The House: Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story (Parliament House Books Book 5)

by John Mayer

  Neither man said another word for at least three or four minutes; the longest they’d ever been in each other’s company with a wall of silence between them. They of course had disagreed before, but this was a silence that thickened with each passing second until it was as thick as four-day-old Scotch broth.

  At length, Big Joe Mularkey got up, shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a bundle of crumpled notes. Throwing a ten pound note on the table, he looked down at McLane:

  ‘Right, I’m off. But if you think I’m going back to the Calton Bar to tell everyone that you’ve given up already, you can think again. I expect you to show your face tonight and tell them yourself that they’ll need to find someone else to get them justice.’

  Big Joe turned to walk away, but an instinct got the better of him and he turned back. Looking down at his blood brother, he shook his head:

  ‘Man. I can hardly believe it. The great Brogan McLane QC deep down is a second prize merchant.’

  ~~~o~~~

  End of Part One

  Part Two : I Am The Resurrection

  Chapter 8

  Looking into utter darkness, McLane knew the lane was there; he just couldn’t see it. The teenage boys must have climbed the poles and loosened the bulbs rendering the lane invisible: the better for bringing girls round here who didn’t want to be seen learning in detail the things their mothers had warned them about in oblique and confusing language. Tonight however, the thick low cloud and the light drizzle had sent those young pleasure seekers elsewhere before continuing at exactly the point where they’d left off. How many times had he done it himself? A dozen? No! Much more than that. The Calton girls weren’t like the girls he’d had in university dorms years later. No. Down the lane, time was of the essence. So the boys wanted to get straight down to business and the girls were willing if not eager to let them.

  Sneaking around like this, using the bus and not the car and walking with his hat over one eye, McLane hoped he wouldn’t bump into anyone who’d be bound to report straight back to Big Joe Mularkey that they’d seen him. He already felt enough betrayal. But they didn’t understand. Big Joe had said outright ‘Tell them yourself that they’ll need to find someone else to get them justice.’ But he didn’t understand. Justice isn’t automatic. No-one walks up to you in your moment of danger or your broken and damaged state and hands you justice. Justice has to be won. Often, very hard won. And trying to fight the city, with its offices full of lawyers whose job it is just to get up in the morning and delay or obfuscate your case, is a fool’s errand. No. The old saying is true. It was true hundreds of years ago and it’s still true today: The law only works when the powerful let it work.

  The swirling drizzle was now turning icy. McLane shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, bowed his head and recalled the thoughts, the aspirations, the hopes and the fears he’d felt the night Big Jake Devine had asked him after that trial in the Calton Bar: ‘Brogan son, have you ever heard of a place in Edinburgh called Parliament House?’ In amongst images of girls he’d brought down this lane, he was trying to think of Big Jake sitting him down and outlining his future. Looking in to Big Jake’s face, all he could think of - over and over - was ‘I can’t let them down.’ And the truth be told, he hadn’t. He’d made his mother proud when he got in to the University of Edinburgh Law School. He’d made the whole Calton proud when he became an Advocate in Parliament House. He’d won case after case for them and many others in courts going all the way up to the Supreme Court in London. But none of that was enough. As grateful as they were coming out of court, when trouble returned, they always wanted more. And now he wasn’t sure if he could give them any more.

  Trying to tell himself … again … that none of this was his fault, McLane opened his eyes and was about to turn away when he saw a light come on. Dim and hardly able to penetrate the darkness outside, the light shone like a little halo around the side study window. It wasn’t coming directly from Young Father Flaherty’s study and must have been shining through from the church. Down in his heart, McLane’s hesitation wasn’t momentary. It was about thirty years old.

