by Tony Black
I lowered my glass, peered over the brim. 'The worst kind.'
'And you're telling me this, why?'
I pressed my back firmly into the chair, exhaled. 'Come on, Mason, don't make me go over old ground.'
A laugh, his face reddened. 'God Almighty, Doug, are you still playing that tune?'
I knew what he meant, but acted dumb. 'What?'
'The old pal's act … it doesn't wash these days.' Mason shook his head, sucked in his mouth. Two yellowed teeth dug into the fleshy part of his lower lip. 'You know that, Doug … not now, it's all changed, the world we live in.'
My jaw tightened. 'We haven't.'
He looked away. Shook his head again.
I spoke louder. 'I said, we haven't changed, Mason.'
'Speak for yourself.' He looked edgy, started to claw at a packet of Embassy Regal that sat on the table in front of him.
'We still know right from wrong, don't we?' I didn't give him time to answer, leaned forward and let the tone of my voice be his guide. 'My friend's name is Lyn McPherson. Her son is called Glenn and he's been charged with murder. Now I don't know the ins and outs of it, but I've been around long enough to know when something's not right.'
Mason pocketed the cigarettes, rose. 'I'm promising nothing. Do you hear me, Doug?'
I nodded.
Mason started to fasten his jacket. 'I'll take a look. But we don't meet like this again, do you hear me?'
I nodded. Got up to face him. 'One more thing …'
He rolled his eyes. 'What now?'
I lowered my voice, spoke to his lapels. 'I saw an old face today. Jonny Gilmour.'
Mason put his hands in his pockets, shrugged. I let the name float in the air for a few moments, then tried to discern what I could from his expression. Nothing came.
I spoke again. 'He was at the station. Looked riled.'
Mason's head shifted, left to right. He took a deep breath. 'Don't be picking at old wounds, Doug … that wouldn't be very wise where Gilmour's concerned.'
Chapter 6
The room was familiar, but then, why wouldn't it be? I'd spent the first twenty-or-so years of my life here. New wallpaper came and went, at least a couple of times, but the florid seventies swirl-print that had been up when I was a lad stayed with me. It was likely still there, under a layer of woodchip or two. Some memories of screaming matches with my parents trapped with it, maybe the theme tune to Kojak or On the Buses playing in the background. Days long gone. I raised myself on the edge of the bed; the ageing springs creaked beneath me, made me wonder about my own mortality. My second night in my mother's home felt like a siren's wail to throw myself at the all-too-recognisable wall. I resisted, for now.
I stood staring at the single bed I'd slept in; it was crammed against the wall. A functional cabinet, lamp atop, sat beside it. I remembered sick days from school I'd spent sitting up in this bed, reading the Beano and the Dandy, maybe a new copy of Shoot if I'd been running a temperature. It seemed so long ago, like looking back on a world that only existed in black and white pictures now. I knew that coming home to Ayr would stir up some memories, but I wasn't prepared for the concomitant emotional response. I felt like I was revising for an exam on a part of my life that I'd previously forgotten about. It seemed so alien to me now, after the force, after Ulster.
I removed my Levi's from the old Corby trouser press that belonged to my late father; a lot of his possessions seemed to be migrating to parts of the house he never inhabited. It was like he was being pushed out, at least, it seemed that way to me. I wondered why my mother still stayed here; she inhabited the place like a ghost. It was too big for her; a family home needed a family. She knew that too, but she was living in the past. Could I fault her for that? Didn't we all?
I flung on a crisp white T-shirt, black V-neck. Laced my boots and made for the kitchen. On the stairs I smelt the Berkeley menthols my mother smoked; she was up and about, clinking glasses in the sink. As I walked in she pinched her lips tightly around the cigarette's filter tip, the long ash threatening to fall on the floor as she spoke. 'You're up early.'
I nodded. There was a glass of port sitting behind her. 'Not starting as early as some.'
She turned away from me, walked towards the glass. Her cigarette ash fell as she placed the Berkeley in the ashtray. The small port went with her as she left the kitchen, mumbling something I never cared to discern.
I shook my head as the door closed.
Shaking my head at my mother wasn't an altogether new response. I put on my jacket and picked up the dog's lead, called, 'Ben … Ben …'
The dog meandered his way from the dining room into the kitchen. The clack of his long claws on the floor tiles told me he wasn't getting walked as much as he should. He stumbled, caught the corner of the fridge with his head; he was aging too, losing his sight.
'Come on boy, let's get you some air, eh?'
I took down my jacket, checked my mobile phone was in the pocket. There was a missed call; I didn't recognise the number. It struck me that it might be Lyn, or maybe Mason. I doubted the latter; he would make me wait. Mason didn't want me on his patch; he didn't want the grief. He was counting his days till retirement, and counting on them all being easy. I couldn't blame him; we'd both had our fair share of hard days for sure.
The lab's coat was illuminated in the brightness of the morning sun: grey and white flecks showing down his spine and around his ears. I still remembered him as a pup, a small black bundle — a surrogate child that never fully met the need. He'd let my mother down because he'd failed to live up to her expectations, but hadn't we all? She had never worked, had a career, she was a mother and when we grew up, left her, that was it. Life stopped. I don't think I had fully understood this until recently; leaving the force had left me empty too. All those years, all that commitment, it defined me. But now it was gone. Over.
The dog was bumping into walls, left and right. I tightened the lead. In the daylight, his milky-blue cataracts were more visible. The sight of him wounded me, made me want to hit out at the injustice. But it was only nature. I knew you couldn't fight it.
'Come on, Ben …'
He wagged his old tail.
'Good lad.'
The neighbourhood was quiet; this part of town — the edge of Alloway — always was now. It hadn't always been that way. I knew it when there were families, young children in the neatly appointed homes. Not even two salaries could afford them now; not even the economic crash helped. The place was becoming an extension of God's waiting room, old widows and widowers pottering about and eyeing the street through twitching curtains. Few ventured outside; they no longer had the energy to maintain gardens. The council seemed to have abandoned the roads; grassy areas were left unattended. All life seemed to have been sucked out of the place.
I came off the Maybole Road and down Lauchlanglen, crossed into Rozelle. Ben was struggling now, his arthritic hips dragging behind him. I slowed the pace as we left the pavement and took the wooded path. I had a circuit route in mind that would get us back to my mother's house; I just hoped I wasn't going to have to carry the dog the last part of the way. Neither of us would like that.
I felt the phone in my pocket and knew I needed to return the call.
Dialled.
Ringing.
'Hello …' It was Lyn.
'I got your call.'
A pause; she seemed to be processing my response. 'Oh yeah, I just wanted to ask if you had, y'know …'
She was reaching. Desperate for any news. 'Lyn, it's too soon.'
Her tone softened, lowered. 'I thought so.'
'Look, I've made some … enquiries.'
'I see.' I could sense the disappointment in her tone.
I tried to enliven my own voice. 'But, there's still plenty we can be getting on with.'
I waited for a reply. None came.
I said, 'I need you to make a list of Glenn's friends for me, people he knew, worked with and so on …'
'Wh
y?'
That was the question. 'So I can speak to them.' I needed to get a picture of who her son was, what kind of person he was. But there was more besides. 'And Kirsty … can you put me in touch with her people?'
Lyn stalled, 'I—I don't know.'
I was a cop, once. I knew most murder victims knew their killer. 'It's important.'
'Do you mean her parents?' said Lyn.
'Yes … among others.'
'Well, it's just that …' the line fizzed, then stilled to silence.
'Lyn … is there something you have to tell me?'
The line crackled some more, then: 'Before you go speaking to Kirsty's parents, Doug.' A sigh; her voice quivered. 'I think there's something I should tell you.'
Chapter 7
I returned home to find my mother asleep on the couch. Near comatose would be a more accurate description. The television blared in the background — Jeremy Kyle lording it over his latter-day bear-pit. I picked up the doofer, flicked it to off. My mother barely stirred, her mouth agape as her head rested on the arm of the couch. I leant over to straighten the upturned bottle of port that lay on the floor. It was empty. Not a drop had escaped her lips.
I shook my head.
This was my mother, and she was out of it.
