Referendum

by Campbell Hart

  Sandy was taken aback by the onslaught, “I’m just here to see what you have to say. You know what I want.”

  They were interrupted by the waiter who asked if they would be having lunch, but they ordered drinks instead; two pints – both men hoping the alcohol would help get the conversation flowing.

  “You said you knew about Graeme Donald?”

  Murphy nodded, “That’s right, we go way back. And I know you’ve been poking around into his past. Seems like you got stung for getting too close last year.”

  Sandy was nodding, he knew he didn’t have to explain, the information was all over the internet. “I can help you find out more, but it’ll come at a price.”

  “I work for the BBC. I can’t pay you for information.” Sandy thought he’d wasted his time; this was just another weasel looking for a handout.

  “The BBC can’t, but you can. You’ll need to rethink your ethics if you want to do business with me.”

  “I need to know what you can tell me first.”

  “Well we seem to be at something of an impasse. You must think I’m a fucking idiot if you think I’m just going to tell you what I know. You don’t even know who you’re dealing with.” Niall saw the reporter’s eyes dart right; the waiter had come back with the drinks. Sandy smiled nervously as the pint glasses were placed on the table.

  “I don’t want to know who you are; I just need to know how I can get hold of you.”

  “You do need to know about me, just so you’re aware of the situation you’ve put yourself in. I know Donald from Belfast, which is a city I’m very well connected in. There are people there who know how to deal with wayward bodies – loudmouths who say too much at the wrong time. I can help you find out more about Donald, but I’ll need to be sure you know what to say and when to say it.”

  “I won’t be censored by you or anyone else.”

  Niall Murphy grabbed the farthest edge of the table and pulled himself face-to-face with Sandy, “If you fuck with me you will live to regret it. Be in no doubt about that.”

  Looking down, Niall’s expression changed, “What the fuck is this?” He had noticed one of the buttons on Sandy’s shirts had no thread, “I’ve seen these before,” Niall ripped off the button, “Use a fucking camera on me would you?” The table was moving under Niall’s weight; the waiter had stopped collecting glasses. There was no-one else in the pub.

  “Where’s the footage?”

  Sandy stammered; he hadn’t expected the camera to be seen, it never had been clocked before. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “It’s on a cloud file. I can get it from my laptop.”

  “Which is where, in your bag?”

  “In my car, out the back.”

  Two minutes later they were in the back lane where Sandy had parked. He handed the laptop over to the man he realised he had badly underestimated. He was scared and didn’t know what to do to turn the tables back in his favour.

  Niall stood and held the laptop, weighing it in his mind, “It’s a sturdy piece of kit; they don’t make them like this anymore, keep a lot of your own stuff on here do you?”

  Sandy nodded; he was getting nervous about the direction the conversation was heading. He wanted to run but he had been backed into a corner.

  “No point looking around, there’s no-one to help you here. We can still work together but there’s something you need to learn.”

  Before Sandy could say anything else the laptop swung into his face. He raised his hands to try and protect himself but he couldn’t keep the pain at bay. Blow after blow rained down on him; the plastic of the laptop splintering under the pressure.

  The last thing he heard before he blacked out was a rasping Belfast accent, “Mention this to anyone and you’re dead, pal.”

  234 Evesham Road, Kendal, Lake District

  Arbogast was struck by how ordinary the estate was. As a child he’d imagined his father might be rich, living in a huge house in the country. Fast forward three decades and the truth was more mundane.

  The Sat Nav had been guiding him towards Evesham Road for the last three hours. He had stopped more times than he’d planned as the nerves starting to build. Now he was parked outside the family home he didn’t want to take the final steps. It was a modest two bed semi-detached property which looked like it dated from the early 80s. Rough cast with brown wooden panels under the windows it looked like it had once belonged to the Council. The front garden was immaculate, with a small hedge forming a perimeter around a well groomed rose garden. He had parked at the other side of the street, the dead end in the cul de sac the road sign had warned of. He’d had this conversation in his head a thousand times but now he was faced with actually meeting his wayward parent he was at a loss for words. No sentence could adequately sum up how he felt about the last 40 years, about the lack of contact or apparent concern for his well being. Arbogast inhaled slowly and held the breath for about ten seconds before letting go. He’d heard it lowered your heart rate, helped you relax, but it wasn’t working. His heart was racing as he lifted the clasp on the black metal gate and edged up the seven crazed flagstones which led to the front door. He noticed a sign on the door.

  Mr and Mrs J Arbogast

  His heart fell into freefall; it wasn’t something he’d expected. His dad had remarried. That his father had built another life shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it felt like a betrayal. He stood for a moment wondering what to do. Should I still go in? But he’d come too far. He rang the bell and waited. There was no reply. He tried again and again, but it was hopeless. There was no-one in; he should have phoned first. In the distance he heard laughter; a family were celebrating in the summer sun. A man walked up the side of the house and crossed the road. The house was at the end of a no through road but he saw that there was a public path which led round past the back of the houses. John wondered if he could get access to the back garden. Following the line of the path he was stopped dead in his tracks by an unfamiliar sight.

