs and stopped. ‘Can’t let you in, Charlie, it’s a crime scene. Just look. Sure you’re ready?’ I nodded. ‘No you’re not,’ he said. ‘Couldn’t ever be ready for this.’
The flat was larger than I thought it would be. The lights were on, cordite mixed with metal in the air and a shotgun lay against the skirting. The walls were washed in blood, pools had dried dark brown and black, even on the ceiling. And the television – the only new piece of furniture – hadn’t escaped, bits stuck to the screen.
Cecelia McNeil was on the floor at a crazy angle, eyes open wide, staring, her body almost halved in two. An aluminium rod, a bore brush, a silicone cloth and a can of gun oil lay close by. Across the room a man slumped in an armchair, the white shirt he was wearing no longer white. It was crimson. Stephen McNeil was unrecognisable. Most of his face was missing. DS Geddes stood at my shoulder.
‘He killed her, Charlie. Her husband killed her. Must’ve been cleaning his gun when she arrived. It’s over there. Nobody heard a row – just the shots. I remembered you had an interest, that’s why I phoned.’
I tried to speak and couldn’t. Her husband’s mental state had concerned her from the start. When I found Christopher’s father I sealed her d
eath warrant. It was a hellish scene; the demons that tortured Stephen McNeil had done their work well.
I didn’t stay.
My father had tried to order my life as his had been ordered in my early teens. In his opinion, like Pat Logue, I could’ve been anything; instead I’d chosen to be nothing. Today I struggled to disagree. Both cases had ended badly, poorer for my involvement. If I hadn’t come across Ian Selkirk at the mortuary. If I’d let the investigation peter out at Celtic Park after the Motherwell game.
If, if, if.
Maybe it was time for a re-think.
I didn’t arrive at the office until noon on Friday. My services weren’t in demand. The usual assortment of junk mail and utility bills waited for me; the envelope was at the bottom of the pile. I touched it and my fingers trembled. It was from her. She’d been alive on Easter Monday and dead by the Thursday. In between Cecelia McNeil had written to me. Her letters were always full of thanks, this one would be the same. A cheque for more than I would’ve asked for fell on the desk. The familiar penmanship was there, clean and clear. As ever the tone was polite. Gracious. Not one of the succinct notes I was used to receiving, this one ran to paragraph after paragraph.
* * *
Dear Mr Cameron,
The news you brought yesterday was beyond my wildest dreams. I’m sure you realised I’d lost hope. I’m so grateful. But I have a confession. I’ve lied to you.
In your office I told you Stephen had been the perfect father. That wasn’t the truth. He kept his real self hidden until after we were married. Or perhaps it was always there and I was blind. I wanted a partner, what I got was a master. A man who made every decision, whose word was law. I guessed early on he met other women, he made so little effort to keep it from me. I ought to have left him then, and I would have, but the church doesn’t recognise divorce, without it I was trapped. I went to mass, put my faith in the Almighty, and carried on.
When Christopher was born I prayed it would change him, and it did.
Stephen became a tyrant.
My boy wasn’t like his father, he was reserved and sensitive. Stephen forced him to be what he could never be. Football and fishing and the rest of it. Christopher hated those things. So many nights he cried himself to sleep dreading the next time his father would get out the guns or the rods or the scarves. One day he rebelled, teenagers do, he refused to take part. Stephen shouted and threatened and sulked, it made no difference. I said Christopher neglected his piano practice, that wasn’t true either, his father wouldn’t let him play at home. He considered the kind of music he played unmanly. I sent my son to lessons with George Lang, secretly at first. His father was furious, when he found out, he beat me.
