by Anna Smith
‘Goodness me, sir.’ Rosie patted her chest theatrically. ‘I hope you don’t welcome all your guests like this.’
‘Only the ones with money and influence.’ TJ put his arm around her shoulder as they walked to the kitchen.
Various dishes and ingredients were strewn across the worktop. Plump fresh scallops on a dish topped with breadcrumbs, and salmon fillets with some kind of sauce in an oven dish. Vegetables, herbs and bags of salad were stacked up on a chopping board next to the sink.
‘Don’t worry,’ TJ said. ‘It’s not as disorganised as it looks. I’ll have this restaurant up and running in no time, but I didn’t want to start until you were actually here and I had your full attention.’ He dropped some cut limes into tall glasses with ice and reached for a bottle of gin. ‘Let’s have a drink.’
‘All looks great to me, TJ,’ Rosie said. ‘But first, I’d like to jump into your shower if you don’t mind. It’s been a long day.’
‘Be my guest.’
*
Rosie closed her eyes and stood under the shower, enjoying the surge of warm water on her face. But almost immediately her mind flashed up the picture of the refugee at the Balornock flats, his face pale and haunted. It triggered a rush of the disturbing images from Kosovo that often woke her in the night since she’d come back. Her head flicked through them.
So many bewildered people on the move. The bruised faces of men and women, battered and burned out of their homes. Before the conflict, they’d been farmers, teachers, tradesmen, shopkeepers, housewives. Now they were collapsing in front of her after trekking across the mountains, huddling together in the open as they’d fled from Serb soldiers. Some had no shoes and festering blisters on their feet. And always, always the picture of the old woman with the broken hip slumped in the bucket of a dumper that was being used to ferry her down the rocky hillside to safety, her husband limping at her side, his face grey with worry. On a daily basis since she had come home, when Rosie passed a building site she still couldn’t look at a dumper without seeing the image of the old woman in the bucket. So many flashbacks like that. She didn’t need the doctor to tell her she had posttraumatic stress. She’d been there before in horror stories across the world, and she’d always told herself to get it into perspective. She was only the witness, after all. None of the shit she saw was actually happening to her. It was happening to others. That helped her deal with the pictures, but it couldn’t make them go away.
‘Come on Gilmour. Scallops are in the oven, and there’s a G and T here with your name on it.’ TJ’s voice from the other side of the door broke Rosie from her reverie, and she was glad.
‘Two minutes.’ She stepped out of the shower, trying to shake herself out of the gloom.
*
After dinner they sat in the kitchen sipping red wine and smoking TJ’s cigarettes, listening to the sudden thunderstorm. Rosie gazed through the large open window as torrential rain made the tenement buildings opposite look dark and eerie.
‘You okay, Rosie?’ TJ reached his hand across and ruffled her hair. ‘You suddenly looked a bit dark a little while ago. What’s happening?’
Rosie took his hand. ‘I’m okay.’ She shrugged. ‘You know me, usual stuff. There’s always something lurking in the background. I felt a bit sad today up at that Red Road protest I told you about. I saw this guy crying. Reminded me about a lot of stuff.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Rosie told him about the protest, and about the intrigue over the torso, and the vigilantes. TJ listened as she set out the various scenarios of refugees going missing, lawyers hanging themselves.
‘So you think it’s all connected, but you’ve got nothing really to go on.’ TJ sat back watching her. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself. You know how you are, Rosie. You’re choking to wade right in there.’
She took his packet of cigarettes and handed one to him.
‘Gee thanks, sweetheart.’ TJ gave her a sarcastic look.
Rosie smiled and held his hand while he gave her a light. ‘Well, maybe I am getting ahead of myself here,’ she said, ‘but I’m just trying to lay out all the possibilities. I’m not really connecting it all, but I can’t stop thinking about that refugee in tears today.’ She blew smoke. ‘Wish to hell now I’d been able to hold onto him for just a minute longer.’
‘That’ll drive you nuts now, till he gets in touch.’ He poured the remains of the wine into their glasses. ‘But hey. It’s Friday night. Forget about all that. Let’s open another bottle. I’ve got some news too.’
‘Yeah? What’s happening?’
