Random

by Craig Robertson

  Further north. Past the Herald where STV used to be, past the passport office and The Sunday Post. On and up where Tennent’s brewery sat up on the hill, firing out smoke and beer. And smells that could keep a jaikie drunk for a week.

  Behind and to the west snaked Sauchiehall Street. Its end was below me now where it marched into the pedestrianized semicircle in front of the concert hall. The other end was a mile away. Halfway down was where Thomas Tierney cut across my path and became nothing more than a number.

  South sailed the rivers of West Nile Street, Renfield Street, Buchanan Street and Hope Street, all flooding to the Clyde and carrying the flotsam and jetsam of humanity along with them. An irresistible force of nature in the raw.

  South of the cinema was where the city centre proper began. A tight-packed grid, rigidly and regimentally laid out, barely a curve or a gap to break the lines. Businesses and retail, double yellow lines and one-way streets. A warren of trade and industry.

  To my left Queen Street station was bellowing out its presence. Further south you could just make out the sounds of Central roaring its reply.

  Glasgow was so small from up there. So insignificant. So many people. Thousands of ants rushing to and fro in search of their next disappointment.

  Lift your head if you dared and you could see as far as the weather would allow. North to the Campsies, south to East Kilbride, west to the airport at Paisley, east to Coatbridge. Up above the roofs and houses, you could see heaven and you could see hell.

  East past Celtic Park and beyond to the wilds of Shettleston and Baillieston where Tierney died in a pool of blood. You could see it all.

  North and west to Maryhill where Raedale died in her own mess at her Tesco till and Billy Hutchison fried at the flick of a switch.

  West and over the river to Inchinnan where Brian Sinclair, whose only crime was to have been married and happy, had choked on The Cutter’s story.

  Due north to Port Dundas Business Park where Wallace Ogilvie froze to death at least seven years too late. Much further north still to Milngavie where Jonathan Carr was glued tight and breathed no more.

  City of death. City of devils and angels. All laid out before me like a body on a mortuary slab, grey and grim.

  You could see it all from the tallest cinema in the world.

  It was very windy at the top, quite dangerous really. Looking round and down and beyond was enough to make your head spin. They should be more careful about that emergency exit door on the thirteenth floor that leads to the repair crew’s stairwell. Anyone could make their way up there. It would take a good few minutes before an alarm was heard and staff could get to the roof, even if they knew where to look and what to look for. There is no way they could be quick enough to stop what was going to happen.

  One final death. It’s the way it had to be. Nothing random about it though. It was more of a crashing inevitability.

  I think I knew that from the moment that Detective Sergeant Rachel Narey first held my gaze and looked inside me, it could have turned out no other way. Call it fatalism or fate. Free will and random acts all lead to the same inevitable end.

  That end was nigh.

  It was no big deal. Just confirmation of something.

  I’d been dead for nearly seven years. My headstone should have read, ‘Died 5 August 2003. The same day as his much loved daughter Sarah. RIP.’

  Rest in peace? Maybe.

  Maybe now.

  It was Confucius who said it first and best. Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves, one for yourself.

  I dug my graves a long time ago.

  When the first sod of earth was cut to make a hole in the ground for a sweet eleven-year-old princess then I picked up my spade. I dug for Wallace Ogilvie and I dug for Keith Imrie. Most of all I dug for me. I died the day she died. My eternity in hell began that day.

  No big deal. Just one final, inevitable death after so many. Just making the outside match the inside. Pairing up the physical with the metaphysical. Bringing an end to all the shite. Call it selfish if you like. Call it putting things right but there is always a price to pay. You reap what you sow and my reaper was grim.

  The grave I’d dug for myself was not a frightening place for me. I welcomed it now. I’d come to realize that it was the only way I could ever find the peace I craved.

  It was right, too. It was right and it was time. It wasn’t about salvation, redemption or penitence. Those were high moral stations that were way out of my reach and I wasn’t going to wrap my reasoning in them. Salvation is supposed to be about escaping the bondages of sin but there are some sins you can’t run away from even if you wanted to. I could feel no sorrow, no remorse or shame, no urge to repent. I was empty. All out of everything, even anger, even hate.