  Maybe it would only be a few seconds before it began. The way it used to be. When sometimes you had the girl of your randy dreams up against that high brick wall: your every move accompanied by the soundtrack coming from that church study window. But what would it be? What would he choose? ELP perhaps, or ELO? Maybe he’d feel like a bop and put on something with a real beat. McLane listened, but as the seconds ticked by, from the narrow side window he opened when he smoked, all McLane could hear was the small solemn voice of Young Father Flaherty:

  ‘Father, hear my prayer: for tonight I begin not with the name of one poor soul or another. Tonight I pray for them all. Father you know better than I do what they’re feeling. I sense it mostly as fear. Fear that they’ll be split from family. Fear that they’ll grow old in a place where everyone’s oblivious to them: or worse, that their new neighbours will not share their Holy Catholic beliefs and actually be hostile. Father they fear uncertainty and perhaps even fear that you’ve abandoned them.’

  On his knees, with hands open and held high pleading to the Holy Cross, although deep in prayer and contemplation, Young Father Flaherty felt the chill breeze on his cheek that only blew through when someone opened the back door. Unafraid and a disbeliever in locking churches, Young Father Flaherty continued his soft, sincere appeal. On he went, now naming names and asking for special treatment for special reasons fully known and understood only by Himself until at last he paused, took breath and asked in his softest prayerful mode:

  ‘Father, tonight I want to ask for Your most special comfort for one among us whose burden he fears is so great that he feels it will slip from his shoulders and smash on the ground. Father, give him the strength he needs to come closer to You as he feels his way towards Your Light and Your Strength. Father, you know my thoughts so you know the name in my mind. May he be comforted this night by Your guidance as he moves from darkness into the light of that special understanding in which he is our only expert.’

  With head bowed, hands tightly clasped and now whispering so softly that only himself and Himself could hear, at length Young Father Flaherty crossed himself and got up slowly so that his arthritic knees might feel the restoration of blood flow. Looking up at the Cross, without turning his head, the priest said in a warm welcoming voice:

  ‘Come in, Brogan. I’ve been hoping I’d have the pleasure of a visit.’

  Flexing one knee and crossing himself for the first time in years, with his hat in his hand, McLane took a step forward:

  ‘Hello Father. It’s been quite a while. I hear you’re well.’

  Picking up his step, Young Father Flaherty approached with his hand held out. Apart from a slightly receding hairline and deeper crows-feet spreading from his eyes, McLane thought he looked very much the same as the day he’d married himself and Joanne in this very church. Glancing around McLane nodded:

  ‘Well, I see nothing has changed. That’s the old …’

  Raising his index finger the way he corrected the Sunday School children, the priest’s interruption was abrupt:

  ‘Oh but things have changed, Brogan. The fixtures, fittings and Holy Relics are all the same as you might remember them, but every year fewer and fewer people come in to this chapel to worship God. I’d call that a change for the worse; wouldn’t you?’

  Suitably reproached for his more than five years’ absence, McLane began to question why tonight he’d naturally drifted this way but then recalled that last prayer of intercession: ‘Father, give him the strength he needs to come closer to You as he feels his way towards Your Light and Your Strength.’ That ‘him’ was surely himself. Who else? Unless in the last few hours, Big Joe had found a better lawyer than his own blood brother.

  McLane didn’t answer in words, preferring just to allow the priest his superior position in his own church. For his part, Young Father Flaherty asked silently for forgiven
ess. So they were on equal terms:

  ‘Come away in to the study, Brogan. I think I have half a bottle of something to keep out the cold.’

  Taking McLane by the arm, Young Father Flaherty held him close as they took the few steps down the corridor to the study door:

  ‘It’s a rotten old night, especially for the teenagers with … with very little to do but get into trouble. Is it not?’

  Quite why it came as a surprise to him, McLane didn’t know. Did he think the priest was ignorant of what went on in the lane behind the church? Of course he wasn’t, but McLane was old fashioned enough not to think of such things:

  ‘Aye Father. It’s not a night to be out in the cold.’

  That remark didn’t go unnoticed by Young Father Flaherty, who looked under his eyebrows at the well-dressed man now sitting on the other side of his desk:

  ‘Ah, I have the Glenfarclas 12 year old. It was a present, you know. He sends a bottle every month.’

