Dark Angels

by Grace Monroe

  The office was like the Marie Celeste–only frazzled partners, panicked about their workload, tended to come in on a Sunday. The only person moving in the corridors was Anna, the oversexed immaculately dressed office junior, who had strangely taken to playing the role of office virgin–badly. How on earth could she be so well groomed on her meagre wages? Her blonde streaks alone must cost about a quarter of her wages. Weekend overtime or a sugar daddy? Still, Anna’s ambition was to marry a solicitor, and in any business you have to speculate to accumulate–Kailash would have been proud of her.

  The corridors of the firm were Anna’s own shop window. She’d toss her hair flirtatiously as she lowered files to display her goods. A brilliant white shirt (not a logo-ed t-shirt I noticed) clung to her ergonomically superior breasts; it was like something out of a Russ Meyer movie. When I saw Anna, I saw descriptions hanging above her head (no man in the office would bother looking that high up), and today I would say she was wearing a modest item which hinted at hitherto unknown delights. A demure black skirt hugged her young hips that swayed in time to the rhythm of her clicking heels. It was powerful stuff, so naturally I despised the frittery cow with vigour.

  When Anna recognised the scruff approaching her, those clacking heels went tap-tapping down the corridor, moving faster and faster away from me than such articles probably are designed to, until she reached the ladies’ loo.

  So that was how the land was lying–even the office juniors were afraid that association would damn them if they spoke to me. I popped my head around my own office door–it was immaculate. Lavender had clearly been there, but there was no sign of her now. She’d either be chasing Eddie around or keeping my nose clean in my absence.

  I had to move on, get to the place I really didn’t want to be, and then I could get out again.

  Roddie Buchanan was alone in his room, standing at the window, looking up at the castle outlined against a clear blue sky. His back was to me, and, as when I had observed him unnoticed previously, it never failed to surprise me what a small man he was, even though he had a huge head. A comedy-sized head really–unless you were the bearer of it (or his mother, I suppose). In fact it was probably the sheer size of his head that made people think he was a big man.

  I coughed to announce my presence, and he made me wait by pretending he hadn’t heard. Suddenly I felt overwhelmingly tired, and in no mood to play games. The last few days had rearranged my priorities in life, and getting a row from Roddie was way down the list.

  I took a seat, and my earlier resolve vanished. I lit up one of Joe’s cigarettes; slumping down in the chair I noisily sucked it up for all it was worth, enjoying it even more in the knowledge that Roddie was an anti-smoking fascist. Finally turning round, he looked at me, flicking his eyes from my boots to the top of my head.

  ‘You look dreadful,’ he growled.

  Something about him reminded me of a cockroach, and I felt my skin crawl. If I cut his head off would he live for a week?

  ‘It isn’t catching–you can still live in a sunny little world if you choose. Whatever I’ve got–or am getting dished out–isn’t contagious.’ I hoped he didn’t see my fingers crossed behind my back. You could feel the knowledge of Kailash between us. Although the silence was uncomfortable, I decided to sit it out. I was offering no information–not for free anyway.

  Roddie Buchanan finally spoke. ‘Two pieces of information–one, your office manager is currently not here as she is, once again, on the trail of Eddie Gibb. Two, in case you’re thinking of withdrawing from Kailash’s case–don’t bother. We want you to continue acting.’

  ‘We?’

  I couldn’t see any of the other partners in the firm taking an interest one way or another–whatever we were at Lothian & St Clair, it was not a united team.

  Roddie sat down and motioned for me to do the same, even though I hadn’t waited for his permission and was already seated. In his own opinion, he was royalty. He’d remember for life if you had been seated while he was not. The black swivel chair he occupied was at least twice the size of the one that I was perched upon, but that was Roddie–gamesmanship and manipulation at its best.

  His dark eyes were cold but he tried his best to convey empathy.

  ‘It’s too bad about the judge dying.’

  Succinct, I suppose. What else was there to say? In light of my lack of response, he continued.

  ‘I realise it’s difficult, Brodie–no one in their right mind would choose to represent the woman who murdered the Lord President.’

  I was about to interrupt and protest the innocence of Kailash, but I couldn’t be bothered. I was rapidly sensing that I was about to get more honesty from him than I could handle. Over his shoulder I could see Edinburgh Castle sitting on top of its rock. As an early defensive settlement it was second to none, and in times of war the citizens retreated behind the castle walls. The castle itself was virtually impenetrable because any enemy had to scale the rock face to get to the walls. It meant that those waiting there could see their enemies, and pick them off. I obviously had plenty of enemies who were complete strangers to me. I had no idea who they were–but they all knew me. I came back from my reverie to Roddie speaking once more.

  ‘You’re doing us a favour.’

  His sly voice continued and I bridled. I kept a mixture of Machiavelli and Kailash in my mind–this was one situation where I needed to keep my friends close and my enemies closer. I smiled across at him.

  ‘It’s not a problem.’

  Astonishingly, the words didn’t stick in my throat but slithered from my lips, as if they had been greased with castor oil. Something mucky was certainly in there.

  ‘I must say I’m surprised, Brodie. Some of us thought you might be difficult–principles and such getting in the way of what’s best for everyone.’

  Tight lipped and smiling, I said nothing. Roddie squirmed a little in his chair before he spoke again.

  ‘In cases of extreme…’ Roddie searched around for the correct word‘,…sensitivity, we stick together. Like a brotherhood we look after one another–if one sticks out for the common good then rewards can be expected, Brodie. In this case we require an Amicus Curae.’

  I repeated the phrase back to him in English. ‘A friend of the court?’

  An Amicus Curae is usually openly appointed by the court, and the accused knows all about it. I was labouring under no illusions that this particular manoeuvre was a covert action, and the last person I hoped would find out about it was Kailash Coutts. What was being proposed was beneath me, and it should have been too low a thing for Roddie to contemplate suggesting.

  ‘And just what exactly would this “friend” be required to do?’ I continued. He took exception to the tone of my voice, because, whatever he was, Roddie Buchanan was not a fool.

  ‘Brodie–the Amicus Curae will have to do whatever it takes to look after the interests of the court…in whatever form that may take.’

  ‘And if…“others” are satisfied with my work as an Amicus Curae, Roddie–what will be my remuneration?’

  Roddie brightened up. I was talking his language. I was gaining his trust. His eyes flicked over me like a hawk.

  ‘I will have no part of your incompetence should there be any, Brodie. If you don’t carry out our instructions, you will be broken…and may wish to be permanently so. We would be willing to assist you in that…death wish.’ I swear I almost saw a smile on his lips.

  ‘And if I do as I am told?’

  ‘You’re young and some consider you bright…you would have our permission to profit in which ever way you wanted.’

  I looked at him blankly, willing him to say the actual words, as he continued to twist the thumbscrews.

  ‘I don’t think a judicial appointment is out of the question. It would take some time of course, but, after all, there is pressure to appear politically correct and get more women on the bench.’

  Roddie spoke matter of factly, but his insult was not lost on me. I was
plainly as repugnant a bedfellow to him as he was to me. This is not unusual in law firms but what was slightly more galling about my situation was that my mother had worked herself into an early grave to give me this opportunity–and I still wasn’t good enough.

  ‘Roddie…I haven’t even taken silk yet.’ If I hadn’t gone through this procedure of professional rank, I wouldn’t be entitled to wear the silky gowns of the Queen’s Counsel. I could live with the fashion disappointment, but if I hoped for a judicial appointment, there would be no short cuts allowed.

  ‘That can be arranged. So what if you have to wait? If our plan is agreeable to you…then your presence is required at a reception tonight in the WS library.’

  It was, in effect, a rhetorical question, indicative of Roddie’s usual management style. Reluctantly, I nodded my head. Receptions in the WS library are not known for their drunken jollity.

  ‘Just turn up, Brodie, that’s all you need to do.’

  As an afterthought he added: ‘And try to look presentable. Shut the door on your way out.’

  The brass door handle was cool, and smooth on my hand. It should have calmed me. Instead, I paused in the doorway, desperately wanting to tell the slimy little bastard who had just offered me all I’d ever want on a plate to just fuck right off–but a part of me realised there was another option.

  I could get through this.

  Maybe.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Three gin and tonics later, and a swift resume of the past few days behind us, Lizzie and I parted company. I’d much rather spend the evening with her than continue with the plan laid out in front of me, but I knew I had precious little choice in the matter. I’d gone home to get dressed–with help from my new sartorial assistant of course–and then headed towards the High Street.

  The crowd cheered and clapped ecstatically, as the young man on the unicycle blew fire into the air. Pushing my way through the tourists, I felt light headed. Trudging on, I tried to make my way to Parliament Hall, and the WS library.

  The Royal Mile was teeming with life of all sorts, shapes, and sizes. A lone piper stood on the steps of St Giles’ Cathedral. He had eschewed the usual smart but dull uniform, and instead traded on his raw sexuality as much as his talent. Looking like an extra from Braveheart he was not afraid to show a muscled thigh. His white linen shirt was open, and dishevelled. I was going to have to admit my penchant for men in kilts sooner rather than later, but my lack of sex life wasn’t going to get to the top of the agenda any time soon the way things were going.

  Women were queuing up to have their picture taken with the piper–until recently I too had associated photographs with happy memories, but now they were simply sickening reflections of sadistic and taunting minds. That was what I now needed to focus on.

  To reach the entrance to the WS library, I had to walk across the cobbled square. Usually, I’d belt along in my biker boots or sensible two-inch heeled matronly shoes, but today I was dressed to impress–myself as much as anyone else. The square had not been made with five-inch Jimmy Choos (a gift from Kailash via Malcolm) in mind. The square is very old and on the left hand side is the main entrance to St Giles’ Cathedral. A church has occupied that site since the twelfth century, and during the Festival a medieval market occupies the square, so I was further hampered in my movements not only by my ridiculous (but gorgeous) footwear, but also the higgledy-piggledy stalls.

  I spat at the Heart of Midlothian that is set into the stone at the start of the square–not showing off my commoner’s roots, but because I dare not risk incurring the wrath of the gods at the moment. I added my wish to the spittle that flew out of my mouth–survival.

  Wiping the spit from my chin, I tried again to make my way to the reception. In 1637, an Edinburgh woman called Jenny Geddes started a riot here to protest at the imposition of a new bible–was there any way I could use that as precedent to get out of the function?

  I made my way through the crowds, cobbles and stalls by following a German couple intent on entering St Giles’. A shiver passed through me as I went by. The Cathedral has been used for many purposes down the centuries; one of them was that it stored ‘The Maiden’, Edinburgh’s guillotine. I made a final push towards my destination.

  The pit of my stomach felt heavy, as I continued to loiter outside the nineteenth century panelled wood and glass doors. I pressed the ancient intercom and spoke my name. A click told me that I been granted silent entry.

  The buzz of genteel small talk surrounded me as soon as I passed through the thick stone doorway. A silver buttoned lackey tried to take my pashmina, but I declined to give it to him in case a quick getaway was in order–it was also pretty useful to cover the many cuts and bruises which still adorned my arms and chest. I moved half-heartedly in the direction of the noise, squaring my shoulders and giving myself a pep talk. I was lucky–I had got through everything thrown at me so far and I should be bloody thankful for that. Frank Pearson would love to be walking into a WS reception tonight. To be fair Frank would have loved an invitation to any WS reception at any time, but the likes of him were not invited–with or without S&M gear. I fleetingly thought that maybe there was something in Jack’s assessment of my career–I had got very far, very fast, and Roddie had made it quite clear that would continue if I kept to my side of the bargain.

