After He Died

by Michael Malone

  Looking straight ahead, Paula studied the old bank building. When she had first come down this street as a teenager, pocket money burning a hole in her purse, it had been a rather impressive bank. Then a bookshop took it over and she’d spent many happy Saturday afternoons in there browsing books and drinking coffee. Now it was a nondescript clothing store.

  Footsteps.

  ‘Worst thing that happened to this city, when that bookshop closed down.’

  It was Cara. She was in her usual black jeans and black jacket and she was wearing a little more make-up than normal. Paula smiled at the sight of her.

  ‘Danny? Where is he?’ she looked along Buchanan Street. ‘Isn’t this place a bit busy? What kind of pitch does Danny have? Are people allowed to just sell stuff down here?’

  Cara rolled her eyes. ‘He’s homeless. His pitch is where he sits begging.’

  ‘Right.’ Paula gave herself a mental ticking off. Could she be any more middle class?

  ‘First we go into Starbucks across the road and buy him a coffee and a sandwich. The poor guy is probably starving. And when I say we, I mean you.’

  Cara started walking, seeming to expect Paula to follow. Starbucks was down the side of the old bank building, just at the archway that led through to Royal Exchange Square and the back of the Gallery of Modern Art.

  Paula went inside while Cara stood at the door. When her turn in the queue came she ordered a black coffee and picked out a ham sandwich, and a couple of doughnuts Danny might keep for later. Then she spotted some chocolate. She could get him that as well.

  Now that she was preparing to feed the young man she wanted to make sure he was looked after. If Christopher had grown up and ended up on the street, God forbid, she wanted to think another parent would come along and offer some care, even if it was only a full belly for the day.

  She was aware the serving girl was staring at her. Her mouth opened. She was saying something.

  Money. That was it. She wanted money.

  ‘You awright, missus?’ the girl asked.

  Paula felt her cheek was wet. Without having to articulate the thought to do so, she wiped at it with her sleeve, then rummaged in her bag for her purse. She considered buying more food, to keep the guy stocked up for a few more days, while part of her mind registered that she’d been crying without even realising. Discounting the need to buy more food – she was worried she might somehow be overdoing it – she paid, dropped her purse back into her bag and picked up the cup and and the food that the young woman had placed in a brown paper bag.

  When she came out carrying Danny’s meal, she saw that Cara was in conversation with a Big Issue seller. Paula saw how thin he was and wanted to give him all the food she had on her and start again.

  ‘I’ve just been asking Stu here if he knows Danny,’ Cara said.

  ‘Aye, missus. Danny sometimes sits on the stairs just round there.’

  Paula gave him a smile. ‘Hi, Stu,’ she said, but was unsure what to say next. And she realised with a rush of guilt that she’d never spoken properly to a homeless person before, other than to say hello and hand over some cash. It shamed her to admit it, but she always felt so embarrassed that she had so much and they had so little, some money and a brief, mumbled greeting was all she could cope with. She’d made every encounter about her own discomfort.

  ‘What’s your story, son?’ she asked, wondering if she was now overcompensating.

  ‘Ach, you know,’ Stu gave a small self-deprecating smile. ‘Wife and I fell out. She got the house. I had nowhere to go…’ He tailed off.

  Paula handed him the bags with the doughnuts, knowing that as gestures go it was pathetic. ‘There you go,’ she said.

  Cara took her arm and pulled her away, mumbling, ‘I didn’t ask you to feed everybody. Just Danny.’ Then she looked at her. ‘You been crying?’

  Paula shrugged. ‘Just happens sometimes. I’m barely aware of it.’

  Cara considered that. Then her mouth slumped in sympathy. ‘It’ll get better,’ she said. ‘Meantime, we’ve a mouth to feed.’ She started walking again, expecting Paula to follow.

  They turned the corner and arrived at the steps. They were wide, and old enough that their edges were rounded with the passage of time and countless footsteps. Looking along the steps and studying the handfuls of people sitting there, Paula noted that everyone there looked way too healthy and clean to be homeless. Some were clearly local workers enjoying time away from their office or shop, eating lunch in the crisp winter air. A conversation to her right became clear as she stepped nearer.