  I had hated Wallace Ogilvie for taking what was mine and I had wanted my revenge. That was gone too.

  What I was going to do was not about any of that. It was an end, the only kind of closure that could ever be open to me. There could never be a living closure. No living, breathing peace of mind. This was the only way I could find a kind of peace.

  I’d done what I’d promised, to her and to myself and now I could end it.

  A journey starts with a single step and it ends with one too. Confucius was only half right. I took one step. That was all it needed.

  A step towards a strange kind of peace. One step. The ground came to me after that. From two hundred and three feet it called to me from the slabs on Renfrew Street.

  From chewing-gum-stained concrete to fresh air at the top of the cinema. Hardly poetry but it would do the job. Tallest cinema in the world, you know. A long way up. A long way down.

  Long enough to think thoughts of Sarah. Of Carr and Tierney. Of Billy Hutchison and Brian Sinclair. Of Raedale, Imrie, Kirkwood and Narey. Of Ally McFarland.

  I thought of guilt and responsibility. Of power and punishment. Of justice and judgement. Of wishes and vengeance. Of deals in the dark with the Devil.

  I thought of Wallace Ogilvie. He had killed my princess and now he was killing me. No. He’d killed me then but he wasn’t killing me now. This was my choice, my time.

  I thought of her too. My wife. My only shame. I hadn’t thought of her enough in a long time. Her pain was numbed by pills and denial but it was no less than mine. Maybe it was only then, when it was far too late that I realized how much I was throwing more fuel on her pyre. Too late, couldn’t go back.

  There is a Disney cartoon, an old Mickey Mouse one from the 1930s or so. Mickey is in the countryside, walking along a hilltop whistling away to himself and taking in the view. He’s not looking where he’s going though and doesn’t see the big gap in the hill that’s just ahead of him. We see it. We see it and we know what’s going to happen.

  Mickey steps out into fresh air and keeps walking. But he doesn’t fall. The laws of cartoon science dictate that because he doesn’t realize that there is nothing underneath him then he doesn’t plunge down the gap.

  He has to look eventually though, has to realize. And when he does then his feet begin to go. Mickey fast-pedals his feet on nothing and, under the same animation laws, it manages to hold him up for a bit. But he has to fall, no other way.

  Same with me.

  All that had been holding me up was hate.

  And in the final seconds, as the shout from the pavement became a full-blooded, deafening roar, I hated myself more than anyone else.

  It was good that there was no way back, no Mickey Mouse pedalling on nothingness. There had been enough of that.

  You don’t always get what you deserve in this world but sometimes you get more than you should. If that bothered me then it wasn’t going to do so for long.

  I didn’t want redemption, didn’t need penitence, didn’t deserve salvation. I wanted to see my wee girl again.

  I was smiling. Maybe for the first time in seven years. As concrete roared up at me louder and louder, I smiled.

  Because there was hope in
the God that I didn’t believe in. The God that let me down and had torn me in two had become my only hope of mending. He promised an afterlife, the resurrection and the renewal of creation. The God that I didn’t believe in held out the prospect of an eternal peace. All I had to do was believe in the unbelievable.

  If there was the slightest chance that I could meet her again by believing then I could not turn it down. I could not resist. What sort of father would not do anything for his daughter?

  As I fell I made the deal. I believed. I fell and I believed. I went to my Lord with a smile on my face and hope in my heart. I was going to meet my wee girl again.

  I closed my eyes and screwed them shut so tight that it hurt. I had kept my promise, remembered my vow. Our father, which art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

  I smiled. It was done, ended, sorted. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.

  Glasgow rushed by me and I knew I had done the right thing, knew my good works were taking me to her and to my strange peace. Give us this day our daily bread.

  My guilt and theirs were things of the past. No hatred left, no guilt, no blame. And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors.

  All that was left was a scrap of hope wrapped in belief and disbelief. A journey beginning and ending with a single step on a path of misguided righteousness. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil.

  Somewhere, a big black dog barked, a woman screamed in her sleep, a policewoman expressed doubt and a baby girl cried.

  For thine is the kingdom, the power and the glory.

  Terra firma came rushing, firmly and finally.

  For ever. Amen.

  Table of Contents

  Start