I could hardly judge; I'd had my fair share of days on the sauce. But they were behind me. I realised long ago that the road of excess never led to the palace of wisdom. The road of excess led to the road of excess.
I heard the dog clatter into the door behind me, moved to lay a hand on his ear, reassure him.
'There, boy …' I turned him around, led him from the sitting room towards the kitchen and closed the door behind us.
I knew I wasn't going to be able to stay with my mother. I had known that before I left Ulster, but somehow thought I might manage a few days whilst I got myself set up in Ayr. She had always liked a drink, my mam. Had always liked a rant, getting it all off her chest. They were the worst kind of drinkers, the morose. They used inebriation as an excuse to vent their anger at life's misfortunes. My mother seemed to have gone passed that stage now; reached the point where burning energy on anger wasn't an option when her reserves were so low. She drank for the release of oblivion.
I took the phone from the kitchen wall, dialled my sister's number. Claire had left the Auld Toun too, was holed up in the wilds in Inverness with a husband and a clutch of kids. I never envied her, perhaps because she never seemed in the remotest neighbourhood of happy.
I dialled.
Ringing.
An answer phone. The classic, 'Please leave a message after the tone.'
I took a shallow breath. 'Claire, it's Doug … I just got back home, to Ayr. I think we need to talk about Mam …'
I left my mobile number and hung up.
I watched Ben lap at his bowl of water. He was tired, nosing the edge of the bowl with his drooping face. When he was sated, the old dog staggered towards his basket in the corner of the room and threw himself down. I decided he needed rest, or perhaps knew the routine now. Either way, I let them sleep it off, headed back for the front door.
On the Maybole Road I walked with a vague intention of paying a visit to an old contact from my days in uniform. I didn't know if Veitch would be at home, or even in the same house. It didn't matter. I felt like walking; it let me think. What I'd mostly been thinking of lately was Mason's reaction to my mention of Jonny Gilmour. Something unsettled me about my sighting of Gilmour at the police station and Mason's warning to steer clear only confirmed my suspicions. It might have nothing to do with the case but instinct told me Gilmour was up to no good, and that I was onto something.
There were leaves blowing on the road, filling up gardens and clogging gutters. This time of year always felt like a point of stasis to me: like something was waiting to happen. I hadn't come home to Ayr hoping to fill my days with the same kind of duty I had left in the north of Ireland, but it had found me. I steeled myself for what was ahead; I knew Lyn needed me, needed my help, though something told me she wasn't about to reveal the full picture just yet. I knew it would be up to me to pull it into focus.
I passed what had once been a nursing home; it had been replaced with a block of flats. In front of the flats sat a Tesco Express where the old Anfield Hotel once stood. I don't know if the Anfield ever took paying guests. I only knew the lounge bar. The country and western singer Sidney Divine had once owned it, put pictures of himself on the walls. I smiled to myself remembering the pints he poured me, and how I'd laughed at his appearances on Scotch & Wry alongside Rikki Fulton. The Tesco Express couldn't obliterate those memories.
The rain started as I rounded the corner, passed under the railway arch and made my way across the playing fields to Kincaidston. When I was in uniform, they called the place Zulu. I never thought it deserved the reputation. There were good people living there alongside the scrotes. Veitch, when I knew him, fell into the latter category. Mason and myself had pulled him for a badger baiting escapade up the Carrick Hills. We were both wild in those days, knew a prosecution was a long-shot, so we gave him a hiding he would never forget. As I stood outside his front door, I hoped his memory was intact.
'Hello, Veitchy.'
'What the …' He eyed me up and down, seemed to be coming out of a stoner's stupor.
I pushed passed him into the hallway.
'Hey, hey … what's this all about?'
I surveyed the premises, found the place empty. In the living room an ashtray overflowed with cigarette dowps, and Rizzla papers. A fat block of Moroccan sat by a packet of Regal Kingsize. I picked it up.
'What's this?'
He girned, 'A wee bit of puff … you still polis, eh?'
'I'll ask the questions, Veitchy.'
