Referendum

by Campbell Hart

  “Stand back and move away, this rally is over. Think about what you’re doing.” The officers moved in to break up the crowds. The anger shifted towards them, kicks were directed in their direction, PCs struggled to stay on their feet, but slowly the huddled mass started to break apart. With the arrival of more sirens the crowd moved of its own accord and in minutes the street was empty. Rosalind Ying was concerned. With another four weeks of campaigning she was worried about how far the crowds would go. She needed to speak to the chief about extra resources.

  That night, watching from home, Karen Balfour was disgusted by the TV report. The cameraman had been right in the middle of the crowd; the film showed a policeman hitting a ‘Yes’ activist with his baton. There was blood on the activist’s face. They were interviewed after the fact saying the approach had been heavy handed, that it had been a peaceful protest, that the police were an extension of a British conspiracy. Karen knew then that she had to get involved. The next day she volunteered to help change the country for the better.

  ***

  Arbogast felt like he was wasting his time. He’d made a lot of calls from his hotel room. Colm McNally had been part of a republican paramilitary group in the 80s but had used his skills in the gang culture that had sprung up in the aftermath of the Good Friday Agreement. That was a time that Graeme Donald had been heavily involved with. He’d come down hard on rogue elements on both sides of the sectarian divide. His methods had been questioned, but there had never been any evidence. What he did worked and that’s all anyone cared about. But Colm McNally was different; the case had been picked up by the press. Donald had been accused of using brutal methods to keep the peace. Warped pictures of Colm’s broken fingers were shown to journalists. There had been an outcry but Donald had come out swinging. Arbogast knew there was something to the case. He didn’t want that kind of policing coming to Glasgow, things were bad enough already.

  He was lying on his bed when there was a knock at the door. When he answered he was faced by a teenage boy.

  “There’s someone wants to talk to you.” It was a broad accent, the vowels were highly pitched and Arbogast struggled to follow the pattern.

  “Sorry?”

  “Someone’s waiting for you outside. Someone you want to speak to. This’ll be your only chance, so follow me.”

  The boy walked off, not looking back. Arbogast grabbed his jacket and ran after him, “What’s all this about? Who sent you?”

  “I’ve just been sent to give you a message. So follow me or don’t. It’s all the same to me.”

  Arbogast thought he was confident for his age and he wasn’t sure if following suit was really such a good idea. The boy was only young, though, he could handle him if he needed to. They walked for about ten minutes before they came to The Crown Bar, an over-the-top Victorian Gin Palace.

  “It’s not exactly discreet,” Arbogast looked at the boy, “Is this where we’re going?”

  “First snug on the right,” was the only reply before his guide turned and left.

  Arbogast had heard the Crown was strictly one for the tourists, but it was something to see all the same. The delicate tiles, moulded ceiling and dark carved wood made an instant impression. Small carved lions punctuated the doors to the booths. The saloon doors were all closed. Arbogast opened the first and peered in.

  “Thanks for coming, Mister Arbogast.”

  Arbogast was pretty sure that they’d never met but his face was familiar, a little older than the pictures he’d seen but he knew who his host was, “Colm McNally, you’re a hard man to find.”

  “Sit down. I saw you earlier, sniffing around my house. You’re police. I can smell it off you and I’ll make no bones about it, Arbogast, I’m no friend of the police. So let’s keep this short and sweet. Why don’t you tell me what it is you’re after?”

  Arbogast sat down. There were enough seats in the booth for about six people. As it was the two men were face-to-face, making the booth feel claustrophobic. It wasn’t Arbogast’s town. He didn’t know the people and he had no power to act if things turned ugly.

  “I’ve got a problem in Glasgow I hoped you might be able to help with.”

  McNally didn’t move. He had a pint in front of him which hadn’t been touched. He was holding the glass like a standby weapon. “And why would I want to help you, copper?”

  “You’d be helping to right a wrong.”