  ‘I was like, eh? And she was all, nut, not happenin’ and I was like aye, totally is, babes.’ It sounded like an utterly random collection of syllables but the speaker had her friends’ complete attention. The art of conversation hasn’t died, thought Paula, it’s just become abridged.

  ‘Can you see him?’ Paula asked wishing she’d got another cardboard sleeve around the cup as her hand was about to get scalded. She swapped hands.

  ‘Nope,’ Cara said as she scanned the stairs. ‘Let’s try over here.’ She walked beyond the stairs to the corner of the square. A couple of shops were tucked away there. One had what looked like an unused entrance and from her vantage point Paula could see a pair of booted feet sticking out, with a small dog sitting between them.

  They approached the doorway and Paula saw a hooded figure, seated in a slouch under the cushion of a dark-green sleeping bag, head to the side as if in slumber.

  ‘Hey, Danny,’ said Cara as she approached. ‘We’ve brought you some scran.’

  The man didn’t react.

  Cara crouched down and held a hand in front of the dog’s nose, allowing it to lick her fingers. ‘Hey, lovely,’ she said in a soothing voice. Then she returned her attention to her owner.

  ‘Dan,’ Cara prompted again as she reached him, this time nudging his boot with her hand.

  Nothing.

  She leaned forwards, gently touching his shoulder. ‘Danny, son, wake up. We’ve got some food for you.’

  Paula struggled to make sense of what she was seeing. The young man was still. Too still. Her stomach felt heavy with dread. A stillness surrounded the young man like an invisible shroud. There was something wrong here. Very wrong. Sounds fell away all around her. All she could hear was the thump of her own pulse in her neck.

  Please, no, she thought.

  Cara turned to Paula, confused. As if she was trying to compute what was in front of her. She got into a crouch, reached out tentatively and prodded the young man’s shoulder again.

  Nothing.

  She held a hand to the side of his neck and her movement was enough to dislodge the quilt. The cushioned dark-green material slid off him in slow motion, as if reluctant to display what it had been covering.

  Danny was wearing a football top. Red and yellow stripes. And there, above a pool of rich, dark-red blood in his lap, a knife handle stuck out from the centre of his chest.

  36

  Cara’s eyes and nose felt raw from crying, but she gamely answered every question from the young policeman. As she answered them, Paula stayed by her side, holding her hand and stroking her arm. Cara knew this action was really an effort by Paula to calm her own shock, so didn’t tell her to stop it.

  Her first instinct was to disappear. She’d already thrust herself into the investigation of another violent death – albeit one that was recorded as a murder suicide. She now worried it wouldn’t look good if she was present at another so soon after. But a split second after that thought struck, it was replaced with another: the CCTV cameras in the area would probably highlight her presence. Perhaps, even, if they were trained in the right direction at the right time, they could let the police know that she was the one who’d found him.

  Poor Danny.

  Then she was hit by a purely selfish thought: would she never get to know the full truth about Sean’s death, now? She had needed Danny to tell Paula what he knew, for her to come clean on any
knowledge she had about her husband’s other life.

  She couldn’t close her eyes without seeing the sag of Danny’s mouth and that knife sticking up from his chest. At first she half thought he was going to jump up and shout, Gotcha. And start laughing. Calling her an eejit for falling for it. When he was younger, Danny and Sean were always up to some kind of prank. She could see them as preteens: skint knees and smudged cheeks, egging each other on.

  Last time she saw him just down from the entrance to her flat, he seemed jumpy. Did he know he was at risk? Should she tell the young cop this? And what about that blue car? Was that just an innocent driver or something more malicious?

  She didn’t have a good track record with the police, though; whatever she told them was dismissed. Back in Stewart Street police station, they didn’t want to know. What did that detective Drain say? She had some imagination, or something. So, no way was she going to be believed. Better to remain silent and appear dumb than to open your mouth and remove all doubt. There was truth in that saying.

