The Road to Hell

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘You should be. You really should be. I’m waiting for you.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  Then she heard a click and the line went dead.

  16

  Slamming the car door shut she sat motionless, feeling safe at last. She held her head in her hands and tried to force her brain to make sense of everything. As before, the caller had withheld his number. One fact could be denied no longer. Someone, in a twisted and unpredictable fashion, was pursuing her, intent on terrorising her. In isolation each incident could, almost, be explained away, but together they formed a sinister pattern: the music played down the phone, the brick through the studio window, the chilling calls and the person following her. Put them together and the threat felt real enough. It was real enough, only a fool would pretend otherwise. This was no prank, no silly joke to be shrugged off. Someone was stalking her, playing with her, intent on terrifying her or making her lose her mind.

  Dropping her head, she felt overwhelmed, impotent in the face of such a nameless, shapeless force. And as she cast around for a way of escape, a voice in her head reminded her that there was no one to turn to for help. She was alone. Ian was gone, beyond all her pleas for assistance. Her parents had been frightened from the first day she joined the police, convinced she would be beaten up or murdered in the course of duty. She inhabited a world entirely alien to them, one sometimes violent and sordid, and they were too old, innocent and powerless to provide comfort, never mind any kind of defence. Simply confiding in them would make the remaining hair on their heads stand on end. Everything about her current predicament was so far outside the scope of any of her friends’ experience, it would probably sound like self-dramatising nonsense or a cry for help. They had their own lives to live.

  No one at work must know, of that she was certain. A few of the episodes could be explained away as wrong numbers, the acts of vandals or, possibly, and far worse, as signs of neurosis. Had she really heard her own name, or dreamt it? Word might spread in the station that she was ‘fragile’ following her lover’s death, and before she knew it she would be steered gently towards the occupational health people, with a diagnosis of ‘stress’. A big, black mark would ruin her career.

  She was teetering on the edge. And that bloody fiscal, Sean Lloyd, had almost made her fall off. Only his shocked face when she shouted the word ‘Incompetence’ at him had stopped her from really letting rip. Because he had somehow released a surge of anger from somewhere deep and hidden within her, such that she herself had been taken aback by its ferocity. But worse than that, his complaint had contained an inescapable truth; she had forgotten to check those bloody photocopies. Something she had never failed to do before.

  Maybe she was losing her grip. How could she not, when half her mind was occupied, day after day, with Ian.

  But, if forced to take leave, without the daily grind of work, all her thoughts would return unbidden to dwell obsessively and exclusively on that one dismal, unchangeable fact. That Ian was dead, and she would never see him again. Never touch, or be touched by, him again. And now this.

  She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, trying to quieten her pounding heart and to think straight. Who the hell could it be? There had been so many people she had arrested, imprisoned, whose lives she had derailed. Police work did not lead to popularity among those who committed crimes. If she was looking for someone who wished her ill, she was spoilt for choice.

  She must keep calm. She looked out onto the steps of the museum and watched idly as a sheet of newspaper was tumbled along by the wind. Seeing it tossed to and fro, it dawned on her that her search for a solution was going nowhere. It was like trying to catch a ghost in a net, or smoke in a sieve. All that she could do was to try to be extra alert, and hope that at some stage the person or persons who were menacing her would overplay their hand and make themselves, in some way, visible. That they would emerge into the light.

  Apart from the small cuts on her face, she had come to no harm so far. She would not let fear paralyse her. She would use it as a spur to keep going. Telling herself out loud to get a grip, she turned the key in the ignition.

  The twin baroque towers flanking the domed apse of St Cuthbert’s were both brightly lit. Beyond lay a sea of darkness stretching towards Princes Street, and the church itself seemed like a beacon in the night.

  One of the red double doors on the east side was propped open and a band of smokers clustered round it. A young woman with piercings in her nose, forehead and lower lip was dodging hither and thither between them, laughing loudly, playing tig with another teenage girl. The smell of food mixed with the cigarette smoke got stronger as Alice moved from the grand outer hall, with its symmetrical stone staircases, to the inner hall beyond.