  “Who’s right and who’s wrong?”

  “An old friend of yours – Graeme Donald.”

  Arbogast saw that had got a response. McNally took his hand from the pint glass and rubbed his face, a gesture of resignation.

  “Donald’s yesterday’s news here. I don’t want nothing more to do with him. So if that’s all you’re after I’m afraid you’ve had a wasted trip.” McNally made to leave and Arbogast knew he had to make his case quickly.

  “He’s been bad news for me, bad news for Glasgow. What he did to you he’s doing to other people. But you could help stop it. Ever heard of a man called Niall Murphy?”

  McNally stopped. Donald was one thing but Murphy was another prospect altogether.

  “What’s Murphy got to do with this?”

  The truth was McNally had been looking for Murphy for months.

  “He’s in with Donald. He’s being used but I need him gone. Is that something you can help with?”

  “Niall Murphy owes me a lot of money. You’ve heard the rumours about Donald. He’s a mean bastard but he got what he wanted. Murphy on the other hand is a fucking parasite. He used his connections to turn people over. He was a grass. He’s a wanted man over here and not by the law. For Niall Murphy I think we can talk. Strictly on the QT mind you.”

  “Of course,” Arbogast needed McNally’s help. He was surprised he’d changed his tact so quickly. “What did Murphy ever do to you?”

  “Niall Murphy and I were partners for a time. But he turned me over. My ‘accident’ was down to him, although I couldn’t prove it at the time. I wanted to get at Donald and his people but I was daft to even try. Murphy worked his protection like a water pump at a pool party. If you need help finding him I’ll consider it, but the terms are going to have to be good.”

  Arbogast was smiling, “Maybe I should get myself a drink and we can talk.”

  McNally took a sip from his pint, “I’m all ears.”

  27

  “Look at the state of her, she’s a disgrace.” Angela Stewart meant to be heard, she knew her circle of friends would appreciate the drama. “Are you listening to me, Leona?”

  Leona McMahon kept walking. Angela was a bully but she loved an audience. Best just to ignore her. But today it seemed she wasn’t going to let it lie.

  “Leona, you’d better turn round when I’m speaking to you.”

  Leona stopped, “When I know it’s your big fat face that I’m going to see I’m never in much of a hurry.” The girls had surrounded her, there were only four of them but four was too many, “What do you want, Angie?” She knew she hated that. It was what she’d been called when she was wee, when people picked on her. That had been before her family had won the lottery and before she suddenly became everyone’s best friend. Amazing how quickly they forget. Angie was pushing her back, prodding her chest, “You need to watch what you’re saying.” One of the gang said she shouldn’t touch Leona’s clothes, “She’s dirty. Look at her.”

  Leona didn’t have a comeback for that. They were right. Money was tight at home and it seemed these days that they could barely afford to eat. The washing machine had been sold to pay off debt, and they didn’t have enough to buy washing powder anyway. She wasn’t sure if her clothes smelt bad or not. She was getting used to living with no mod cons.

  “Piss off, Angie. I’m going for lunch.”

  “What you got today? I’ve not seen you in the canteen recently. I hope you’re not going outside the school, that’s not allowed.”

  “Are you kidding? Not allowed. How old are you Angie – still ne
ed to be told what you can do? You’re a joke. Why don’t you run home to daddy and ask for some more doughnuts, you fat bitch?” Leona tried to push her way through, “Get out of my way,” but Angela had already lashed out, the back of her hand glancing off Leona’s cheek. It stung, the pain spreading as the sting of the slap worked its way from the skin to her brain. She reacted on instinct. Grabbing the lapels of Angela’s blazer Leona head-butted her tormentor and screamed at her to back off. She looked down on Angela sprawled on the ground, her nose bleeding; she’d find out later that it was broken. Her gang had promptly left; they didn’t want anything more to do with it. A large circle of people had gathered around the two of them as the playground filled up with kids who sensed a fight. Leona could see a ripple of heads in the crowd as a teacher waded through ‘Let me through, that is quite enough.’ It was Mr Proctor, a total ball breaker. Leona couldn’t face another dressing down so she turned and ran. Through the school gates and back home, this time Leona knew she wasn’t going back.

