by Heleen Kist
‘I’m here to see Mike.’
‘What is it this time? Bog roll chafe your sensitive tush?’
‘Just call him.’ I was in no mood to play her game.
She lifted the receiver and summoned the ned. I glanced around the shop for the dog I’d seen on Glory’s pictures, a drooling beast I would rather not meet in person. A glimpse of Dave examining the canned foods aisle reassured me that so far, so good.
Pasty-face took his sweet time to cross the floor, popping gum and flicking his keys. He nodded to the skunk. ‘Alright?’
‘Aye, love.’
He looked me up and down. ‘Let’s go.’
When we reached the back, I jerked my elbow from his bony hand. ‘I know where I’m headed.’
‘Suit yourself.’ He shrugged and took the stairs two at a time.
The offices along the corridor were closed but snippets of daylight escaped through slits of toughened glass, saving the hallway from complete darkness. My pulse throbbed in my throat. I concentrated on where I placed my feet to stay calm. Towards the rear, a window in the area that gave access the boss’s office provided a relief of illumination. His door was shut too, and I wondered what had happened to make the place bunker down.
‘On you go.’ He deposited me in the antechamber, his chaperoning duties apparently over. I looked for someone to announce my arrival or a bell or something, but he jutted his chin towards the wooden door, egging me on. I knocked.
‘In,’ sounded a voice from the other side. Mike stood in the left rear corner of the room, his sleeves rolled up, a cabinet overflowing with paper commanding his attention.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said as he rifled through the stack.
My good-girl instinct was to help him in his search or offer to return later, but I reminded myself that today I was to be a hard-nosed businesswoman. She would wait and say nothing.
‘Aha!’ He placed a yellow envelope on top of a perilously piled archive and shut the metal doors to prevent an avalanche. He tucked his shirt in, straightened his sleeves and his hair, and put on his tweed jacket, gradually rebuilding his beloved gentleman’s persona. ‘An unexpected Quality Control audit. Had us a little worried. But we passed.’ His jubilant smile signalled a good mood that I hoped would work in my favour.
‘Congratulations,’ I said.
‘Now. To what do I owe the pleasure of two visits in one week?’ He gestured to the velvet-covered chairs facing his mahogany desk and grabbed his own seat. ‘Sit. Sit.’
Dave and I had rehearsed my approach. I was to build rapport—by all means not antagonise like before—and explain the logic behind the proposed financial transaction. He was a businessman and a gangster; I needed to engage with the first.
‘The last time I was here, you agreed to limit my “services” to six months.’
‘I did, didn’t I? You must have caught me on a soft day. Maybe because I was sad your dear sister died. Tell me, did you bring me one of your delicious scones?’ He leaned forward, checking if I had anything with me.
Was he crazy? As if I would come skipping in here with a basket of goodies like bloody Red Riding Hood. But the question threw me. Had he been to the café? I felt as if ants were crawling across my shoulders as I imagined him in Glory’s domain. But I shook them off and stuck with my script of sweetness and light.
‘I’m afraid not, but I’ll have some delivered to you. I think I’ve come with something more interesting, though.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I propose to pay you what is left of my sister’s debt. With clean money, through the banks. It would almost be the same as if I had taken over, like you wanted, but you would have the funds earlier. This week even.’
‘I see. And what about the scones? Would I still get any if I leave you to run your yoga-tofu bakery in peace?’
His joking irked me, but I played along. ‘I’ll gladly throw in as many scones as you can eat, Mike, plain and fruit. I have to remind you, however, they’ve vegan and I suspect that would do your reputation no favours.’
He could no longer contain his mirth and let out a loud belly laugh. This raised my spirits, too, as I ticked off Phase 1: we have rapport. With the groundwork laid and the atmosphere in the room warming, I initiated Phase 2. I retrieved a folded piece of paper from my pocket, slid it onto his desk and leaned back. ‘So can we strike a deal?’
‘What’s this? A number?’ He chuckled. ‘Did you get that from the movies?’