  As she walked by a trestle table covered in empty serving dishes, an elderly woman bearing a large flask asked whether she would like tea or coffee.

  ‘Neither, thanks. I’m looking for someone called Taff.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone called Taff. Is he Polish? If so you’d best ask Stephen,’ she replied, pointing towards a large man who was sitting at one of the tables set up on the right side of the hall. The room had been arranged to look like a café. He was talking excitedly to a small audience of bystanders, waving a heavily-tattooed arm in the air.

  ‘No, he’s not Polish.’

  ‘Then probably best to ask around or try one of the Bethany people. I’m from St Cuth’s so I don’t know the men, I’m afraid. We’re just providing the venue for the night.’

  Walking between the bed mats, Alice saw a smartly-dressed man folding up a couple of blankets and directing someone else to the mat closest to him. Approaching him, Alice said, ‘I’m looking for Taff.’

  The man turned to face her and then let fly an unintelligible rant, gesticulating excitedly and ending his tirade by throwing his blankets on the matting.

  ‘He’s Polish, and he doesn’t like this place. He wants to go home,’ a voice from the floor said. It was an elderly man, his balaclava-encased head peeping out from the top of his sleeping bag. ‘Aren’t you, Karol? Polski, eh? You’re a Polski, aren’t you?’

  Karol, who seemed familiar with his neighbour, nodded vigorously. Then, almost barging Alice out of the way, he began to make up his bed on the mat.

  Kneeling down beside the old man who had spoken, taking care to avoid his bottle of water, Alice asked him, ‘Is Taff here?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, dear. Best ask Janice, she’s in charge tonight. She went out earlier. There was a wee bit of bother, someone brought some smack in. Nothin’ she couldn’t deal with, she’s a big lady, luckily. But she should be back by now. She’ll likely be checking on the bedding.’

  ‘Turn out they fuckin’ lights!’ someone shouted. ‘I’m trying to get some sleep here!’

  As if in response to his words, the dormitory was plunged in darkness, the only remaining light coming through the doorways leading to the outer hall. Immediately the atmosphere in the place became calmer as people snuggled down in their sleeping bags, making themselves comfortable and settling down for the night.

  Standing by the light switch was a vast woman, her hair tied back into a couple of bunches like a little girl in a nursery. She was casting her eye over the sleepers, her mouth moving silently as she counted them.

  ‘Janice?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Forty-one, forty-two . . . Aye. Do you need something, pet?’ Her eyes remained on the figures on the floor, her lips still moving as she continued the count.

  ‘I’m from the police. I need to speak to someone called Taff, if he’s here.’

  ‘He’s here. I served him his dinner myself. Three times and that was without a sweet. See those chairs stacked in the far corner? He’s the one at the end over there.’

  Trying not to disturb the sleepers, Alice made her way towards him. He had a torch in his hand and was reading a book. Some of the light was reflected back onto his pale face, and she could make out one of the features she rememb
ered from the CCTV footage, the large hooked nose with the scar running diagonally across it.

  ‘Excuse me, are you Taff?’ she whispered, conscious that most of the noise in the place had died down.

  ‘Maybe. I might be or I might not b –’ The last part of his reply was lost as he doubled up, coughing uncontrollably, spluttering, unable to breathe.

  ‘Want another sweetie for your cough, Taff?’ a female voice in the darkness piped up.

  ‘No thanks, Effie.’

  A crooked smile spread across Taff’s pale face as, now panting slightly, his coughing having subsided, he looked up at Alice.

  ‘So, love, what are you wanting?’ he asked, inhaling deeply as if it might be his last breath. He looked tired and had rings as dark as bruises below his bloodshot eyes. Every so often, a crackling, wheezy sound accompanied the movement of his chest.

  ‘You’re a hard man to find!’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do. I’m from the police. I’ve been trying to track you down for weeks. You were a friend of Moira Fyfe. I saw you at the FAI. You were her best pal . . .’

  ‘And? She’s dead and buried now. History, apparently.’

  ‘But you knew her. How come you know the Reverend McPhee?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Reverend Duncan James McPhee.’

  ‘I don’t know any McPhees, dear. You must be thinking of someone else.’

  ‘You had his signet ring. You recently tried to dispose of it at the Cash 4 U near Lauriston Place. If you didn’t know him, can you tell me how you came by it?’

  ‘No problem, pal. I didn’t know who it belonged to. A friend of mine gave it me. Alex. He gave it me. Well, strictly speaking it was more of a swap really. I had something he wanted rather badly and he had the ring.’

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Alex . . . Higgins. Well, that’s what he calls himself. Alex must have known the McPhee man, I suppose.’

  ‘Where,’ she began, now feeling tired, her limbs suddenly heavy and stiff at the thought of this seemingly never-ending trail, ‘where exactly would I find Alex Higgins?’

  ‘You’ll find him at the Ferry Road Hostel, at least that’s where he lives just now. He’s happy there, been there for months and months. That’s where I came across him. They were hoping to get a house for him but nothing’s come up yet.’

  ‘Did he give you anything else?’

  ‘Since you ask, love, that’s all I got from him. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘Sure about that?’

  ‘Aye. I’m sure about that. I said why d’you ask?’

  ‘Can you give me your full name?’

  ‘Do I have to?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Edward Alexander Welsh.’

  ‘Taff?’ It was the same voice which had offered him a sweet earlier.

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, pal, will you?’

  ‘Alice?’

  To her relief, the unfamiliar voice at the other end of the receiver sounded female, light and musical, quite unlike that of her anonymous caller.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hi, it’s me. Celia.’

  Celia Bloody Naismith. Other than the stalker, no caller could be less welcome.

  ‘Celia. Hello,’ she said, aware as she spoke that her tone sounded both guarded and leaden. With luck, this would be attributed to grief.

  ‘How are you?’ Sincere Concern, as enunciated by a failed am-dram enthusiast, dripped down the line, and when Alice failed to respond at once the question was repeated with a new note, one of anxiety. Somehow the woman’s attentions would have to be fended off.

  ‘Fine, thank you. How are you?’

  The response was immediate.

  ‘Don’t do this to me, Alice, please. Not to me. Really, how are you?’

  All the worse for hearing from you, Alice thought, but she managed to prevent herself from saying so, replying instead, ‘I’m fine, thank you, Celia.’

  ‘Of course!’ Celia shot back as if she had just had a revelation, and could not contain herself. After a suitably dramatic pause, she elucidated: ‘You’re in that blasted office of yours, aren’t you? So you won’t be able to speak to me. Freely, I mean. How silly of me! How could you talk there? There of all places. Forgive me, Alice, for my stupidity. But we’ll speak properly sometime soon. I’ll make sure of it. You must come over to my house or something. I don’t think you’ve ever been here, have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’ll soon put that right. Now, I’ll tell you why I’m giving you a bell, apart from just to see how you’re coping, and I hope you’ll understand . . .’ Her voice tailed off, rising in pitch for dramatic effect.

  ‘Try me, Celia.’

  ‘What I would like, what I want, and I do hope you don’t mind me asking, is to have one of Ian’s works. I really don’t like asking you. I didn’t mention it before, you know, when we spoke about . . . things. I’ve been putting it off and putting it off . . . but you’re the gatekeeper to his oeuvre now, so to speak, aren’t you? I’m certain, quite certain, that Ian would want me to have something of his because . . . because . . . well, we were, purely artistically, of course, soulmates. Naturally, you shared a certain amount with him, I know that, but on the creative side . . . well, that was where we bonded. He and I, I mean.’

  ‘You’d like one of his paintings?’

  ‘Not necessarily in that medium, Alice, because he did other things too, didn’t he? It could be a drawing, an etching, a lithograph, a collage. He used so many different techniques in his art. But, yes, I would like something created by him.’

