After He Died

by Michael Malone

  ‘That might be an idea,’ Kevin mumbled and to Paula’s relief moved towards the door. ‘You’ll tell me everything?’ he asked, and looked almost pathetic as he waited for her answer. ‘We really don’t have a lot of time.’

  ‘I’ll tell you everything I know, Kevin. Which really doesn’t amount to much. In the meantime, please, go and have a shower and a sleep.’

  She escorted him down the stairs and along the corridor to the front door. He paused at the threshold and turned to her, his expression tight. He’d clearly taken the time to try and gather himself together. He looked frayed at the edges; his eyes held an appeal and Paula felt herself respond to his worry. She shrugged it off, reaching for the door handle. Why on earth would she be concerned about him? She was in far too difficult a place herself right now and he had come into her home uninvited.

  A thought. She held her other hand out. ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m assuming, for whatever reason, Thomas gave you a key. Or had a spare you knew about? I’ll take it back, thanks.’

  Kevin reached into his trouser pocket, retrieved the key and dropped it onto her upturned hand. Immediately, she was struck by the warmth coming off the small piece of metal. It was as if the heat of his worry had transferred onto the key.

  ‘That daft wee bitch Cara Connolly? Don’t believe a word she says by the way.’

  He was off and down the stairs before the surprise of what he had said lifted enough for Paula to consider it properly.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she shouted after him. ‘Have you been watching me?’

  She received no answer but the leaden echo of his retreating footsteps.

  Paula slammed the door shut. What the hell was going on here? She made straight for the kitchen and the bottle of gin. Poured herself a generous measure, sat at a stool and sipped.

  Her mind swam. Had he been watching her? How did he know about Cara? And he had looked genuinely worried. No, not worried.

  Scared.

  What on earth did he think she knew about Thomas’s business that he didn’t? She snorted a laugh at the notion, and felt some of the alcohol trickle down her nose. Wiped at it with the back of her hand and then remembered she was still holding the slip of paper.

  She placed it on the worktop and smoothed it out. Yes, it was a receipt.

  It read ‘Loch and Quay’ in bold along the top. The ink was blurred where the street was detailed, but the town was clear enough: Gourock. The price was £15.30. The name of the place made her think of some sort of marina. What could you buy at a marina for that? A couple of drinks? Loch and Quay … did that sound like a bar?

  She made her way back up to the office, sat in front of her laptop and brought up the search engine. When she typed in the words, she was presented with the details for a locksmith.

  She looked back at the receipt and found the date. Just a week before Thomas had died.

  What was Thomas up to in those moments? Was this important, or was she just allowing that Cara girl, Joe’s comments and now Kevin’s behaviour to spook her? She closed her eyes and concentrated as if attempting to summon her dead husband. None of this was making any sense to her. Please, if you’re there, Thomas, send me a sign. Something. Let me know what was going on?

  She shook her head at her own actions. That was what desperate people did, wasn’t it? Prayed to the dead, believed that the veil between the land of the living and the land of the dead was really a thing. That it could be breached with nothing more than a thought.

  On the top right-hand corner she noticed a small series of numbers: 0246.

  She studied them. Rather than a receipt, might this be some sort of docket to prove he’d requested a key to be cut and this was proof?

  What was Thomas doing in Gourock, at a locksmith’s? The only time they ever went to Gourock was to pass through it on the way to the ferry terminal for Bute, and they hadn’t done that for years.

  A memory. A blink, and she was there in the car with them. Christopher singing something in the backseat, waving a toy ninja turtle through the air. They were on their way to the ferry for another weekend on Bute. Their special, family place.

  ‘Mum, can I get some ice cream from that place at the big beach?’

  ‘Ask your dad.’

  ‘Dad, can I get some ice cream from that place?’

  ‘The one at the big beach?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Christopher answered then added when he remembered his manners. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘Ask your mum.’

  ‘But she…’

  And then the three of them were laughing.

  The music of that noise played in her mind and then transformed into a discordant wail – when she couldn’t stop herself from crying.

  Reliving memory was a sweet-bitter pastime. The resultant ache was a cold slab of granite pressing down against her head, shoulders and chest. Her two men were now dead. How would she ever get over this?

  12

  Cara Connolly looked at the woman sitting on the hard, plastic bucket chair in front of her. Her crossed arms and the tilt of her head all asked her not to waste her time. She also noted the dark swellings under each eye and the fatigue in the tight jut of her shoulders – as if she was frightened to let go of whatever energy was sustaining her, in case she fell to the floor in a puddle. Paula was holding a giant, black – probably designer – handbag on her lap like it was bolstering her strength.

  Cara damped down the resultant empathy. Swallowed it like it was a lump of charcoal. She couldn’t afford to let this woman get to her.

  ‘Why am I at your office?’ Paula asked as she looked around. Cara considered what she might be seeing. The pale-blue walls and seating, the dark-blue carpet tiles on the floor, signs everywhere, and screens between the various work stations. Just like a thousand other offices in the city.

  Out of the small barred window, a wedge of bruised sky and a sixties tower block that was scheduled for demolition.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ Cara answered, her tone quieter than the other woman’s in the hope she would get the hint and lower hers. She didn’t want to draw too much attention from her colleagues. Nor did she want the older woman’s reluctance to be here to be too obvious.

  ‘It’s important that people see us together in a kind of official capacity,’ she said in a near whisper. ‘If we tell people we’re trying to solve a murder they’ll think we’re nuts.’ Then she spoke a little louder. ‘We are incredibly proud of the work we do here at Independent Advocacy Scotland. We don’t need to raise money per se, but our mental-health partners in our outreach programme will greatly appreciate your help.’

  Paula glanced about and then back to Cara. Gave her a tight smile. She understood, but the flare of irritation in her eyes let Cara know she needed to get to the point. Fast.

  ‘A murder?’ Paula said in a harsh whisper. ‘Frankly I’m getting very tired of all this murder stuff.’

  ‘You’re going to help me find out the truth about my brother, and your son.’ Then louder, ‘And the money we raise will be a boon to the local community.’ She gave a couple of sideways looks, to see if any of her colleagues were listening in. None were. They were understaffed, overworked and exhausted. Cara knew from her own experience – you clocked in at 8:45 a.m., made sure you got your tea breaks in, for, you know, sanity, sacrificed your lunch hour by munching your limp lettuce and paper-thin ham sandwiches at your desk. Even having this meeting was going to cost her a lost Saturday morning as she’d need to catch up with her paperwork, but it had to be done.

  Paula lifted her handbag and placed it between her feet. ‘Perhaps you could explain what the money could be used for?’

  Cara relaxed a little. Good. The woman was going to play along for now.

  ‘Oh, a number of things,’ she added breeze to her voice. ‘The basics, really. Our young mothers need help with nappies, sterilising bottles … stuff like that. And we’re thinking of running some
sort of education programme for them, you know? Creative writing perhaps? The local library closed down, but we got their computers. So, we’re thinking of also teaching office skills. Help people write a CV. Help them apply for jobs.’ Cara leaned back in her seat. ‘Most employers expect applicants to have access to technology, and to be able to find their way round a computer. That’s not so easy around here.’

  ‘Sounds like you are doing important work,’ said Paula, her tone softening as she cast her eyes around the room again. Cara followed her gaze and saw a couple of busy colleagues, Lesley and Alison, each sitting with a young woman; girls really, each holding a baby.

  ‘And every day is different, so we—’ Cara stopped speaking. Paula was suddenly on her feet. Her eyes were heavy, her face long with the weight of her grief.

  ‘Is there a…’ Paula managed to say.

  ‘The toilet is over there,’ Cara said, and pointed behind Paula.

  She turned, picked her handbag up and all but ran to the loo.