  I had a quick recce round the room–tartan trews abounded, but there was no one here tonight who wore them with the panache of Malcolm. I was pleased that I had asked him to help me tonight. I had wanted to make my mark, and his fashion advice had certainly done that (even if my feet would be aching for days, and my breasts would probably be deformed for life given the shape my bra was manipulating them into). I didn’t fit in with this group in the slightest–and that was exactly what I wanted. They were dull, badly dressed little sparrows. The male of the Enlightenment Society was no great shakes but still they managed to outshine their female counterparts.

  I was both overdressed and inappropriately dressed and I was delighted by those facts. I had absolutely no competition whatsoever. Some of the outfits on show appeared to have been brought out of mothballs from the 1930s. The high priestess of appalling fancy dress masquerading as evening wear, Eilidh Buchanan, was bearing down on me like a barracuda. Sadly, her long tartan skirt, although puffball tight at the ankles, didn’t hamper her movements. Looking as if she were sucking a lemon, she stood before me, arms folded. On close inspection her blouse looked grubby. It was probably an antique, and worn by her great grandmother at a Royal ball, but with my newfound sense of style, I was unimpressed.

  Every woman in the library, including Eilidh Buchanan, was covered from head to toe in tartan in a variety of colours and linen of varying shades of whiteness. The only décolletage on show was mine, but thanks to Malcolm I was more than making up the deficit.

  ‘I told you to contain the situation–not take lessons from that whore,’ Eilidh hissed.

  ‘And good evening to you too, Eilidh.’ As I had promised myself, the smile remained fixed–until I saw someone who wiped it from my face.

  Lord MacGregor stalked purposefully towards me. He must have arrived after I did, for he was a peacock in full highland dress and everyone’s eyes were upon him.

  ‘Ms McLennan! It’s a delight to meet you at last. I’ve heard so much about you. Some of it has even been quite good.’ A smile split his face at his own final comment. True to form tonight, I laughed ingratiatingly. Eilidh Buchanan was getting ready to wet her knickers–like an excited bitch on heat she leaped around Lord MacGregor. Casually, he clasped my elbow, and with a flick of his hand he dismissed his acolyte as one would an aggravating mosquito. Unable to resist the temptation I looked over my shoulder and gloated, although truthfully I would have preferred to stay even with her, rather than this man–I didn’t know much about him, but I didn’t like what I had seen so far. His association with Moses Tierney made him even less welcome to me.

  Until this hellish day, I could never have imag
ined such a scenario anyway. Choosing between Eilidh Buchanan and Lord MacGregor? Hardly my usual band of friends. Unable to do anything else, I allowed my new benefactor to parade me round the room like a prize cow. I felt as if I were being taken on a specific route, as Judge after Judge after Judge acknowledged me and my udders.

  Lord MacGregor turned to speak at me: ‘It’s many years since I’ve been in this place.’ The gaggle of women (I use the term loosely) who were coming out in a cold sweat rather than a menopausal flush every time he walked by them were actually right–Lord MacGregor looked pretty good despite his age.

  Our parade of two had stopped in front of an oversized oil painting of an old man in judicial robes.

  ‘He hated that, you know.’

  Lord MacGregor inclined his head towards the picture.

  ‘Said it made him look portly and decrepit…he refused to allow them to hang it where anyone who mattered would see it. My father was vain like that–and that over there is my grandfather.’ He waved his liver spotted hand in a direction over my shoulder.

  Was I naïve to think that the red judicial robes of a democratic country should not be passed down the generations like some plumbing business?

  As Lord MacGregor held me in his gaze, I sought a diversion. His little procession involving only me and him had induced the intended effect. I was in no doubt who was insisting that I was an Amicus Curae–he was showing me that he could deliver the red judicial robes of my ultimate ambition if I played along.