‘I’ve been offered a steady gig two nights a week in that jazz club I took you to – The Blue Note. This guy, Gerry, really good jazz guitarist, and a singer, woman called Kat. Amazing voice. Really soulful. I played with them a few times in New York in a couple of gigs and one or two sessions. They’re good.’
‘American?’
‘No. Scottish. Kat studied there for a while, but most of the work they do is session work. She’s trying to make it as a singer. She’s good enough, but it’s tough out there.’
‘Are they together?’ Rosie asked, annoyed at the twinge of jealousy she felt.
TJ looked at her as though he could see out of the back of her head. She felt herself blush.
‘No.’ He drew on his cigarette. ‘Why?’
‘Nothing,’ Rosie looked away. ‘Just wondered.’
‘Yeah.’ TJ studied her face. ‘Sure you did.’ He sighed, reached over and took her hand. ‘Rosie. What’s with the insecurity? You never used to be like this.’
Rosie swallowed and looked at the table.
‘I never cared this much before.’ She got up and moved over to the sink. ‘Come on. I’ll help clean up this mess. It’s like a car crash in here.’ She started scraping leftovers into the bin, and rinsing plates under the tap before placing them in the dishwasher. Her stomach was in knots. What the hell was happening to her? All TJ did was mention that he was going to be working with some dame he’d met in New York and it was enough to set off a rush of paranoia. This has got to stop, she told herself. Suddenly she felt TJ’s arms around her waist and he buried his face in her hair.
‘Leave that, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘Time enough for that.’ He ran his hands over her breasts and down her thighs, pushing her against the sink.
Rosie ran the water over the cutlery as TJ nuzzled her neck and put his hand between her legs, gently squeezing her. He took her hand and turned off the tap. Rosie could hear his breathing quicken.
‘Leave it, Rosie,’ he said again, turning her around and easing her T-shirt over her head. They kissed hard and emphatically, then TJ stopped suddenly and for a few seconds their eyes locked in silence. He took her by the hand and led her to the bedroom.
*
Their sleep was broken by Rosie’s mobile ringing on TJ’s bedside table. For a moment, she couldn’t work out where she was, until she blinked two or three times and took in her surroundings, the morning sunlight streaming through the blinds. She groaned as she reached over and lifted the phone. No name, and a number she didn’t recognise.
‘Hello?’ Rosie cleared her throat, gravelly from too many cigarettes.
‘Hello? Is Rosie?’
‘Yes. It’s Rosie.’
‘Is Emir. I am Emir. I meet you yesterday.’
Rosie sat up and shook herself awake.
‘Emir! Hello. Yes. How are you? You okay?’
Silence.
‘Emir? You there?’
‘Yes. You can meet me? You come?’
‘Yes, Emir, I’ll come. To Balornock?’
‘No. Not there. In city, in Central Station. Starbuck cafe.’
‘Yes. Okay. When?’
‘In one hour. Is okay? You be there?’
‘Yes, Emir, I’ll be there. Wait for me. Please.’ The line went dead. Rosie sank back into the pillow. She was glad they hadn’t drunk the second bottle of wine last night. She may not have had much sleep, but a
t least she wasn’t hung over. She felt TJ’s arms around her; he pulled her towards him.
‘C’mon, Rosie. It’s Saturday morning.’
‘I know.’ She put her arms around him, but she looked at her watch. She needed to be up, showered and ready to talk to Emir within an hour. She didn’t have time for this.
TJ pulled her close and kissed her.
‘You’re not concentrating, Gilmour.’
‘I am,’ Rosie laughed.
TJ rolled onto his back, shaking his head.
‘You’ll never change. Get to work. You drive me nuts.’
CHAPTER 4
Rosie was perched on a stool at a podium near the window of Starbucks, a perfect vantage point where she could people-watch while she waited for Emir at Central Station. She sipped from a cardboard cup of frothy latte and picked at a warm croissant, enjoying the melted butter and strawberry jam. What the heck, she would get back on her diet tomorrow – again.
She lapsed into daydream mode, watching the bustle and wondering what stories lay behind the people meeting and greeting, or those parting with bear hugs and tears in their eyes. A dishevelled middle-aged woman with a drinker’s bloated face shuffled along pushing a supermarket shopping trolley with various plastic bags filled with what looked like all her worldly goods. She plonked herself wearily on a bench next to a slim, welldressed woman around the same age, who instantly bristled and shifted up a little. The trolley-pusher took a can of strong lager from her bags, put it to her mouth and swigged it. Then she turned to the lady. ‘Y’all right? Roastin’ innit?’ She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
The thin-faced woman nodded, her nose turning up a little.
‘Want a drink?’ The drunk shoved the can of lager towards her.
The woman shook her head and looked away.
Rosie wondered what their stories were, what had reduced the drunken woman to this. She remembered, as a little girl, shopping in the city centre on a winter’s day with her mother, when they came across a woman lying in a drunken sleep over the warm air vent outside Central Station. Rosie had been aghast and sad at the sight. She kept saying to her mother to look at the state of her. ‘We should pray for her, Rosie,’ her mum had said. ‘She’s a poor soul. And she’s somebody’s mother.’ Even as a child, the words had struck a chord with Rosie, and for months she was haunted by the moment, quietly living in dread that one day her mum would end up like that, sleeping over an air vent at Central Station, with people saying, ‘She’s somebody’s mother.’
She was relieved when she saw Emir coming towards the Starbucks. She watched him standing outside, looking nervously around him. He was tall and slim, his dark hair unkempt and his pale face unshaven. His black leather jacket was zipped up even though it was sweltering hot in the bright sunshine that had followed last night’s thunderstorm. She waited for him to turn around; when he did, she waved and he caught her eye.
‘Hi Emir.’ Rosie spoke quietly as she eased herself off the stool to greet him.
‘Hello,’ Emir nodded, his dark eyes bloodshot.
‘Let me get you a coffee. You want something to eat? You hungry?’ Rosie motioned him to a table in a quiet corner.
He shook his head. ‘Coffee please. Black. Thank you.’
Rosie returned with coffee and a croissant. She figured he was hungry but was too polite or nervous to say.
‘You might eat something, Emir,’ Rosie smiled. She scanned his face. ‘Don’t be frightened, Emir. I will be your friend. I want to help you.’
He took a sip of his coffee, then tore off a piece of the croissant and ate it.
‘So, Emir. You want to talk to me a little of what you were saying yesterday?’
‘I can’t find my friend. You can help?’ There was desperation in his voice.
‘I hope so.’ Rosie touched his arm. ‘Tell me, Emir. Can you tell me a little about where you come from … what happened to you?’ She spoke slowly, hoping he would understand. ‘You know, back in Kosovo.’
He nodded. ‘My English not so good. Only a bit in school.’ He tore off another piece of croissant and ate it, sipping his coffee. ‘In my village, my mother, father and sister killed. My friend Jetmir the same for him. His father die when he was boy, and his mother killed by Serbs. They burned her house and she die.’
Rosie shook her head. ‘So bad, what the Serbs did over there. I know. Go on.’
‘Jetmir and me, we come together to Macedonia, to the border. We there many days with many people hungry and sick. Some die in the mud. People walked for days to get across border. We have nothing. Was very bad. Then they put us on buses and say we will be going away. Safe they say. And they bring us here. To Scotland.’
‘And how have you been since you came?’
‘Is okay in the beginning. They put us in a big place for two days – like a camp – and then they give us apartment. Where you saw me.’
Rosie nodded, watching him pick nervously at the napkin.
‘You were very upset. Tell me what happened.’
‘I tell you.’ His eyes grew dark. ‘The woman from Refugee Council. She come and take all our names. She tell us we will get food and some clothes. They give us things. They tell us the lawyers will look after us and help us and work on our case so we can stay here. We like living here. Is bad now in the apartments because the people from Glasgow they hate us. They fight with us because they want our things, but we have nothing.’ He shook his head. ‘I will give them anything. I want to be free. Just to live here. Me and Jetmir to start again maybe. So we go to the lawyer and he ask our details. He want to know where we come from, who we live with, who is our friends. We tell them we have nobody. Only us – like brothers. We want make new friends. New life here. He tell us to come back the next week. He said to trust him, we must not to tell Refugee Council. He say he can find us jobs but we must not tell. He tell us to come back, and we did.’