  The priest was kind enough to leave the name of this benefactor unsaid, but McLane knew perfectly well, that once a month Tucker Queen signed out a bottle of malt whisky from Big Joe Mularkey’s night club cellar and also the address where it was delivered unopened :

  ‘Big Joe. Yes. I saw him only this lunchtime. He came to Edinburgh to …erm, have a wee chat.’

  Keeping his eyes on the whisky pouring from the bottle into two crystal glasses that looked as old as the corner stones themselves, Young Father Flaherty expanded on McLane’s information:

  ‘About you coming to your senses, young Brogan McLane. Can you not see he’s worried stiff about you?’

  Lifting his glass, it was McLane’s turn to rebuke: ‘Me? Come to my senses? Oh Father, you’ve got that the wrong way round.’

  Wrapping his hands around the glass as though the whisky had power to warm without being sipped, Young Father Flaherty shook his head: ‘Oh I don’t think so. In fact, he’s not the only one. There’s dozens, maybe even hundreds who think the same.’

  With a big gulp inside him, McLane shifted this gentle sparring up a gear: ‘Well they haven’t a clue what a monumental task it would be to fight this. And we’d probably lose. They don’t get that. They think court cases are easy. I don’t mean to blaspheme Father, not at all. But you have to understand that it would take God Himself to overturn this council Resolution to demolish the Calton and build a whole new section of motorway in its place. I think I also saw mention of warehouse-style shopping Malls on each side. That amount of building works involves the UK Government in London and years of planning. You can’t stop progress, I’m afraid. Oh, I hope I haven’t offended you, Father.’

  Taking a long sip of his warming whisky, to McLane’s relief Young Father Flaherty grinned broadly and licked his lips. Putting his glass down on his desk, the priest ran his tongue over his upper gum, the more to penetrate the whisky into his bloodstream:

  ‘Let me ask you something, Brogan. Do you believe in Divine intervention? And I don’t want the stock answer ‘Of course Father’ because you’re sitting in my church. I really want to know. Do you?’

  McLane didn’t want to lie so he answered immediately: ‘Honestly Father, I’ve seen it prayed for so many times and not been delivered that … even sitting here in God’s own House, I’m sorry to say Father, I don’t.’

  Leaning over his desk, Young Father Flaherty looked McLane right in the eye: ‘Well you’re a bigger fool than I thought you were. Can’t you see that it’s just happened? Right here in the last ten minutes. Can’t you see that?’

  McLane furrowed his brow and slowly shook his head: ‘Well, to be honest, I don’t. But what I will say is that I can’t seem to get out of my head the image of God Himself representing the people of the Calton in a court.’

  Thumping the desk with his fist, Young Father Flaherty knew he’d won the day:

  ‘Ha Ha Ha! Brogan, you should know better than anyone, that God doesn’t fight our court cases. Well, not directly. That’s why he sent us you. It’s not Big Joe nor anyone else who’s got this the wrong way round. It’s you, Brogan. With all your learning and wide experience of court cases, can’t you tell? They won’t mind if you win or lose in the end, so long as you do your very best and remain one of them while trying. The politicians in London and Glasgow can demolish the Calton but they can’t demolish the spirit of its people. That is everlasting. That’s what you’re missing, my son.’

  A little stunned at the idea of the priest blessing the idea of him being some sort of saviour, McLane downed the remainder of his whisky; and had to purse his lips and blink his eyes for fear of letting tears drop. For the first time since the letters arrived, he let percolate into his head the idea that he could fight and lose and that would still be ok with everyone.

  Seeing the faint glimmer of light dawn on McLane’s face, Young Father Flaherty knew that his parishioner was still a long way from the confident Brogan McLane QC whom everyone thought just went through life every day cutting swathes through those who would stand in his way and striding the halls and corridors of Parliament House like a colossus. But at least he’d begun to believe in himself again, and for that, thanks had to be given to God on High. Burping out some whisky fumes, Young Father Flaherty had finished lecturing:

  ‘Brogan, my son. Try not to worry. After all, isn’t it natural to have moments of doubt and fear? I’m sure you can think of someone who’s gone before you, who had His own such moments. Who walked the desert for forty days and forty nights until He saw the light.’

  Leaning his head right back, McLane felt the weight drop from his shoulders. His mouth fell open and his eyes closed.

  Rising to his feet, Young Father Flaherty saw across his desk the schoolboy who’d been everyone’s hero. The one who rose and rose and rose again; indeed who was now Baron McLane of Calton. But for all that, sometimes he needed just a little help from a superior power. Raising his right hand, Young Father Flaherty lifted his eyes to Heaven above, crossed the air above McLane’s head and whispered:

  ‘Dominus noster Jesus Christus te absolvat; et ego auctoritate ipsius te absolvo ab omni vinculo excommunicationis et interdicti in quantum possum et tu indiges. Deinde, ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.’

  Without another word said, as Young Father Flaherty and Baron McLane of Calton walked arm in arm down the Wee Way and around into Kerry Street the word had got out and the crowds had started to gather. Children were sent to knock loudly on doors and women were waking their husbands from drunken stupors. Auld Faither had been alerted and somebody had phoned Big Joe Mularkey; who was racing back to the Calton in his big Merc through light traffic.

  In the Calton Bar, the tables were being re-arranged into the required horse shoe shape in expectation of their arrival. Behind the bar, Lenny was checking his beer levels and heating up the remainder of the day’s pies. But all these logistics were as nothing to the sparkle that had returned to every eye in the Calton. Truly, in every breath exhaled, the darkness was being dispelled and light was returning. What couldn’t be seen with the eye but was felt in every heart was that somehow, perhaps even from on High, their best son had been delivered and with him a sense of resurrection.

  As they approached the Calton Bar, to everyone’s surprise, the priest and the Advocate, arm in arm, walked straight past, crossed the road and turned down into Glasdon Street. A little bewildered, the ragged thirsty crowd nonetheless followed close behind; every one asking another, what the hell was going on.

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 9

  The dank slimy moss never left the stones and the graffiti had become so complicated that no-one but the spray painters themselves understood what covered the entirety of these old walls. It wasn’t a large area but in The Calton, it was an important one. Now largely overgrown and well away from the nearest road, the only clear passages were the ones tramped out by the teenagers who nightly dealt their drugs and smoked their crack. Everyone knew that the
police only ever patrolled the main streets in cars, so around here there was nothing to worry about.

  It wasn’t the headlights of a police car that drew their attention, nor the unwelcome flash of a blade pointed by a stranger intent on ripping them off. It was the singing. Joyful and loud, it was more of a chant then rebellious and it was obviously coming from several streets away. Could it be vigilantes maybe? There had been talk of them forming a ‘strike force’ for some time. No. They don’t sing. Or maybe a big hen party on a night out? No. The singing was all wrong for that. Quickly wakening those whose heads were with Lucy in the Sky, gathering up their gear and heading for the derelict high flats quarter of a mile away, whatever this was, the dealers wanted no part of it.

  As slick as a quick change in any theatre, just as the procession turned the corner the clouds above parted just enough for the moon to shine down on the old abandoned Calton Cemetery. At the front, still arm in arm, Young Father Flaherty carried his staff while Brogan McLane QC held one lapel. When they stopped, their foot soldiers surrounded them. Stepping out and turning to face his friends and neighbours, in the moment McLane paused for breath, behind them they all heard the car doors slam. Every head turned to see the unmistakable figures of Big Joe Mularkey, Arab and Tucker Queen marching towards them. Without saying a word, the three of them stood respectfully at the back with their hands clasped in front. Nodding to McLane, Big Joe wondered what in God’s name he was up to.

  Raising his hands like any Wild West Preacher, McLane spoke in a sound resolute voice; the one he used to hit every corner of Court 1 in Parliament House: