Dark Angels

by Grace Monroe

  ‘Sleep now–I’ll take care of the baggage–you still have to appear before them tomorrow.’ I was convinced that I would not doze, but the car was warm and I was exhausted. I did not even wake when Joe carried me into the house.

  I slept the sleep of the righteous dead.

  FIFTY-THREE

  There was nothing to rouse me from my slumber. I knew that Joe was dozing on my sofa, and his presence made me feel secure in the midst of what had turned into a living nightmare.

  Any time I did stagger to the loo, or rolled over to get comfortable, he was there like a flash. I had taken the nondescript pills which Malcolm had left for me and a wave of peaceful doziness washed over every part of my body. Flashes of what had happened broke through–how could they not?–but the time for unravelling my history, my lineage, could wait.

  By the time morning broke through, I had given up on pretending that I wanted to be anywhere but beside Joe. So many cups of tea and coffee, followed by plates of buttery toast and bowls of soup, had been brought to me by him that the mountain of untouched offerings indicated what my words denied. I was not all right, and I didn’t know whether I would be ever again–but I was alive.

  Joe stroked my forehead as I lay swathed in his arms, and I know that I wept many times. As the light of Monday’s dawn crept through the wooden blinds in my living-room, I sat up knowing that the day ahead would change everything forever. I had given little thought to what was going on in other parts of my new world as I slept–I had no idea what my grandfather or mother were doing (how those normally innocent titles of family ownership confused me), but I doubted they had spent any time resting. The only thing that I knew was that my request to gather the Nobile Officium would not be ignored.

  I put on my court armour and a further barrier of make-up. Leaving Joe behind, I left my flat and headed for the Royal Mile, walking the first mile to clear my head. I hailed a taxi when I felt ready and blocked out the driver’s chatter about roadworks and the state of Edinburgh as much as I could, finally arriving back where so much had already taken place.

  They were waiting for me.

  I ascended the stairs weighed down like Christ on the Via Dolorosa, burdened by the knowledge that I was going in to plead for my mother’s life. The sound of my feet as I climbed the bevelled steps was hollow and heavy like lead coconut shells.

  I shouldn’t have been surprised when I saw that Joe had got there before me. He had no doubt bribed his own taxi driver to go quicker. He sat on a chair at the foot of the staircase and did no more than wink at me as I walked by. There was no need for anything else–we knew each other too well. He would always be there for me, and at that moment, I planned to always be there for him.

  The room I was going to was far above him, high in the WS library. The stairwell had a soaring ceiling but it was unpretentious, a part of the building that only the initiated see. When I reached the top, I stopped to catch my breath. Like a fish on land, I gulped the air around me greedily to no avail. Swaddled in barbed wire, my side hurt marginally more than the rest of my body, which was saying something.

  Shifting from foot to foot outside the door, I harvested my thoughts.

  The walls were at least a foot thick, the door was old, white and heavy. Inside the room, the greatest legal minds in Scotland sat waiting for me. I hoped that they were nervous, for I had it in my power to destroy them. I wanted to, but it was like the sword of Damocles; if I took that course of action I would be acting like a suicide bomber. One thing I could guarantee was that the message would not get out.

  I had instructed my grandfather to convene the Nobile Officium, the oldest court in Scots Law, one that is rarely used. Its origins are found in ancient Roman law, there is a three-fold test that must be applied to summon the Nobile Officium.

  Firstly, there has been or there is the possibility of a miscarriage of justice. Secondly, the circumstances are extraordinary or unforeseen. Thirdly, intervention does not interfere with legislation.

  Knocking once on the door, I entered without waiting for their permission. It was an unprepossessing room in need of a paint or at the very least a dust. An eighteenth-century walnut bookcase covered the back wall, it almost reached the ceiling and I paused to consider how the servants had fetched it up those stairs. The upper half of the bookcase was glass fronted, all the books were leather bound first editions, naturally the titles were tooled in gold.

  Three old men, like tortoises without shells, watched me as I walked across the fraying Abusson carpet. The judges sat at a plain oak bench table, their backs to the long Georgian sash and case windows.

  The new Lord President sat in the middle, his hooked nose and high cheekbones gave him more than a passing resemblance to his great-grandfather. I knew this because an oil painting of his ancestor was on the wall, and its eyes seemed to follow me as I moved to take my seat.

  For the first time I understood that in some quarters it could be argued that my lineage was the more august since my great-grandfather’s portrait was hanging on a wall that people actually looked at.

  The clock showed that it was 7a.m., we were alone in the building. The Law Lords wore no judicial robes. Their bespoke suits were sombre. They continued to eye me suspiciously, but no emotions were betrayed on their faces.

  A sorry sight.

  I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. My face was bruised and swollen. Malcolm, who had arrived to tend to me, at Joe’s request this time, did not have time to apply the leeches to reduce the swelling, which was considerable. Malcolm had, however, gently washed my hair, and he was unable to conceal his horror as the sink filled with my red locks. My hairstyle today was not up to his customary standard; it was somewhat unusual as he had attempted to cover bald patches the size of ten-pence pieces.

  ‘Ms MacGregor?’

