by Tony Black
I stifled a laugh, but I couldn't hold back the sly smile. 'You're kidding, aren't you? They kicked me out.'
'And why was that?'
My eyes lolled in the back of my head. The reasons for my departure were already droll to me. 'I guess they didn't like me very much.'
Rachel sat still, staring into my soul for a few seconds. Something was going on with her, not thinking exactly, or even allowing thoughts to form; she seemed to be intuiting. In an instant she opened her bag, thrust in her hand, and removed a blue folder. She held it in the air for a moment, her gaze fixed on mine. 'This isn't anything you couldn't find in the public domain — by spending a day Googling or getting inky fingers in the library. But that's not to say I don't think it's valuable.'
I stared at the file. 'What is it?'
She rose, slapped the file on the table as she turned for the door. 'It's interesting reading, that's what it is.'
I reached a hand out for the file. 'Hang on, I might have some questions.'
She put her hood up. 'I'm quite sure you will, Doug.'
Chapter 14
I didn't know why, but it seemed like the time for Tom Waites' Rain Dogs. I played the surreal Cemetery Polka as I pulled into my mother's driveway on the edge of Alloway. The sensory battering of recent days had started to take its toll. There was plenty I needed to process, think about, but somehow my priorities seemed to be drifting elsewhere. I removed my mobile phone from my pocket as the car's engine stilled. I wanted to check with my sister after my earlier call.
Ringing.
'C'mon, Claire … pick up.'
More ringing.
Then the answer phone picked up my call.
'Hello, Claire … it's Doug again, just checking you got my last message. I really think we need to have a chat about the old girl.' I toyed with the idea of hanging up, the moment passed. 'So, look, give me a call when you have a chance, eh?'
I hung up. I hoped I hadn't sounded too harsh; it was easy for someone like me — with no ties, no immediate family — to forget that Claire had a life of her own now. Could I judge her for not looking out for my mother? I doubted it.
The front door was open as I walked in; a familiar musty smell greeted me. I turned, closed the door. I noticed condensation clinging to the windowpanes. I ran a desultory finger down the layer of moisture: the place was going to ruin. Maintenance had always been my father's job.
I called out, 'Hello … anybody home?'
No answer.
I walked the length of the hall to the kitchen. As I pushed the door there seemed to be something blocking the way. I eased back, heard a shuffle of old bones and knew Ben was lying in the way. I gave the dog a moment to right himself, tried the handle once more.
He greeted me with his tail wagging, 'Hello, boy …'
I reached down to pat his head, then I noticed the state of the kitchen. He'd relieved himself, defecated on the floor. By the looks of things he hadn't been out for days. He seemed to sense my discovery, slunk back from me, ears pinned down. The look of shame on the old dog's face was heartbreaking.
'It's all right, fella …' I took him by the collar to the back door, led him out to the garden. He lolled down the steps and released his bladder, his arthritic legs shaking as he tried to hold himself up.
'God Almighty …' I looked back indoors. 'What have you been playing at woman?'
I left Ben to sniff around the lawn's edges. The sight of him dug at me; reminded me of an old reel I'd seen of pit ponies being led out to grass for the first time in their sorry lives. I turned for the door.
'Mam … Mam … Where are you?'
I stood still, waited for a reply but none came. My first reaction had been anger; hurt at the sight of the dog and the house, but now I was struck by worry. Where was she? What had happened?
I raced through to the living room: empty. I turned for the dining room, likewise no-one in sight. I bolted up the stairs and knocked on my mother's bedroom door. There was no reply. I battered louder, called out: 'Mam! Mam!'
Silence.
I turned the handle and went inside. A thick foetid air greeted me. The bed hadn't been made, probably hadn't been touched in days, weeks maybe. The curtains were shut tight, blocking out the daylight. I moved towards the window, flooded the room with light. Dust particles danced. I flipped the latch and let the breeze come inside. I stood staring at the carnage of a life in ruins. The room was a mess. Dinner plates piled by the bed. Chocolate bar wrappers on the floor. Empty bottles. Was this really the way my mother was living?
I kicked out at the mattress, walked back through the door. In the hallway I stood for a moment wondering what had gone on, where she could be. For a second I felt defeated, I rushed into the spare room; it was empty. Then I made for my sister's room. My late father had turned it into a study. A place to go and pretend to read, follow his few interests; in reality, it was a place to nap and hide from the world.
Something stirred in the corner of the room as I entered. At once I recognised the huddle of bones on the floor.
'Mam … what the?'
I leant over, touched the sleeve of her dressing gown. She stirred some more, muttered. The smell of drink was thick in the air. I tried to get her upright; she was almost lifeless in my arms. As I sat her against the wall a bottle of Grouse was evacuated from the folds of her gown. It rolled away from us, barely a drop of liquid swilling in the bottle's base. I lashed out with the heel of my shoe, knocked the bottle to the other side of the room.
My mother was drunk as twelve monkeys. I realised at once I'd have to get her walking, talking. I needed to pour some coffee into her. 'Come on, Mam, let's get you on your feet.'
A groan. 'What … What's going on?'
'We're going to get you up and about.' I raised her; her head lolled from side to side. Her face looked pale, almost grey. I'd heard the expression close to the grave before but I'd never actually witnessed it in a loved one at such close quarters. The sight of my mother provoked shame in me, deep shame for what she'd become. But, also, I felt a new responsibility grip me: this was the woman who had raised me; now the world had turned and I was going to be the one who had to look after her.
My mother seemed suddenly electrified with an energy, a rage: 'What the hell's going on?'
'Mam, we're going to get some coffee into you.'
'I don't want coffee!'
I had to struggle to keep my grip on her. She pushed me away. Her strength surprised me. Her frame was so thin, wiry. 'Mam, now c'mon …'
She cursed at me. I loosed my grip on her. 'Just leave me. Leave me. Get out of my house.'
I watched her press her shoulder to the wall, manage two or three steps before she slumped against the plaster and let herself slide onto the carpet once more. She curled over and seemed to pass instantly into deep, heavy sleep. I picked her up, she was so light. Nothing of her, that's what people would say. I returned her to her bed. I pulled the duvet over and made sure she was comfortable, sound. She looked lost to the world. Deep in dreams. I wondered what they were about.
For a moment I stood, just watching, but the sight was too painful. I moved away, closed the window a little, drew the curtains and placed a glass of water by the bedside. I left her to sleep it off.
Downstairs, I brought the dog in. Cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. I was opening a new packet of Marlboro, sparking up, when my phone started to ring in my pocket.
It was Claire. The sight of her name in the caller ID made my pulse race with anger. I knew she wasn't to blame, but I knew that's how siblings operated. The weight of family grief was a load to be shared.
'You got my message.' I was brusque.
'I did, yeah …'
There didn't seem any point in pleasantries now. 'Then maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on with our mother?'
Chapter 15
There didn't seem any point in keeping things from her. At least, that's what I'd decided at this moment. I knew, full well, that I
might feel differently after revealing what I'd uncovered. I waited for Lyn in the drawing room of my Queens Terrace guest house with a shot of Talisker in hand, the ice clinking every so often on the side of the glass. It was too cold for the ice to thaw. I didn't mind, it kept an edge on the whisky.
The radio seemed to be stuck on WestFM, playing some Human League from the 1980s. I felt strangely transported back to more innocent times; could see the blonde girl singing about working as a waitress in a cocktail bar. Music was so much better then. Maybe it was just because it was my music. My era. My youth. It seemed to have more heart. Everything looked too slick, too manufactured to me now.
Lyn appeared, seemed to tap into my reverie. 'Don't you want me, baby?'
I smiled. 'They don't write them like that anymore.'
Lyn took the strap from her shoulder, placed her bag on the ground next to her chair. 'Oh come on, it wasn't all great.'
'Two words: Ultravox, Vienna.'
A laugh. She tipped her head back. 'Kept off number one by Shuddap You Face, I seem to remember.'
She had me. 'I think that's check-mate.'
A smile. She raised a finger in the air, hissed through her teeth. 'No kidding it is.'
I got out of my seat, went to the bar to collect a drink for Lyn. Diet Coke and ice — the ice crackled as it hit the fizzy liquid. My landlady, Mrs Kerr, still upright in her tabard, drew me a look as I passed over the cash. 'What?' I said.
'New lady friend, is it?'
I tilted my head, twisted down the corner of my mouth. 'Please …'
A blatant change of subject. 'Will you be joining us for dinner this evening, Mr Michie?'
'I don't think so … not this evening.'
Then, back on track. 'Oh, dining out are we?' A smile. Eyes over my shoulder towards Lyn. 'With erm …'
I took my change, turned away. 'Thank you.'
Lyn was tapping her foot to a new track on the radio as I arrived. It seemed a shame to break her groove, but I needed privacy. 'Look, would you mind if we took these upstairs?'
She lapsed into mock indignation. 'Douglas Michie … what kind of girl do you take me for?'
I held out my hand. 'My kind.'
'Well, in that case.'
As we left the drawing room, Mrs Kerr maintained her posture at the bar, glancing insouciantly as we passed. I thought to myself: you're as well hung for a sheep as a lamb.
Lyn managed a laugh at the picture on my bedroom wall. 'Oh, my God … I never thought I'd see that again.'
'Oh yeah, the Lassie dog.'
She giggled again, touched the side of her mouth. 'This place is in a time warp.' She turned to face me. 'Do they have the green lady picture … and those Spanish orphan kids anywhere?'
I shook my head. 'Erm, no.'
'Are you sure?'
'Well, I haven't seen them.'
'Maybe you should take a look.'
I pulled out the only chair, motioned Lyn to sit. 'I've had better things to do.'
She took the hint, lowered herself in the creaking upholstery and started to sip at her Diet Coke. For a moment, she looked almost guilt-ridden. It was as if she had suddenly recalled the fate Glenn faced and her recent levity felled her. 'Well, you better tell me what you've been doing.'
I knew she wouldn't like to hear it, but I had to come clean. After all, I never said I wasn't going to see Kirsty's parents. 'I visited the Donalds.'
'Oh …'
I had expected more of a reaction. 'They're good people.'
Nodded. 'I told you that.'
'They don't hate Glenn, you know …'
Her eyes stared out to sea. 'No?'
I laid it out for her. Relayed the highlights of my visit, what we'd discussed. How they appeared. 'I think they had their doubts about Glenn. I mean, they had pretty high expectations for Kirsty, and Glenn …'
'Was hardly marriage material.'
I held my words in check. Changed tack. 'I think I convinced them that there could be more to their daughter's death than the police are letting on.'
Lyn returned her gaze to me. Her brow tightened. 'What do you mean?'
I took a sip of my Talisker, lowered the glass. The ice crackled a little. 'The other night, I followed up on a hunch and let's just say it brought some focus to the investigation.'
She twisted in her seat, leaned forward. 'Go on.'
'I spoke to a contact I have on the force. I can't tell you what he said because that would place you and him in danger if it ever got out. But I think I'm onto something.'
Lyn put down her glass, stood up. She was inches from me as she spoke. 'Onto what?'
I looked away. I didn't know how wise it was to let her know what I knew.
Lyn reached out, grabbed my arm. 'Onto what, Doug?'
Our eyes locked. 'I was given a file.'
'A file, what kind of file?'
'A dossier … it was compiled by someone who'd been looking into some unusual goings on down at the Port of Ayr.'
Lyn scrunched her 'brows. 'I don't understand.'
'I didn't either, at first, but I looked through the file and I spotted a face that I recognised.'
'Who?'
She started to shiver before me. I held her hands in mine. 'It doesn't matter who. If the pieces of the puzzle click into place you'll find out in good time. There'll be no way of keeping it quiet … right now, the less you know the better.'
'But, I need to know, Doug. They have my son, I need to know …'
I tightened my grip. 'Lyn, if I'm right, this runs deep. Trust me, I have to keep you in the dark, for your own safety.'
'Oh, Doug …' She buried her head in my chest. 'I'm not strong enough for this.'
I placed my fingers beneath her chin, raised her face. 'Hey, you're plenty strong enough. I know you of old, remember?'
She smiled, a small smile that suddenly gave way to an uninhibited heartmelter. I didn't know why, or how, but my reassurance had done the trick. I could tell Lyn believed in me as our eyes met and locked again. She quickly pressed her lips onto mine and the fiery sting of Talisker was reignited once more.
Chapter 16
The chips and curry sauce from the Harbour Views Chinese had solidified in the container by the time I got round to opening it. I'd bought them without really possessing a proper appetite. I had a hunger, but it wasn't for food. The streets of Auld Ayr seemed to be closing in on me as I shuffled into the wind that wailed down Fort Street. By the Academy I was nearly bent double. The thought of tackling food deserted me and I loped towards the nearest bin to dump what should have been my comfort food. Any comfort was in short supply. My mind was racing with thoughts of Lyn, the case, and just what I had got myself into.
At the edge of Cathcart Street I sheltered in the lee of a building I once knew but now only confused me. I looked up and down: it seemed to have been converted into flats. The last time I'd seen it, the place was a tea room; a pleasant enough place called The Apple Tree. They sold scones and jam there; Glasgow Fair punters came doon the water for their fish tea. It reeked of tradition, but there didn't seem to be any place in the town for tradition anymore.
I turned my face towards the Sandgate as a host of shrieks assailed the airwaves. Young girls, their party dresses pitched higher than their voices. I shook my head as I watched them go; the sight of their bare legs made me feel colder; I knew I was getting old. I felt parental, even though I had no children of my own. Something deep inside me said the group shouldn't be out on their own like that. Was it the case again? Was it the thought of Kirsty Donald's real killer being on the loose? Or was it a wider protective sense I felt towards the town of my birth? I wondered about many things.
Ayr had changed beyond any possibility I would have entertained only a short time ago; I wanted the old place back, the familiar, the secure. I didn't like what I'd learned about the Auld Toun since my return. I dug into my pocket and removed a packet of Marlboro. I had started smoking the red-tops again, abandoned my usual brand b
ecause the local version couldn't be relied upon with all the bootlegging in the town. I found I quite liked the taste of the Marlboro once more. It was at the force's training academy in Tulliallan that I had last smoked the red-tops; my sergeant didn't like the smell, called them 'funny fags' and so I grew away from them. I smiled at the memory: it was all conditioning; that's what the force had really been about. I'd been taught that my own opinions, my own instincts and assumptions, my tastes, were worthless. There was a bigger picture, a wider understanding that I had no right to question.
I drew on the Marlboro, blew a thin trail of smoke into the darkness of the night sky. I knew Mason was encountering resistance in the force; the high heid yins didn't like having their authority tested. There was a course called the path of least resistance and smart coppers knew to stick to it. I knew that had been my problem — I never fitted the mould of a smart copper. That type, they rose in the ranks and ascended the K-ladder. They made friends and they kept them. In time, their friends kept them. It was a tried and tested formula; even had their own wee club with its own wee traditions to play up to.
I allowed myself a smile at the thought. I knew I stuck out from the boys in the Craft.
'Daft laddie.' I heard myself say the words. They weren't mine, well, not originally. They'd been those of a DC I'd been buddied with at the outset of my career.
'You're nothing but a daft laddie, Doug,' Billy Morrison had said when I told him I was taking the RUC job. 'You could have been set up for life here … all you had to do was keep your head down.'
I was never any good at that. The memory was as clear as Technicolor to me now. I'd well and truly strayed from the path of least resistance.
I took another draw on the filter tip and headed off Cathcart Street, back towards the old school. At Dansarena I dowped my cigarette on the wall and pulled up my collar. The road back to the guest house was dark, the night cold, and my thoughts edging into ratiocination. I needed to relax, unwind and let my aching head find some form of distraction. Football. Car-crash television. It didn't matter to me.