‘Do you mean the day your friend was taken. Is that the day you went back?’
Emir nodded. ‘We speak to the lawyer.’
‘What lawyer?’ Rosie asked. ‘Do you know the name of the lawyer?’
‘Yes,’ Emir said. ‘His name Murphy. Mr Murphy. I think they called Paton Murphy. I show you. Is close by.’
Rosie felt a little punch in her stomach.
‘Tony Murphy? Was the lawyer called Tony Murphy?’
‘Yes. That him, Rosie. You know him?’
‘I know him, yes. Well, I know the law firm. So what happened then?’ Rosie hoped her face showed nothing.
‘That day, we come down from his office, and in the street at the door, two men say our names. They say they are taking us back to our apartment. They say Mr Murphy told them take us back to flats. So we go in their car, very happy because Mr Murphy is good man, but then I see after some time we are not in the city. They are talking to us and trying to understand what we are saying. Then I see no big city any more. We are going to the country. More trees. Not so many houses. I ask them. They tell me we are going to see about jobs.’
‘Jobs?’
‘Yes. They say Mr Murphy has tell them to take us for the jobs. We are in the back seat of the car. My friend Jetmir is nervous and he push his elbow to me to make a face that he is not happy. But we don’t know what to do. I am frightened also. They keep driving. Then they come to a place not in the big road, but in another road. It is in the woods. A big building. Not big like a factory but big. Like a place to keep things.’
‘Like a warehouse?’ Rosie said. ‘You know. Like you would have a big storage place?’
‘Yes, like that. I see two big trucks with fridges. Like I see before in Kosovo. They use them to take food to towns and villages, and keep cold. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ Rosie said. ‘Then what happened?’
‘Then it happen fast. One of the men he hit Jetmir on back of the head and he fall to the ground. The other comes to me, but I hit him hard. Then the man who hit Jetmir hit me with a stick, but I hit
him hard too and he fell. I took the stick from him and I hit him on the head twice, but someone else come and they hit me on the head and I fell down. Then Jetmir tries to get up, and they start to beat him on the head with a stick. A baseball bat. I cannot watch.’ Tears came to his eyes. ‘I can see them taking Jetmir away. They are dragging him by his feet. They think I am dead or unconscious. But I am not. When they go inside the building, I run away.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know if Jetmir is alive, because he was breathing and making noises when they take him away. I don’t know where they take him. I think they will kill him. They want to kill both us.’ He looked at Rosie with pleading eyes. ‘But why? Why to kill us?’
Rosie had seen that pitiful look before on the faces of so many desperate refugees, from Kosovo to Rwanda, fleeing terror and murder. In the far-flung lands where factions had squabbled for generations and villages were being brutally ethnically cleansed, someone could always provide an answer to why people turn on each other. But these people had come here to escape. She had no answers.
‘I don’t know, Emir,’ Rosie said, squeezing his arm. ‘But I promise you one thing, I will find the answer. Trust me.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Did you go to the police? The Refugee Council? Have you told anyone what happened?’
Emir shook his head. ‘I am afraid. I not know who I can trust. Maybe they don’t believe me. Do you believe me?’
‘Of course I do, but I think you should go to the police, or go to the Refugee Council and tell them what happened. They will have records of your friend and you, when you came here. They will investigate.’
‘But how can I tell them what happened? I don’t know where is the place. They won’t believe me. Maybe they think I make it up and I have done something to my friend.’ He put his hand to his mouth, shaking his head. ‘I never do anything to hurt Jetmir. We are friends since we are children.’ Again, tears filled his eyes.
They sat in silence. Rosie watched him. It crossed her mind that he might be making the story up because she knew that’s the first thing McGuire would ask her. She dismissed the thought. Her gut instinct told her he was telling the truth, but she could see how far-fetched his story would seem if he turned up at a police station. The only thing on his side was that he’d been to Tony Murphy’s office the day they were kidnapped. If police were investigating Murphy’s death and hadn’t already written it off as ‘not suspicious’, then they would have to listen to Emir’s story. She would call Don and run it past him. So what if it was Saturday morning and he was having the weekend off.