  Cara debated joining her to make sure she was okay. One of her colleagues sitting at a desk to her left sent her a questioning look.

  Her husband just died, Cara mouthed. She remembered for months after her brother’s funeral, grief would hit her at random moments, slamming into her with the power of a truck. She could be watching the news on TV, standing in a queue at her local supermarket, or even on one occasion she was at the dojo, practising a grab movement, when a bubble of grief burst and she fell sobbing onto the mat.

  Minutes later, and a pale Paula rejoined Cara at her desk.

  ‘It just hits you, you know,’ Paula said as she took her seat. And Cara’s attitude to her softened a little as she noted the older woman’s conflict: she shouldn’t have to apologise for her mini-breakdown, but at the same time wanted to apologise for apologising. Then, ‘Sorry,’ Paula said. Bit on her lower lip and took a deep breath. ‘Won’t happen again.’ A weak smile. ‘Where were we?’

  ‘I was telling you—’

  ‘Actually,’ Paula got to her feet, shaking her head. ‘I really can’t do this.’ And she turned and left the room.

  Cara waited a moment and then followed her.

  She finally caught her in the car park as Paula was about to get into her car. It was a dark-blue Range Rover – probably cost more than she’d earned in the last two years.

  Paula turned to face her half defiant and half apologetic. ‘I’m not quite used to … people just yet,’ she said.

  Cara walked round to the passenger side and climbed in. ‘Nice,’ she said as she sat down, wondering how many people had been harmed to pay for this vehicle.

  Paula said, ‘It was Thomas’s. I’ve got a wee Toyota Yaris, easier to park in this city. But I’m using this because…’ She turned, suddenly irritated at herself. ‘Why do I feel the need to justify myself to you?’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘Whatever you think you know, Cara, you’re wrong. And please stop looking at me as if you’re judging me. Say what you’ve got to say and then we can go our separate ways.’

  Cara looked at Paula for a long moment. Searched her expression for duplicity. Saw nothing but a tired and sorrowful woman. She slumped back into the soft leather seating and acknowledged her own bias. Cara was surrounded by grinding poverty every day and couldn’t help but see the money that cushioned this woman’s life. And hate her for it.

  But then there was the clear and heavy weight she was carrying, and it was as burdensome as her own. Cash might be feathering Paula’s nest, but it was no help whatsoever with the sense of loss the woman was feeling. Perhaps that was the way to connect with her.

  ‘You’re right,’ Cara said and looked Paula in the eye. ‘I see all this…’ she gestured to the dashboard with all its lights and gadgets ‘…and can’t help but compare it with the lack in the lives of the people I meet every day. Every. Single. Day.’ She tried to bite down on her resentment but failed. ‘You people and your…’ She shook her head as if that might get her back on track. Then she spotted movement to her right. Pointed.

  ‘See her?’

  Paula made a sighing sound and turned in the direction Cara was pointing. A woman was walking past the car park entrance. She was rake thin, dark hair pulled back in a ponytail wearing a thin sweat top and grey, baggy jogging pants, though Cara doubted since the woman left school she’d walked faster than the exhausted pace she was currently setting.

  ‘We’ve tried endless times to get her to leave her husband. He loves her, she tells us. Loves her that much he forces their two wee boys to kick and punch her every now and again. It toughens them up for life in the scheme, she says. And once they tire of hitting her she’s got to get to her feet and make them their tea.

  ‘While that shit’s going on, people on your side of the tracks get to sip moccachino and eat olives. And your husband and the other gangsters running drugs in this town milk every last penny from these poor bastards…’ She tailed off. Looked away. So much for getting back on track.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ said Paula. ‘You invited me. I came. If all you’re going to do is insult me I’ll just leave.’ She turned the engine on. ‘Please get out of my car.’

  Cara screwed her eyes shut and exhaled sharply, as if she might expel some of her bad feeling towards this woman and her family and manage to have a proper conversation with her without being such a bitch.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Cara said. ‘I really am. And I really do need your help. Hear me out, please?’