  The new Lord President had called me by my father’s name. I knew that it was not a mistake, he was acknowledging the unspoken facts. By that simple gesture the Lord President let me know that it was within judicial knowledge that I was the daughter of their colleague, and a thirteen-year-old girl.

  My grandfather came up behind me and stood at my right hand side.

  ‘Ms MacGregor?’ the Lord President said again. ‘We have been briefed on this matter before us.’ He nodded at my grandfather. ‘And as the matter is sub judice we have decided to refer it back to the court of first instance. This case will be dealt with in court nine in the usual manner.’

  He cleared his throat, this decision had been made off the bench and they had no intention of allowing me to speak.

  Murmuring inaudibly, they left the room in single file. Adrenalin heightened my sense of smell, and in their wake the room was filled with the scent of Havana cigars and spicy gentleman’s cologne.

  I couldn’t help myself, I shouted after him.

  ‘M’Lord–the facts in this case could destroy the judiciary.’

  The Lord President turned and looked at me witheringly. The College of Justice had stood for centuries, in that time it had witnessed plots and wars, yet it had escaped unharmed.

  ‘Ms MacGregor–we have made our decision.’

  With that, the last of the old men disappeared and the door swung shut in my face.

  I grasped my grandfather’s elbow and the silky wool of his suit mopped the cold sweat from my palm as I moved to lead him down the stairs. He had aged visibly before my eyes, strain had bleached the colour from his withered face. I could think of nothing that would comfort him as we walked down to Parliament Hall. If his son’s sexual perversions were given a public airing, well, that was something that perhaps neither of us could recover from. Now that would give the steamie something to talk about.

  As he saw us approach, Joe opened his mouth to speak but the look on our faces silenced him.

  ‘If I have to argue this case, Kailash will go down for murder. So what if his reputation is ruined? Mine will be too. I’ll be damned by association with them. No good can come o
f it.’

  I could not bear to say my father’s name, at least when he was unknown to me he only haunted my sleeping hours.

  I paced up and down the hall talking to Joe. My grandfather had disappeared because it was not seemly that we be spotted together prior to the trial.

  I hadn’t gone to see Kailash yet. I wasn’t ready for a mother and child reunion in a prison cell. Perhaps, I wondered, it would soften the blow when she went down for life. It would certainly provide a basis for conversation, other than that I had failed her. Nor was I ready to consider the magnitude of what had unfolded in front of me. It wasn’t just a matter of not knowing how to approach Kailash, it was also the fact that I had to grieve for Mary all over again. How should I now think of them? My real mother and my adoptive mother? But there had been no adoption, and Kailash had never mothered me. My birth mother had never chosen to get pregnant, never wished a baby on herself and I wondered whether I would ever be able to think about my true parentage without feeling disgust and guilt. What would Kailash’s life been without me? What had I done to her? And what would she now do to me? I was pulled back to reality by the official matters in front of me.

  ‘Her Majesty’s Advocate against Kailash Coutts starting in court nine.’ The Macer called us to action. I pulled my gown around me, and Joe clutched his papers.

  ‘Break a leg,’ he said.

  ‘Chance would be a fine thing–at least I could bugger off to hospital. God, Joe, I’m going to need all the help I can get with this one.’

  Hector McVie and his entourage were already assembled on the front benches. Hector looked solemn. No one in the Faculty was looking forward to the evidence in this trial. A side door opened and Kailash walked in.

  Serenity had smoothed any slight line that may have marred her countenance before, and I knew then that she had had her justice. Nothing else would have soothed her soul but that Alistair MacGregor die at her hand. It was worth any price she would have to pay. Kailash did not expect Lord MacDonald to mete out any retribution on behalf of the forgotten children, of which she was only one.

  ‘She’s got your eyes, right enough,’ Joe whispered in my ear, maudlin even without drink.

  ‘Will you shut up–and I think it would be more appropriate to say that I had her eyes.’ I stared at her afresh; she smiled at me, recognising that I knew the truth. Her hair was as black as coal, as had my father’s been in his youth. Red hair often skips a generation.

  ‘Court rise,’ the Macer shouted and I was ready to fight for the ignored and neglected.

  Lord MacDonald processed slowly and gravely onto the bench, his red silk gown rustling in the stillness. Hundreds of eyes watched him; holding their breath waiting for him to sit. The jury leaned forwards into the body of the room, the edge of their seats cutting into their behinds. The informed public were desperate to hear the evidence that had been put before the court on Friday.

  I stared at Roddie. A grudging respect lit his eye, as he met my gaze. Holding his own hand for comfort, like a child about to perform, he was sickeningly afraid. Beads of sweat peppered his brow.

  Lord MacDonald picked up his pen and focused his eyes on the prosecution team.

  ‘Mr McVie.’ His voice was low and polished, each vowel neatly rounded to eliminate any trace of a Scottish accent, he nodded at my colleague to begin.

  Hesitantly, Hector got to his feet. I felt my stomach tighten, as if some long-nailed woman had me in the palm of her hand and was wringing my guts.

  Hector cleared his throat again. The court was hushed.

  ‘M’Lord…taking into account new evidence that has come to light the Crown has decided to accept the accused’s plea of not guilty.’

  My eyes darted about in my head. Lord MacDonald did not look surprised. The public benches were emptying as reporters rushed to break the news.

  Banging his gavel, the judge demanded order.

  His voice was lost in the mêlée, he shouted again and a few stragglers returned to their seats.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen of the jury–I thank you for your assistance in this matter–you are released from your duty as jurors.’

  ‘Court rise,’ the Macer bellowed.

  Those who remained stood up on cue when Lord MacDonald left the bench. As he did so he smiled conservatively in my direction. His teeth were crooked and yellow, it was an intimacy I did not relish.

  As soon as he was gone I jumped into the well of the court, heading for the dock.

  I felt her arms around me, as I buried my face in her hair. The scent of rose oil enveloped me: as I recalled its healing powers I blessed her under my breath.

  The warmth of her tears wet my cheek. Kailash pushed me back, still holding my face in her hands.

  Locked in love we recognised each other. Again.

  ‘At last,’ was all she whispered, as she looked into my eyes. She did not let me go, even when Joe wanted to get in on the act and threw his arms around us both. Like a bear he crushed us with his enthusiasm, refusing to let go.

  She kept up her litany.

  ‘At last, at last,’ she murmured, as she rocked me in her arms.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  We accompanied Kailash to get her belongings from the police cells. A strange ménage á trois, processing through the corridors. People gawked from secret crannies, looking at the lawyer, the giant paralegal and the dominatrix. The onlookers believed that I had scored a great victory in the courtroom on Friday afternoon.

  ‘Look–there’s gonna be a shiteload of press out there,’ Joe warned me, literary as always.

  ‘Get some more make-up on–and make sure this scarf is covering your neck. We don’t want anyone speculating in the press.’ Kailash was all business again and walked out first into the barrage of flashing bulbs. Television crews waited to give me my fifteen minutes of fame.

  I stepped forward and was pushed aside. Lord MacGregor stepped in front of me.

  His sonorous voice informed the world:

  On behalf of the family, my granddaughter and I…

  He pulled me to his bosom, the strength in his arm belied his age. ‘Smile,’ he whispered into my ear. In spite of the soft tones, I was left in no doubt that it was a direct order.

  My granddaughter and I…

  He repeated the phrase, rolling his rs over his tongue, as if he enjoyed the sound of the words.

  We would like to say how pleased we are that justice has once again been served. My son and Brodie’s father, died a hero–rushing to save Miss Coutts’ life–forsaking his own safety…

  He coughed, as he brushed his rheumy eye with a fine lawn handkerchief. As a sign to the press that his tears would not be far away, he clutched the hanky firmly between his fingers. Shakily, he continued to speak.

  Not only was he one of the finest Lord Presidents that there has been in this country’s long legal history–but also as a son–and a father–he was a man to be proud of.

  ‘What’s going to happen to the youths who attacked Miss Coutts?’ Jack Deans shouted from the press pack, grinning from ear to ear. Moses, who stood at Jack Deans’ shoulder, raised his cane in salute. Lord MacGregor ignored them both. The initiated knew Moses would continue to walk free, he had the evidence in a safe place.

  We bear no grudge to Miss Coutts as witnessed by my granddaughter’s decision to represent her.

  A torrent of flashes, battered my optic nerves.

  No further questions please–we would like to be left alone to grieve as a family.

  My heart had stopped shortly after he called me his granddaughter.

  By publicly claiming me for his bloodline, he had drawn me in. My new personal history was that I was the product of an affair between Mary McLennan and Alistair MacGregor.

  Of course the family had always been involved in my upbringing–that was why I chose law, and why my grandfather had been a governor of my school. I did not know where the heritage of my blood would take me–standing on the precipice I was almost afraid to find o
ut. Kailash squeezed my arm, and led me off down the Royal Mile. Alone and free we walked down the cobbled street. I stopped her outside the City Chambers, with Lavender shaking her head behind us.

  ‘Just one thing…why did you make me dig up the grave?’ I found it hard to keep the anger from my voice.

  Brushing the hair from my face, she spoke:

  ‘Mo Cridhe… would you honestly have believed me if I had told you everything that night in the police station, or any other time?’

  In my heart I knew she spoke the truth, the foundations upon which I had built my life had to be shattered before I could even attempt to accept my heritage.

  ‘Don’t reject your birthright, Brodie. These men are not all bad–but they all are one thing: pathways to power.

  ‘This is your birthright. This is your inheritance.

  ‘Now is where your life starts–see where your bloodline takes you–but, always know, that I’ll be there beside you.’

  My heart filled with emotion, but my head said only one thing:

  Christ help me if this is just the beginning…

  Acknowledgments

  From Linda:

  Lots of love to Jenny Brown (aka The Loveliest Agent in the World) at Jenny Brown Associates for her help, support and huge amounts of coffee. Similar amounts of thankful and cuddly stuff to the team at Avon, especially Maxine Hitchcock and Keshini Naidoo. Their adoration of Glasgow Joe and Jack Deans is much appreciated, as are the very important discussions about weird crushes and diets.

  From Maria: