by Owen Mullen
But my son had talent so I held my ground.
Relations between them deteriorated, they hardly spoke to each other. The incident with the car, when Christopher left the scene of an accident really happened, and my husband acted as any father would. He could understand it, you see.
I knew my child. I already knew who he was. After Christopher told us he was gay his father taunted him, baited him. Some of the things he said I couldn’t repeat. Then my son fell in love with George. Stephen saw them kissing in George’s car one night. From then on he hounded him, abused him physically and verbally. It never let up. Stephen had become his own father. Worse. Christopher lost weight, became ill. And still it didn’t stop. Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore and went to the garage.
The church preaches that suicide is a mortal sin and homosexuality an abomination. I asked God to help me, help our family. He didn’t, he let my son die.
For better or worse, in sickness and in health. Just words? Not to me.
The information you gave me was all I needed. I’m going to see Stephen now and be free of him forever. ‘Till death us do part’. I intend to kill him. Then I’ll join Christopher.
I’m sorry, Mr Cameron, you’ve been so good. Good people deserve better. Don’t blame yourself and please don’t think too badly of me.
Yours, Cecelia McNeil.
* * *
I was stunned. And very, very sad.
It was around nine when I left NYB. Patrick and Gail Logue were at the bar. Seeing them together was rare. Patrick was wearing a suit. Gail smiled. Normal service had resumed and they were happy. Now wasn’t the time to tell him. Maybe I wouldn’t tell him. I put on a face and went into my act. ‘Gail. Don’t see you too often. How are you?’
Her husband passed a drink to her, blew the top off a lager and answered. ‘We’re fine. Never better.’ He raised the glass. ‘First today.’
For once it probably was. I ran my finger under his lapel. ‘Nice suit. Whose is it?’
He put an arm round his wife. ‘Celebrating, Charlie. Our anniversary. Out on the razzle. A few jars then off for some traditional Scottish grub. Chicken tikka masala and Irn Bru.’
A light went on in my head. I shook his hand and kissed Gail Logue on the cheek.
‘Enjoy yourselves,’ I said. ‘You’ve made my night.
Thirty-Eight
Those who know don’t speak. Those who speak don’t know.
* * *
My senses filled with cumin and ginger and cardamom. An old man with bushy white hair leaned on the cloakroom counter. His eyes danced when he saw me.
It was Mr Rani.
He pressed my hands in his and shouted to his family. Videk appeared from the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. Geeta waved. We sat at a table. He asked about Ian and I told him. Mr Rani didn’t deserve a lie. Anjali, his wife, had died; his other son, Salman, was married and living in Manchester. Geeta brought a plate of pakora; she was older too and smiled less. Business was good he said. Life was good.
‘Did you ever go back to Kerala?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘it wouldn’t do. I have my memories.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘They live in here. Going back would spoil it.’
I told him why I was there. He called his son and whispered in his ear. Videk brought it to us, a cardboard box taped shut with DRUGS in large letters on the side. Ian. Always the joker. He laid it at my feet. I didn’t rush to leave. Speaking to Mr Rani was more important. Patrick had taught me that. We agreed it had been too long and I promised to come back soon. I believed I would.
At the flat a Stanley knife sliced through the layers of tape. Inside were two identical attaché cases. Not even locked. I’d never seen that much money before, not many people have. Who hasn’t dreamed of finding a bag of cash and speculated on what they would do? I was no different. Emil Rocha had written it off, he didn’t need it. I knew people who did. That night I slept like a baby and woke refreshed for the first time in a long time.
On Cochrane Street, Tom was selling the Big Issue. I handed him the bundle and walked away, picturing the look on his face when he counted it. Stephen McNeil set the bar at fifteen thousand, a nice round figure to begin a new life. Gail Logue wanted to buy a house; the deposit was a start. Patrick would be a hero. Jackie deserved something, just enough to keep her in Jimmy Choo’s for a while. I didn’t want to step on the Toad God’s toes.
Detective Inspector Nigel Platt was last on the list. Platt would rather not have shared the same planet as Archie Cameron’s ‘son and heir’. The feeling was mutual. He was surprised to hear from me again and complained about the meeting place, a drive out of the city; it didn’t suit him. Good.
I walked to the pier in a steady drizzle. I didn’t care. My mind was back at the beginning with three kids who thought they were the coolest thing in the world. It hadn’t always been bad; Ian, the free spirit, outrageous and so funny. And Fiona: I loved her then and a part of me still did.
The loch was calm, empty of traffic, very different from the day the youngsters impressed each other diving into its cold water. Off to my right the jagged spikes that snared Ian Selkirk’s dead body pointed to clouds and Ben Lomond in the distance. It was easy to suppose the reason I was here began with Cecelia McNeil. Really it started long before with a guy struggling like a salmon against the tide, determined to get where he needed to go, seeing his girlfriend’s lovely face through the bar crowd, and my hand outstretched to pull him home.
Thanks mate, what you drinking?
What I found at the city mortuary took it out of my hands; the choices were no longer mine, but I preferred my memories the way they’d been even if they weren’t the truth, no doubt about that. Mr Rani was right: the past is what you want it to be. I wouldn’t go there too often but when I did I’d find old friends, and they’d be the best friends.
DI Platt scowled his way down Pier Road. He was done with Scotland. Every hurried step said he couldn’t wait to get away. ‘This better be good, Charlie,’ he said, graceless to the end. ‘I’ve a train to catch.’
His black eyes widened when he saw the cases at my feet. The photographs of the queen softened his attitude, though even when fortune favoured him he still looked like a rodent with attitude. ‘Want to tell me where it was?’
Those who know don’t speak
‘No. Make up a story. Just leave me out.’
He smiled at some secret joke. ‘I suppose you think this makes us even?’
‘Not at all, Inspector, I didn’t do anything to you. You owe me. Don’t forget it.’
I left him running a hand through the neat piles of notes, realising what he had and what it could mean to his future. He called to me, trying to sound casual and failing.
‘Is it five million?’
I kept on going. I didn’t look back.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Give or take.’
THE END