  His father was sitting on a deck chair while an older woman rocked with laughter on the grass. Two small children were playing with a ball while a couple, maybe in their thirties, stood and talked to the neighbour over the back fence. A radio was playing a teenage boy band – Arbogast didn’t know who but he’d heard it before, silly to dwell on that detail. He realised immediately what he was looking at, it was his extended family. Were these half brothers or sisters, a step mother? The enormity of the discovery shocked him. He stood silently as tears tracked a trail on his face. He knew he couldn’t intrude, couldn’t upset the status quo. These weren’t his people; this wasn’t his time. I’m glad you’re happy but...

  He didn’t finish the thought as his anger returned. Before he left he posted a small white envelope marked for his father’s attention. The message was short and sweet but if he wanted to act on it he could.

  As he drove back up the M6 Arbogast tried to forget his isolation, but it had been thrown into sharper focus than ever before. The time for reconciliation had passed.

  14

  26th July

  On the first Saturday of the Commonwealth Games, Glasgow was heaving. Unusually high temperatures attracted massive crowds to the city centre, which were more than happy to use the occasion to celebrate its time in the sun.

  Lorna McMahon was still trying to come to terms with the way her life had turned out. She’d been knocked back by the news that her husband had died but she didn’t have time to grieve. The police said they didn’t know the cause of death; that they needed to hear the autopsy results. But that had been days ago – they didn’t seem to be in any rush. But she was starving, hadn’t eaten in two days. What little she could scrounge she’d given to her daughter. Today she needed money. If she wanted to survive she needed to do whatever it took to get by. Looking around the packed streets she saw potential.

  Around 40 thousand people had crammed into the Merchant City for the Commonwealth Games Festival. Lorna had never seen it so busy. Coming from the East End she
had to fight past the people, there was room only to squeeze through. The pubs were rammed, with long queues outside, trying to get in. Every punter leaving with a round had to tussle to keep their drinks from spilling out from the constant knocks from the bustling mass. As the heat baked the tarmac, the smell of bitumen mingled with fried food from the countless stalls which lined the streets, while entertainers competed for attention from the relative freedom of marked out performance areas. Families leaned out across the boundaries trying to get some air. Tired kids cried while adults looked for seats. Lorna McMahon knew she’d never have another chance quite like it.

  She wasn’t a natural thief; in fact it was something that appalled her. She knew people worked hard for their cash but she was out of options. If she couldn’t get money she wouldn’t survive; more importantly she needed to help build a better life for Leona. So to hell with them.

  Her first attempt didn’t go to plan. Lorna thought she’d be able to slide past and dip into inside pockets, but no-one was wearing jackets. She saw a man holding his son’s hand waiting to move up the street. In his back pocket was a wallet, hemmed in tight by the size of his well fed arse. Lorna sidled up to him, not sure how best to retrieve her mark.

  With the thumb and index finger of her right hand, she tried to pinch the wallet. When she got close she could see the folds of the leather from the opening of the pocket. She leaned in and slipped her fingers around the edge. She had it, but not too tightly. Suddenly the man spun round, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  People stopped and stared, she’d been caught. Think of something quick. “Oh my god, you’re not Allan. Oh I’m so sorry, how embarrassing to pinch your bum like that. You look so alike.” She raised her hand apologetically and sidled off up the street. The man was shaking his head; his son was asking what had happened. That was too close for comfort.

  PC Craig Chalmers had seen the woman early on. Wearing a long flowing red dress with a large blue handbag, she was hard not to spot. He thought she looked familiar but he couldn’t place the name. He was standing on steps outside the old court and had a good view from his vantage point. The woman had raised her hands, looked like she had annoyed a man. It was her expression when she moved away that got his attention. She looked annoyed, so he kept watching.

  Lorna was eating and waiting; she’d found a half-eaten burger lying by the street corner. A wee boy had dropped it and the parents hadn’t noticed. Lorna picked it up and wolfed it down. Thinking back to her first attempt Lorna knew there was no more room for mistakes. If she fucked up again she’d end up in trouble. Half an hour had passed and her confidence returned. Come on Lorna, you can do this. The next target was an older woman in her sixties. She was overweight and wore a large white floppy sun hat, with a jumper tied across her shoulders. She had a bum bag which Lorna assumed would be where the money was. Her chance came unexpectedly. The woman stopped at a stall and had unclipped the bag to get at her purse. Lorna knew she wouldn’t have a better chance. Walking past she grabbed the strap and slipped off into the crowd. By the time the woman had turned round Lorna was gone.

  Her heart was racing. She’d pulled it off. In the next street she rifled through the bag. The woman was Nancy Steele, a US tourist who liked to carry plastic. There was only about £20 in the bag with several credit cards. Damn. She was going to have to try again.

  ***

  Rachel Reid and Susan Ettrick knew it was too good an opportunity to miss. They’d been campaigning for the SNP for several years and the upcoming referendum campaign had unofficially been underway for the last 12 months. But it was time to get serious and they needed to make sure that everyone saw the independence movement had become an unstoppable force. Stunts like this could only help. With a huge war chest and seemingly unlimited volunteers they knew now was the time to make their mark.