  Paula looked to the side and followed the slow movement of the woman Cara had just pointed out to her.

  ‘Start again?’ Paula offered as she turned to face Cara. ‘But one disparaging remark about my husband or “my people”, and I’m leaving. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Cara said and hated herself for sounding like a scolded child.

  ‘When you called to invite me here, you said you wanted to meet this guy, Danny. The one who … well … So, what’s his story?’

  Cara saw the small boy with the gap-toothed smile and the blond hair that was almost permanently gelled, and compared it to the haunted, almost skeletal young man who told her he was there the night Sean was killed.

  ‘Him and Sean were best mates. Lived in each other’s pockets, you know? Even for a poor area like this, Danny’s story is just riddled with tragedy. His old man was killed in a street brawl when he was only about nine or ten. One punch and his dad went down. Hit his head on the pavement and he was gone.’

  ‘Dear God,’ said Paula.

  ‘Aye, then his maw turned to the booze – she’s straight now, like, but when Danny was a boy she was a proper mess.’

  ‘What chance did he have?’ Paula asked with evident sadness. But then, as if her need for answers was asserting itself, she asked, ‘You said something about helping him get access to his kids?’

  ‘Yeah, well, that’s gone a bit tits-up of late,’ Cara answered. ‘I swear some people are like bad-luck magnets.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’ Cara looked across at the older woman. She thought she saw genuine concern.

  ‘The access thing was predicated on him getting off the street and into his own place, aye? But the housing the council gave him was in a notorious block of flats. Full of dealers and their clients. And most of these people don’t have jobs or any prospect of getting one, so they party late…’ Cara paused, picturing Danny sitting hunched in a chair, grimacing with pain every time he moved, facing her in her office as he told her what happened.

  In her mind, she heard him speaking, as if he was still there sitting in front of her: ‘So, I’m pure ragin’,’ he’d said. ‘I’ve to get up and collect the wee yin in the morning and take her to playgroup. She pure loves that by the way. Playin’ wi’ all the other weans.’ His smile was just like any other doting father, except it was on a face marked with serious bruising. ‘But these pricks up the stairs…’ he ducked his head in apology when he realised he’d used a rude word ‘…were having a party. Yet ag
ain. Givin’ it all that boom, boom, boom music. I went up there, aye? And telt them to keep it down. Got a fist in my face for my bother.’ He pointed at his left cheek. ‘Then for good measure, when I finally got to sleep, they kicked my door in and gave me a doin’.’ He eased himself to the side and lifted up his shirt to show the discolouring on his skin. ‘Cracked a couple of my ribs, the bastards.’

  Cara brought herself back into the present and tried to paint the interview for Paula as best she could, not sure she was really doing the sadness of the situation justice. But Paula listened, quietly nodding.

  ‘When the mother of his child heard about the violence she refused to allow him to have the little girl on his own,’ Cara continued. ‘He could take her to the park for an hour or so, but that was it. To make matters worse the council refused to re-home him because of his dog. And eventually things got so bad the mother’s trust in his rehabilitation was destroyed.’

  ‘He has a dog? What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Apparently one of the council guys said they could re-home Danny but he’d need to get rid of his dog, give it to someone or get it put down.’

  ‘Really? Get it put down? They said that? The dog is probably the only real friend he has. For someone in that position that’s no choice at all.’

  Cara nodded, pleased Paula was taking in the story to such an extent she was defending Danny. ‘It got worse. Another client was in the office when he was telling me his story. She overheard everything and went straight onto Twitter to try and shame the council. From the information she put online they managed to work out who it was…’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Paula. ‘Did he get a new place?’

  ‘Well, that’s it. We don’t know what they said to him when they went to visit, but he ended up back out on the street, so it couldn’t have been good.’

  ‘Poor guy,’ said Paula. ‘What on earth could the council worker have said that ended up with him homeless again?’