  ***

  At the press conference Sandy Stirrit was unimpressed. The First Minister was outlining a vague notion of what an independent Scotland would be like. It was high on emotion and hope, but lacking in detail. Any detail. He raised his hand and waited to have his question taken.

  “Sandy Stirrit, BBC Scotland. First Minister you say that Scotland would flourish through independence but we’ve seen little evidence to back it up. We’re hearing more businesses will move their headquarters out of Scotland if the vote is ‘Yes’ – surely that’s all the evidence you need to see that people don’t support your cause, that the uncertainty could cripple the economy?”

  The First Minister rolled his eyes and laughed, “Glad to see you’ve recovered, Sandy. I thought you might be more careful about the questions you asked after your recent incident.” There was an uneasy chuckle around the room, “But in all seriousness it’s not like someone from the BBC to come up with a doom mongering scenario, is it? I thought you guys were supposed to be professionals.” Sandy watched as the First Minister beamed round the room, daring other journalists to react, but behind his smile all he could see were dead eyes. After a dramatic pause, the leader of the ‘Yes’ campaign continued his monologue. “Business leaders are conservative by nature. They don’t like the prospect of change, but this would be a change for the better. No company is going to leave Scotland because of a ‘Yes’ vote.” Another pause. “Next question to the floor?” The First Minister pointed to another journalist, but Sandy wasn’t finished.

  “Business leaders are telling me they will leave if it’s a ‘Yes’ vote. What do you say to that?”

  The First Minister looked annoyed, “I’ve already answered your question and we’re moving on now.”

  “Will you be happy if business leaders move out of Scotland if people vote for you?”

  But the First Minister had moved on, he wouldn’t answer; it was something that annoyed Sandy. Political leaders on both sides were getting away with arguments which had no detail. It had to be challenged.

  When he watched the national TV news that night the First Minister was not happy. That day’s press call had been the lead item. Sandy Stirrit made great play of the fact that business was concerned about the economic impact of the referendum but said the issue wasn’t being taken seriously. The first clip of the First Minister was used but then Stirrit said he had refused to elaborate.

  “That’s just not true, I answered the question.”

  His special advisor agreed. Craig McAlmont had seen the exchange first hand, “It’s a clear case of biased reporting.”

  “They don’t even know they’re doing it.” The package went on to include comments from the ‘No’ camp which said the stance was proof that the Nationalists were out of touch with the needs of people on the streets, and that voting for them would cost jobs.

  “This is outrageous,” The First Minister was angry and pacing the room, “Craig, get in touch with the BBC. Make sure they know we’re not happy. We can’t let this kind of stuff go unchallenged. There’s too much at stake.”

  ***

  Arbogast called Beckie and asked her to pick him up at the airport. He’d arrived back from Belfast with more than he’d hoped for, but it would be difficult to convince people that the case was worth pursuing. He was standing outside the arrival gate when he saw his ride home. Beckie was standing with large Jackie O sunglasses and an A4 sign which read:

  Taxi for Arbogast

  “Very funny,” he said kissing her on the cheek, “I’ve always wanted to be met by a glamorous chauffeur. I feel like James Bond.”

  “John Bland more like,” Beckie was laughing at her own joke in a way Arbogast found endearing. “Let’s just say you got lucky. I’d just finished for the day so I came straight here. How was Belfast?”

  “Productive.”

  “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” Beckie looked put out, “But I have just gone out of my way to pick you up, you could have got a taxi, or God help you if you ever set foot on the bus.”

  Arbogast could see he’d said the wrong thing. He was trying not to be so distant but it was hard to break the habit of a lifetime, “I’m sorry, but it’s a really sensitive case which I can’t talk to anyone about just now. I promise I’ll tell you when I can, but please don’t be angry with me. I’m tired and I’m hungry and to be honest, I’m just glad to see a friendly face after two days scouring the arse end of Belfast. I’ve missed you.”

  Beckie was walking one pace ahead of him, he’d reached out to touch her shoulder, tried to make her stop for a second but she brushed him off. He could see she was trying to suppress a smile. “C’mon Bex; are you not just a little pleased to see me? It was great you came to get me. Maybe I can make it up to you with dinner.”

  “You’re cooking then.”

  “I thought we could go out.”

  Beckie stopped and turned, she was standing with her arms folded – classic defensive pose. Arbogast ploughed on regardless.

  “Are you going to take those sun glasses off so I can get a good look at you?”

  “Where are we going to go for dinner?”

  “What about the Buttery?”

  “The Buttery, what have you been up to that you’d treat me to that?”

  He pushed the glasses up to rest on her hair, her eyes were glistening and full of life. Her irises changed shape as they refocused in the changing light. “You’re quite beautiful you know.”

  Beckie was shaking her head, “You’re going to have to try harder than that; an offer of dinner then straight into the seduction routine? We’re going home but we’re eating out. Everything else can wait.”

  Arbogast watched as she strode off, he’d missed her more than he’d realised. He was glad to be back.

  ***

  The demonstration was arranged quickly, with more than a thousand ‘Yes’ campaigners mobilised within the space of a couple of hours. Social media channels were awash with evidence. The uncut version of the First Minister’s press conference ‘spat’ with Sandy Stirrit was being widely viewed. The Nationalists were confident they had a case; they wanted to discredit the corporation and the more fights it could pick for the cause the better. The next day the activists pitched up in front of the BBC HQ in Glasgow, demanding the resignation of its Scotland Correspondent.

  Sandy Stirrit stood on the fourth floor and watched the demo unfold. They had marched across the pedestrian bridge with lion rampart flags flying alongside saltires and ‘Yes’ flags. They had a celtic drumming band with them and the scene reminded Sandy of something out of Braveheart. Then he saw his own face on a banner.

  Sack Stirrit – Save Scotland

  His eyes had been turned into swastikas and before long the effigy had been set alight. The main door was locked and the 1,200 staff were now prisoners in their workplace. He heard chants outside of ‘You can stick your licence fee up your arse.’ Inside, people were worried, they’d filmed many
an angry mob in their time but they had never been on the receiving end before. Sandy dialled 999. Let the professionals deal with this.

  Six van loads of riot police arrived about half an hour later. They formed a human shield in front of the main entrance which allowed people to leave the building, each one to a chorus of ‘disgrace’. The crowd was filming the scenes in front, with videos being uploaded by the minute, filling the hungry void in cyber space with more footage to berate the BBC.

  Sandy found it difficult to understand. In the past the public expected journalists to hold politicians to account but now, in the age of the internet, any attempt to expose half truths were shot down and broadcast without a second thought. It seemed as if the tone for the Referendum debate had already been set, with both camps unwilling to listen to the other. But with a third of the public having still to make up its mind on how to vote, Sandy wasn’t sure that a partisan approach was the right method for the task at hand. He knew one thing; he wasn’t going to be intimidated from doing his job, especially not at a time as important as this. He took a camera and walked down the wide sandstone steps inside Pacific Quay. Looking out he could see a wall of dark uniforms which meant he was safe. The automatic doors swooshed open and he started to film. As soon as the crowd saw who was behind the camera there was a surge of angry bodies into the riot police, who braced themselves, with the plastic shields taking the strain as feet shifted on the steps, trying to stabilise the wall. Sandy said nothing. As the camera scanned the angry faces, caught abusive insults, and recorded the moment, Sandy knew he had all the footage he needed to shine a light on a situation which was spiralling out of control.