  “I can’t blow much longer,” Rachel was red in the face, holding a semi-inflated beach ball.

  “You need to keep going; we’ve got four of these babies to blow up.”

  It was going to be a small gesture but one that would be remembered. Rachel blew hard and felt the pressure strain her cheeks. This had better be worth the effort.

  ***

  It was a case of third time lucky for Lorna. The man smiled at her from a distance and waved at her to come and see him. He was with friends, said his name was Kenny. She flirted with him for a while; one of his friends gave her a beer. They had a laugh; the boys were all drunk, said they’d been out for a while and celebrating a big win. Kenny must have been about ten years younger but he couldn’t take his eyes of Lorna. In the background something bounced into view.

  “What’s that?”

  Turning round a number of huge inflatable balls were being batted around above the crowd. Whoops of delight echoed around the Victorian streets as hands were raised to push the balls along, like a giant game of table football. The ball had ‘Yes’ emblazoned on two sides. Before long four of the balls were making their way around the streets of the Merchant City as a delighted crowd, hemmed in with nowhere to go, made the most of the free entertainment. There was a loud boo when one of the balls was ripped. A young man draped in a Union Flag had burst the ball with a cigarette, but it was an empty gesture.

  “Must be a ‘No’ voter, eh?” Kenny was holding Lorna tight; she knew this was the time to make her move. Putting her arms around him she invited him to kiss her. Her arms reached down into his back pocket and slipped out the wallet, pulling him close so that he’d think it was part of the come-on. She dropped the wallet into her bag and stood back.

  “That was nice Kenny; you’re not going away are you?”

  He swayed slightly, his face red from the sun and too much beer, “I’m here all day.”

  “I’ll be back, just need to step away for a couple of minutes.”

  He kissed her again, and then she left, waving goodbye.

  PC Craig Chalmers had seen the whole thing. He watched as the woman in the red dress made her way back through the crowd. Following, it didn’t take long to catch her up. When he found her she was counting the money in the cover of a fire escape.

  “I see you’ve been busy.”

  Lorna looked up; surprised, she couldn’t hide her fear.

  “I don’t know what you mean, who are you?”

  Craig Chalmers dished out his warrant card and flashed the handcuffs, “Sorry, but you’re coming with me.”

  When she was read her rights Lorna knew her luck had run out. Her first thought was for Leona; what would happen to her? As she led into the back of the Police van, locked up and silent, the glimmer of that hot summer afternoon would be a lasting memory during the dark days which followed.

  15

  A mumbled jumble of glottal stops eventually managed to rouse Sandy Stirrit back from oblivion.

  “Areyoualrightdownthere?”

  But Sandy couldn’t make out the words, they sounded too fast. He raised a hand to try and soothe his throbbing head. His finger slid across his face, it was wet. What happened? How long have I been asleep?

  “I said, are you alright down there?”

  Clearer that time. Who’s speaking? What’s happening? He realised he was sitting with his back against something which was digging into his spine. He shifted round trying to get a handle on his situation; tried to raise himself back up, but he couldn’t find purchase. Then arms were holding him. He remembered now; remembered the Irishman, the assault. He fought back, punching wildly.

  “No, no, no,” he screamed, “Not again. Don’t touch me.”

  The supporting arms were gone and he dropped back, smacking his head off the ground. Again came the voices.

  “Jesus mate, we’re just trying to help.”

  He looked up and finally realised where he was. He recognised the barman from the pub.

  “I know you?”

  “From the pub, yeah; someone heard you screaming and came in to get help. We’ve phoned the ambulance. Do you know what
happened, who did this to you?”

  Sandy’s memory was hazy from his beating; fragments of the meeting were coming back but it was still a bit of a blur, “Don’t know,” he slurred.

  “Don’t know, or won’t say? Where’s the guy you were with, was it him?”

  “No,” Sandy felt very tired and his movements were sluggish. The darkness washed over him again and he welcomed the sleep. The next thing he was aware of was the feeling of movement and the intrusive wheeze of a blaring siren as the ambulance tore through town to A&E.

  ***

  “Anything you do say will be taken down as evidence...” Lorna heard the words but she still couldn’t believe she’d been caught. I’m no criminal. I’m just trying to feed my family. Why don’t the bastards just let me go? There were two cops with an arm each, one on either side, they were taking her to the patrol car; people in the crowd moved aside and watched, wondering what this well turned out woman could have done to get herself arrested. Two teenagers sniggered. They said something but Lorna couldn’t hear. All her attention was focused on the yellow and blue check on the side of the patrol car. This is really happening. She pulled back and tried to run but the grip of her escorts tightened. Finally, head bowed, she was ushered into the back seat. Her skirt rode up the back as she slid onto the seat; the coldness of the black leather on her bare legs was an unwelcome reminder that her time in the summer sun was over. As the car sped off she listened as the radio crackled with instructions. The Commonwealth Games juggernaut pushed on. She knew that no-one would care what happened to her; no-one apart from Leona.