  ‘Have you anything in mind?’ Alice asked, managing to keep her tone colourless. It took effort, because with every word the woman said, she could feel the embers of her antipathy being fanned. If this conversation continued much longer, they would spring to life and produce a fierce blaze.

  ‘Sort of. What I’d like to do – what would be the sensible thing in this situation to do – would be to go to his studio and look through his stuff? Then I could put aside one or two pieces. He gave me one before as well and I could pick that up at the same time, couldn’t I? I don’t know if he told you about it. They would be just for me, you understand, Alice, not to sell or anything like that. They would be, purely, mementos of him. And it’s so important that his stuff is kept safe, and appreciated. It would help me to remember him at his best, happy in his studio, instead of . . . well, at the end. You know, broken, after that final, horrible row . . .’

  ‘I’m sorry, Celia, but what are you talking about?’

  ‘Oh, you know. The big row and everything.’

  ‘You had a row with him? You didn’t tell me that before.’ Alice was startled, though not displeased, by the news.

  ‘No, of course not. Don’t be silly. Not him and me. The row you and he had.’

  ‘What do you know about that?’ Alice said sharply, the words escaping her lips before her brain had a chance to censor them.

  ‘Well . . .’ the woman hesitated, as if savouring the moment, ‘as you may know, he did tend to confide in me. As I said, we were soulmates after all. But, truly, Alice you had no cause . . .’

  ‘No cause?’

  ‘To be jealous. Of me, of my relationship with him. It was completely different from yours with him, obviously. I met him on a spiritual, cerebral level, as you might say. Not on a more elevated plane, I’d never claim that, but on a . . . different plane. On the night he died he was – and I don’t really need to tell you, do I? He was so upset. I’ve rarely seen a man drown his sorrows like that. I told you that, didn’t I?’

  ‘No, you didn’t, you didn’t tell me that. You said he was getting argumentative, that was all.’

  ‘Well . . . perhaps I underplayed it a bit because – well, you were so raw. Actually, it was as if he wanted to blot everything out, but I was . . . how can I put this . . . a confidante, a rock in his time of trouble. I calmed him down. That’s what f
riends, real friends, are for, I always think.’

  Alice closed her eyes, feeling that she would not be able to take much more of this conversation. Resolved to terminate it as quickly as possible, she said, ‘You’d like to meet at the studio? Did you have a particular day in mind?’

  ‘As a wage slave, with your police work and everything, it would have to be in the evening for you, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘That would probably be easier, yes.’

  ‘Well . . .’ Celia thought out loud, ‘let me see. I’m going to Benjamin Ross’s opening at The Gallery tomorrow, and the next day I’m supposed to see that splendid mime artiste that everyone’s been talking about. She got rave reviews. How about the next night? Friday? Shall we say Friday? What about seven, unless you have a late “shift” or whatever it’s called. You don’t work nine to five, do you? How about 7 p.m. at his studio?’

  ‘Fine,’ Alice replied, prepared to agree to almost anything simply to get the woman off the phone.

  Listening to her, the revulsion she felt was almost visceral, and a picture flashed into her mind of some kind of scaly, venomous reptile lumbering from side to side on heavy legs in pursuit of her. A creature with hooded eyes and a ribbon of a tongue that flickered in the air, probing, as it tried to pick up the scent of its prey.

  Putting down the receiver, relieved to break off the connection, she quickly switched on her computer. She was hoping to see something which would distract her, put all thoughts of Ian, ‘broken’ by their row, out of her mind.

  But it was no use. The damage had been done, and as her eyes scanned the text of the witness statement, they took nothing in. Her attention had been wrested away, her brain busily going over old and unproductive ground as if it was fresh and fertile. Part of her seemed to have learnt nothing from the useless hours spent churning over the same old stuff, was oblivious to the futility of it all. That endless sapping round was beginning again.

  Had she, in all her foolish jealousy, brought about Ian’s death? The path of logic leading to such a conclusion was well worn. Her dislike of Celia had led to a row. If they had not had that row then he would not have drunk so much. Had he not drunk so much he would not have stepped out in front of the car. QED.