  ‘Anything else?’ the young cop asked her.

  Cara looked at the acne scar on his cheek, the raised eyebrow, and wondered what he saw, what he was thinking, what he would tell his colleagues. In her imagination she heard him talking to them: Aye, that Cara Connolly, daft bint.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘I know the family. Knew he was homeless, and my friend and I here just wanted to make sure he had some food for the day, you know?’

  Paula gave a little sob, so she placed a hand over her shoulder and pulled her close.

  ‘Can we go now? My friend here’s had a terrible shock. We both have.’

  The cop nodded. ‘We have your details. The investigating team will be in touch just to go over things again.’

  ‘What about the wee dog?’ asked Cara.

  ‘It’s a cute wee thing, eh?’ the cop said. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get it to a kennel or something.’

  ‘Okay, officer. Happy to help in any way,’ Paula murmured.

  Cara pulled her away to the side, ready to make her escape. She mumbled, ‘Don’t appear too keen, eh?’

  ‘That poor boy.’ Paula was still holding the coffee and the sandwich. She looked at them and then up at Cara, as if she couldn’t remember what food was for.

  They retraced their steps. Cara saw that Stu was still there and indicated that Paula should hand him the food and drink.

  ‘What was a’ that aboot?’ he asked as he accepted the sandwich. ‘It’s usually they dog-walkers that find dead bodies, innit? Not wee wifies bearing gifts.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Danny recently?’ Cara asked.

  ‘You going all detective on me, doll?’ Stu asked with a weak smile, displaying a mouthful of teeth that should have been condemned years ago. ‘Terrible, eh? Danny was a good cunt. Wouldn’t harm a fly but.’ His attempted smile slid off his face as his expression lengthened and he coughed, as if bearing down on any emotion that might leak through.

  ‘How well did you know him?’ Paula asked. Cara heard the tremble in her tone and wondered if she sounded the same. There was too much death around her these days.

  ‘Just enough to say hello, you know? We were ships passing through the shite of modern life.’

  ‘Did you ever get past the hellos to something more meaningful?’ she asked.

  ‘Whit, like the weather?’ Snort. ‘He had bother with his pitch a few weeks back, right enough. Some other cunt tried to knuckle in on his space.’ He lifted the sandwich out of the bag, held it up as if asking for permission, took a bite and continued talking as he chewed. ‘A couple of the other guys stepped in. Huckled the guy.’ A crumb of food flew out of his mouth and hit Cara on the cheek. She took a step back. ‘Sorry, doll,’ Stu said. ‘This is just…’ He took a look over to where the police had constructed a small white tent to hide the crime scene. ‘Now that I remember it…’ He took another bite. ‘S’funny how a wee bit of nourishment helps the old brain cells, eh?’

  Cara wanted to give him a ‘get on with it’ look, but softened it into a smile.

  Stu indicated with a nod and a lift of his cheek that he understood her. ‘Don’t usually get such a willing audience when I’m out here, you know. Anyway. One of the guys that stepped in – Wee Gav? – said they took the guy up the alley back there and were about to give him a kicking…’ He held a hand up when he saw the look of alarm on Paula’s face. ‘Nothing really damaging, you know. Just enough for a warning, doll. A few bruises an’ that. But, they stopped when this guy claimed he was offered money to make life difficult for Danny.’

  Cara stared at him hard now.

  ‘People do that?’ asked Paula, alarm evident on her face.

  ‘This is the streets, darlin’,’ Stu answered. ‘Anything can happen.’

  ‘Do you know this guy? Any idea where we could get a hold of him?’ Cara asked.

  ‘You are going all detective, aren’t ye?’ Stu asked, his eyebrows lifted as if he was impressed.

  ‘You don’t think this guy came back and knifed poor Danny in revenge do you?’ Paula asked, looking at Cara and then Danny.

  Cara considered this. Dismissed it. ‘No, there’s more to it than that, I’m sure of it.’ She had another look over at the site of Danny’s final rest. ‘He’s the one person that knows about our Sean and how he died. He was scared when I saw him the other day and that was more than the worry about someone stealing his pitch. I start pushing him for answers, finally get him to agree to speak to you – you know he wouldn’t dream of it if your husband was still alive – and now, suddenly he’s dead?’

  She stared into Paula’s face. She knew her accusation was hard: You know something and you’re not telling me. Cara had allowed herself to be pulled in by this woman’s performance as the grieving widow, but no longer. People were dying here.

  ‘You sure you’re not letting your imagination get away with you?’ Paula asked, and there was a defensiveness there. As far as Cara could see she was still to face up to the fact that her husband had been up to no good.

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, open your eyes. Just about everywhere we go there’s a trail of dead bodies. Is that all in my imagination, too?’

  37

  Paula turned away from Cara and walked towards Buchanan Street. She wasn’t going to give that woman the satisfaction of a reaction. Over the percussion of her heels slamming on the pavement she said to herself, I refuse to believe it. I can’t believe it. I won’t believe it.

  Thomas hadn’t hurt anybody. Cara was mad. Totally mad. Obsessed. So caught up in this she couldn’t consider anything else. Sure, Thomas had become involved in the money-laundering thing to help Joe out, but murder?

  Short of someone showing her a movie of Thomas committing actual bodily harm, she was never going to believe it.

  Paula reached the car park, made her way to her car, unlocked it and sat in the driver’s seat.

  And then she screamed, slamming down on the steering wheel with her hands. ‘That crazy, stupid bitch!’

  No more. That was it. Whatever happened to Cara’s brother was none of Paula’s business. If Cara wanted to keep digging into it, she was on her own.

  Then a thought weaselled its way into her head. Was she so annoyed because she was worried there was an element of truth to all of this? If she was that certain Thomas was innocent, why was she feeling so threatened by what Cara was trying to find out?

  She needed a drink. Wine, gin. Anything to get her out of her own head.

  Her phone sounded an alert. She fished it from her bag and sighed. It was from Bill:

  You went to see Daphne? What were you thinking? Can we talk?

  She thought about replying and quickly discounted the idea. Whatever came out of her in that moment would not be appropriate, and would surely only make matters worse.

  Paula threw her phone back in her bag and started the engine. She needed to talk to someone to sort this in her own head at least, and the only person she could think of was F
ather Joe.

  When she knocked on the refectory door it was opened up by Father Declan. He was a young priest from a nearby parish, originally from Ireland, who sometimes helped out when the incumbent priests were sick or on holiday. He was so young, thought Paula, that he looked like he’d just come from some pressing machine where the very young and faithful were forced into a shape of piety.

  ‘Father Joe about?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Declan said in his Dublin lilt. ‘He’s disappeared. Jumped in his car and went off. We’re still expecting a call from him to explain.’

  ‘Disappeared? He never said…’ Paula tailed off, feeling betrayed that Joe had gone off without saying a word to her. Then worry gnawed. This really wasn’t like him.

  ‘Yeah, the Bishop was none too happy. Last minute kinda thing, and not a word of warning.’ Declan scratched his face. ‘As far as we can see he didn’t even pack a bag.’

  Now Paula felt a surge of fear. ‘Didn’t pack a bag?’

  ‘Well, his toothbrush is still there, but we haven’t really checked his drawers to see what might be missing.’ He blushed. ‘Not that we would know…’ he tailed off.

  ‘Right,’ she responded absently. This was wrong, she could feel it.

  ‘Anything else I can do for you, Mrs Gadd?’

  ‘If you hear…’ She corrected herself. ‘When you hear from Joe, tell him to get in touch with me will you?’ She turned and walked back down the path.

  So focussed was she on her own thoughts, she almost bumped into someone.

  ‘Paula?’

  She heard a familiar voice and looked up from the ground. ‘Bill. What are you doing here?’ He was once again dressed in expensive-looking clothes: dark-grey turtleneck sweater, black trousers and a knee-length navy-blue wool coat.

  ‘Probably the same as you,’ he answered with a tight smile. He looked over her shoulder at the door she had just walked away from. ‘Is he free?’