My stomach tip-toed into its usual churny dance as I watched him unfold the note, frown and rub his chin. Shit. Had I miscalculated? Was it not enough?
‘It’s tempting,’ he said after a while. Then he slid the note towards me again. ‘But I can’t take it.’
My internal fluttering stopped, stamped out by a giant, cold foot. ‘Why not?’
‘Because as you rightly pointed out, I have a reputation to uphold. Honour among thieves, and all that. And I like you. Granted, you’re not quite as pretty as your lovely sister, but you have a sense of humour.’
‘I don’t understand,’ I said, puzzled and ever so slightly insulted.
‘I’m going to come clean with you: I’m not owed any money. Your sister sorted everything out ages ago.’
‘But the box of cash ... the invoice ...’
‘Oh, I didn’t say she wasn’t laundering money for me anymore. She was. But she did that for herself. I didn’t make her.’
The story I had built in my mind of Glory’s naïve mistake, of her capture and forced servitude collapsed into rubble. I scrambled across this motivational void, with nothing to cling onto. ‘Why ... Why would she do that?’
‘I don’t know.’ He walked to my side. ‘Why not? She was getting away with it. Personally, I think she liked the adventure of it. Gave her a kick.’ The man stood beside me. Dazed, I turned to face him. ‘She was a wicked wee thing, our Glory,’ he said with an exaggerated wink and a devious grin. ‘I’ll miss her.’
Before I could respond, he moved towards the door.
‘I can go? We’re done?’ Still stunned, I remained glued to my seat.
‘Yes, my lady. You can go. If you could hand last week’s cash back though, please, with your next delivery.’
It felt surreal. He was behaving as if we were discussing the return of a library book. In the sort of casual tone that informed you to mind the gap or help yourself to a souvenir on your way out.
‘But you said six months?’
‘Ah. I was having a go.’ His hand swatted me away. ‘For convenience. I thought maybe you’d take it on. Maybe develop a taste for easy money too. Saved me the trouble of changing tack. But I’ve got plenty of willing takers if it’s not for you. And frankly, something tells me you’d be more trouble than you’re worth.’ I nodded, unsure why. ‘Of course, I’m only releasing you with the understanding that you will never divulge my little business dealings to anyone. I have enough inspectors crawling over this place as it is.’ His tone carried the echoes of earlier threats.
I nodded again, like my body had been re-programmed to have only one setting.
‘Now, get out of my office.’ And he pointed at the exit.
A moment later, Dave saw me descend the stairs and rushed to the check-out with a case of sunflower oil. His concerned gaze followed me out the automatic doors as he seemed forced to engage with the woman’s banter. After, he jogged to my car and I pressed to open the passenger window.
‘So?’ He leaned in and searched my poker face for clues.
‘We’re free.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
I urged Dave to jump into his van and meet me at the flat, away from Excelsior’s prying eyes; but he was running late for a job.
‘It’s okay,’ I reassured him, ‘It’s over. Don’t worry.’
‘And the money?’
‘You won’t believe it, babe. I’ll explain later, but it’s all good. I’m good.’ With no spies in sight, I grabbed him with both hands and planted a colo
ssal kiss on his lips.
The car key quivered around the ignition slot and I had to steady my hand to motor my escape.
Could this be real?
Could I really be free?
As I drove, it was as if a blanket made of chain mail had been lifted off me, and my vision was adjusting to the light of a bright new sun casting its rays over a fairer land. The recycling centre on the corner was no longer a convenient place for the mob to hide bodies, but instead bore testament to man’s commitment to heal the Earth. The dodgy auto shop’s haphazardly parked cars didn’t block the street out of complete disregard for others but were evidence of the unexpected success of a valiant small business owner, to whom I wished good fortune. The teenager pushing a pram was a dedicated, sensible young mother, who had only just found that sweet-smelling cigarette on the ground and was looking for a bin.
The Panda swayed with grace through bustling scenes of urban activity on my way home. Victoria Street beckoned with an air of plenty, gold gleaming in the pawnbroker’s window and market stalls abundant with blushing ripe mangoes being stroked—not squeezed—by exotic veiled princesses.
Giddy, I thought I would break into song.
I did it, Gi!
She would have been so proud, like when she used watch me play football on Saturday mornings. I could still picture it: Glory wearing school colours in her hair, cheering me on, glowing. The sibling of the only girl on the team, she would join the other kids who had been dragged out of bed to support Perth’s finest. Many of them were older brothers because, although the parents deemed a thriving high school spirit to be important, they would not trade an industrious morning for a mediocre ballgame. Historical roars reverberated in my ears. I remembered how, one day, I’d scored a splendid goal and she hollered my name and jumped up and down with such enthusiasm that she tripped and got caught by a dreamy senior.
I was left smiling at this clumsy-moment memory of my biggest fan, but my cheeks slackened as the grim awareness she had died reared its ugly head. I had bargained my way out of her mess, but this wouldn’t bring her back.
My short-lived euphoria fled as fast as it had come and the rage I’d felt towards her bastard killers these last few days bubbled up again. Rising with it, a heavy dose of shame. Only seconds ago, I had been rejoicing when, in fact, I’d let the fucker get away with killing Glory.
Verbally spitting at jaywalking pedestrians, I swerved into my road and parked my car too close to its neighbour.
Screw’em.
I strode up the stairs to fetch the necessary kit for my next client and imagined tying Mike up with the elastic physio bands and punching his annoying chuckling face with my mini-barbells, reserving the five-kilo kettle bell for an elongated swing straight into his nuts.
But something didn’t sit right. I stopped my mental battery to focus on his face, his actual face; the face I suddenly recalled had said he was sad about Glory’s death. That he would miss her. My brain clicked and whirred to build sense from the odd-shaped fragments of conflicted thoughts. If she worked with him out of her own free will, then she wouldn’t have been a threat.
Why murder her?
Maybe it wasn’t him.
Chapter Thirty-Six
As I collected my gear, I pulled the Samsung from my pocket to search the best route to my later appointment on the North side of the city and spotted two missed calls. I dialled to retrieve my messages. Only one.
‘Good morning. It’s Stephen. I’m calling to see where you are. I need to go and the boys aren’t ready. But as you’re not there ... never mind. I will bring them. Could you please walk the dog? I don’t have time for that. Thanks. I hope you get this. Bye.’
While speaking in a neutral tone, his clipped sentences revealed his irritation, and I felt irritated in return. It was true that I’d forgotten about them, but it wasn’t as if I’d been having a lie in. I’d spent half the night working out how to save Glory. His wife. And him. And on a mission to prevent us all from sinking into a criminal morass, I’d neglected my weekday tasks.
So sue me.
I shoved my trainers into the bottom of a mesh bag and suffocated them with a balled-up track suit. That’ll teach them not to take me for granted.
‘I never even wanted a dog,’ I hissed. But the prospect of Blue soiling the floor and the poor animal pining away, whining, transformed my recent annoyance into a Catholics’ more natural state of guilt. I could make a quick detour to exercise him on my way to the café. Then help Sascha with the yummy mummy rush, and still arrive at work for one o’clock.
Packed and ready, I remembered the missing second call and queried my phone for its caller. It showed an unknown number, which I would normally have ignored were it not for the Perth prefix of 01738. I copied and pasted the digits into Google. It came up as the switchboard for the Perth Royal Infirmary.
Please God, no.
The line busy or mysteriously disconnected while on hold, it took ten frantic attempts to speak to a human. The lady at the hospital was not much enamoured with the idea of giving out patient information to a supposed family member who wasn’t sure whom she was looking for, but persistent begging appeared to do the trick. She confirmed Mary McBride had been brought in the evening before and now stayed on the ward. No, she did not know why I had been called. No, she could not tell me if my mother was all right but, given I’d reached a hospital, she probably wasn’t. No, she had no clue where the husband might be—had I tried his mobile? She lost her patience when I explained that, contrary to popular belief, not everyone had been seduced by the wonders of modern telecommunications.
Cursing my father’s technophobia, I rang home but there was no answer.
Moments later, on automatic pilot direction motorway, I glimpsed the Clyde from the Kingston Bridge and realised my mistake. Blue. I swerved to the next exit and crossed the river again, over the Squinty Bridge, heading South.
Back in Pollokshields, I abandoned the Panda at the gates and ran up the drive, holding my jacket over my head to shield from the spontaneous burst of rain.
The barking was louder than it should have been and I stopped to listen for its source. I heard nails scratch decking on my right and, before I could investigate, Blue emerged from the gangway between the garage and the house, yapping away.
‘What are you doing here?’
He sniffed at my shoes, wagged his tail and slowed my investigative lap of the building by circling my legs. I found the kitchen door open, explaining his escape. Testing the handle a few times, I worked out that the latch was sticky and did not always protrude far enough to secure itself into the opposing plate. With the kids notorious for not locking any doors after playing outside, this was asking for trouble. I made a mental note to inform Stephen he needed a locksmith.
‘Well, at least that saves me one job. I bet you’ve had great fun peeing in the flower beds.’
My teasing voice prompted an excited, possibly affirmative hop, raising a small giggle from me.
‘Yes. And you’ve pooped everywhere, too, haven’t you? But guess what?’
His raised ears and wide-eyed expression seemed to reply, ‘What?’
‘I’m going to pretend this didn’t happen. Someone else can have the pleasure of finding that particular gift. Because Auntie Grace has got to go.’
With both hands, I pushed a very confused-looking Blue into the kitchen, double-locked the door and trotted down the slope to my car to pick up where I’d left off.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The Perth Royal Infirmary was a jumbled agglomeration of blue-capped rectangular extensions built around a century-old core. Parking was severely limited and after discovering that the empty-looking lot 3B was reserved for patients with special vouchers, I gave up and crawled along the double-yellow lines, finding a lone space four hundred yards away, by the Oakbank dental clinic. The eagle-eyed receptionist visible through the window raised her head as soon as I got out, and I waved, with a guilt-ridden smile, as
I thieved the space I knew they must covet for their visitors.
Large silver letters on one of the brick blocks ahead heralded the main entrance to the hospital. After consulting the floor plan in a deserted reception area, I followed the signs to the Medicine for the Elderly part of the Tay ward. I weaved through innumerable identical safety-floored corridors. The hospital administration must have been proud of the results of its recent inspection as the framed scores were exhibited at regular intervals, alongside the ubiquitous NHS posters reminding everyone that coughs and sneezes spread disease.
A sign for the Stroke Unit caused me to hesitate, having not had the opportunity to query where Mum had been admitted to. But I surmised—with no medical training whatsoever—that two strokes in quick succession were unlikely and proceeded to where they kept the oldies that were plain sick.
A middle-aged nurse in a white-trimmed royal blue uniform examined stock on a trolley at the start of yet another double-doored section. Hovering, not wanting to interrupt, I was relieved when she dropped her glasses to bungee on their cord and offered help.
‘Could you please tell me where to find Mary McBride? She came in last night.’
‘Your mother?’ she guessed.
I nodded.
‘Come with me.’ She beelined to another trolley from which she consulted a clipboard, catching her specs on an upward bounce to review the list. ‘Your mum’s in the fourth room in the West corridor.’ Her original task beckoning, she pointed vaguely and I was left to gauge the angle of the sun’s light hitting the ground from the open wards and remember whether it rose in the East or West.
Members of staff shuffled past me, engrossed in paperwork and the place operated in a state of efficient quietude, as far removed from the hive of panicked activity in A&E as two adjoining departments could be.
When I found the right place, my vision was struck by an overdose of white: the walls, the privacy curtains, the bedding, the nighties, the eight heads of withered hair. Even the sky consisted of fluffy clouds, I noticed through the full-length wall of glass. A black contour by the second bed on the left moved like my father. As I neared the standing figure, its lines came into focus and I saw the facial ravages of a bad night.