He shook his head; his craggy jaw turned a chin of white bristles towards me. He had aged since we'd last met. I couldn't believe how he'd aged. 'Well this isnae a social call,' he bleated.
'Got that right.'
His eyes followed the block of cannabis resin in my hand. I played with it, toss and catch. 'Although … I did see a glimpse of a friend of yours the other day, got me thinking.'
'A friend ay mine? Who?'
I pocketed the resin. 'Jonny Gilmour.'
Veitch's face creased; deep furrowed lines appeared round the corners of his mouth. His cheeks looked more hollowed now, his brow more furrowed. It was a look of stupefaction, at least that's what he wanted me to believe; I went with a wiser assessment of Rabbie's: suspicion is a heavy armour and with its weight it impedes more than it protects.
'Haven't seen him in a month ay Sundays,' Veitch protested.
I smiled, 'That right?'
'Sure ay it. Couldn't tell you the last time I saw him, must have been when Adam was a boy …'
I didn't rate his reaction, didn't seem genuine to me. I said, 'You haven't changed house in twenty years, Veitchy. Am I supposed to believe you've changed your muckers?'
'Look, I don't hang about with Jonny Gilmour. I'm telling you that straight.' His tone was hard, certain. I didn't believe a word of it.
'I think you protest too much, Veitchy.'
'Eh? What's that supposed to mean? Some kind ay riddle or that?'
I turned towards him, closed down the two paces between us and planted a firm index finger in his bony chest. 'There must be something up with your memory, son … Don't you remember my aversion to lying scrotes?'
He withdrew his head. 'Well, I might have seen him in the passing, now and again like, at the snooker and that.'
'That's better. Carry on.'
Veitch rubbed at the stubble on his chin. 'But he's not exactly what you'd call a mate these days …'
I dipped my head, towards his face. It was enough.
'Well, look what do you want to know?'
'Everything, Veitchy. Everything …'
Chapter 8
My mother was just coming round as I dropped the holdall on the living room floor. The noise the bag made wa
s louder than I had intended; the normal reaction for someone waking from sleep would have been a flinch but she didn't stir. A moment or two passed and then suddenly a dim flicker of recognition entered her eyes.
'You're back,' she said.
I didn't know what she meant: back from my walk? Back from Ulster? There was no way of telling what stage of addled she was in. I made a long stare towards the bottle of port, registered grim disapproval on my face, said, 'So, how long have you been hitting the bottle like this?'
Headshakes. 'Oh, spare me …' She sat upright, leaned forward balancing her elbows on her knees. My mother started to gouge at her eyeballs with her knuckles.
'Well?' I dropped in enough intonation to let my feelings sing.
'Don't start on me, son.' The word son was a starter for ten, designed to put me in my place, designed to let me know she had some rank on me. I knew all about rank and it didn't faze me now.
I pointed a finger. 'Look, Mam, I've dived to the bottom of many a bottle myself and I know there's no answers there.'
She let out a laugh. 'Answers … what makes you think I'm looking for them.'
I felt my pulse quicken for an instant, then as quickly as it had risen, it subsided. An immense calm settled over me. It was one of those moments, not quite déjà vu, but in the ballpark, as the Americans say. It takes a drinker to fully comprehend the kind of wisdom she was imparting and it struck me like a hammer blow: my mother's problems were worse than I thought. She wasn't drinking to forget, or to find something; she was drinking for the release of oblivion, an escape from life. I knew this because I had been there; I also knew there was only one escape from this life and alcohol was a poor substitute for it.
I picked up my bag. 'I'll be in touch.'
My mother waved a hand over her head. It was a desultory gesture. I stood staring at her for a moment longer, hunched and broken before me, but it scalded my heart too much. I raised the holdall on my shoulder and headed for the car.
The air outside was crisp and fresh, a low winter sun sitting in the pale-blue sky. The leaves clogging the streets were coated in a grey dusting of frost; they huddled against the house fronts and garden walls like jagged buttresses. When I was a boy, I liked this time of year; it signalled the run-up to Christmas, to presents and parties. It had been a long time since I had remembered those feelings of untrammelled joy; I knew they were still in me, but today they seemed buried beyond any evisceration I could imagine.
