After He Died

by Michael Malone

  She shook her head. ‘He’s not there. Left without saying a thing to anybody.’ She hoped wherever Joe was that he was okay. On top of everything else she now had him to worry about.

  ‘Would have been nice if he’d let us know.’

  Paula heard a mournful sound in that last sentence, as if Bill was heading to a dark place. She looked into his eyes and saw shadow there.

  ‘You okay?’ she asked and put a hand on his arm. He moved closer as if that was the signal he was looking for.

  ‘The other night…’ he began. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you.’ His eyes were on hers. On her hair, her shoulders, then dropped to his feet. Then they moved through the whole sequence again.

  Paula lifted her hand from his arm and pushed it into her coat pocket, giving a little shiver as if the cold was her excuse.

  ‘Bill. That was a mistake. We agreed on the night – it never happened,’ she said. He opened his mouth in an attempt to try to speak over her, but she wouldn’t let him. Couldn’t afford to. ‘It never happened, Bill.’ She enunciated each word. ‘We were both in the wrong state of mind. We were drunk. Grief does strange things to a person. Besides…’ She tried to soften her words with a smile. ‘It’s really not fair to do that to Daphne.’

  ‘Daphne is…’ He closed his mouth. Held the fingertips of his right hand before his mouth as if stopping himself from speaking his mind. ‘I think I love you, Paula. I think I always have.’ He moved closer. His eyes beseeching. As if he needed her to really hear what he was saying.

  Paula took a step back, but was stopped from going much further by the low-hanging branches of a tree that stood at the head of the path to the priests’ house.

  ‘Bill, please,’ she said and looked away. ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Sorry, Paula. I should have said something long before now.’

  ‘What, instead of barely looking at me over the years? You were so distant at times, I was convinced you hated me.’

  ‘I had to protect myself somehow. And Tommy, and Daphne. While you and he were happy I had to damp that stuff down.’ He glanced at the church beyond. ‘There were times it was torture. When Chris was killed … I…’

  ‘Please, Bill.’

  ‘I could see how it affected you. And how you and Tommy almost drifted apart for a time.’

  Paula crossed her arms and faced away from him. ‘There only ever was Thomas,’ she said. ‘If Christopher’s death put us under stress, there was never any doubt in my mind that we would find each other again.’

  ‘What about the last year or so? I’ve got eyes, Paula. You guys were not in a good way.’ He spoke louder than he intended, for he then apologised.

  ‘Yeah, that’s true, but we would have found a way through it. Eventually. That was who we were. We argued. We made up again.’

  ‘He was a changed man since Chris died. Even I could see that.’

  ‘And I never loved him any less.’ Paula’s feet were going numb with cold. She thought momentarily about saying goodbye and going back to her car, but decided not to. She had to be sure Bill understood the other night was a mistake, and would never be repeated. ‘And besides, if you’re having trouble with Daphne, don’t use me as your rebound.’

  ‘Trouble with Daphne,’ he repeated. ‘That’s the story of my life right there.’

  ‘Don’t stay, then. Leave. One thing I’ve learned is that life’s too short. I regret every moment I allowed petty arguments with Thomas to fester.’

  ‘Petty arguments,’ he echoed. Then laughed, the sound cruel and lifeless. ‘If that was only what it was. We’ve done some bad…’ Again, he held his fingers at his mouth. Stilled the words before they were released to sound. ‘Something in that woman died when she had that miscarriage all those years ago.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Paula said. ‘She had a miscarriage? When? Why didn’t you tell us?’ Then she remembered Thomas telling her about Bill’s fertility issues. Jesus, life could be cruel. Their chance at a child was taken from them.

  ‘Daphne didn’t want anyone to know. Said she was ashamed.’ His eyes were flat, the light in them dulled by visiting the memory.

  ‘Good God, Bill. You can’t live like that. That’s what family are for – to listen, to talk with. To help the process of grieving.’

  ‘Yeah, well.’ He sighed as if there was a great weight in his lungs and nothing could shift it. He stepped closer and pulled her into a hug, holding her for longer than was comfortable, but, sensing the intensity of his need, she didn’t have the heart to push away. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered in her ear, his breath a warm burden on her skin. ‘Sorry.’

  He stepped back, as if marshalling his thoughts, but he was still gripping her upper arms – a little too tightly for Paula’s liking. He swallowed, looked down to the ground and back up, and in that moment he looked so like Thomas, Paula’s heart gave a lurch.

  ‘We could do this, Paula. I’ll leave Daphne … we’ll run away…’ He paused to watch as she shook her head, slowly and painfully.

  ‘It wouldn’t work, Bill.’ His grip grew tighter. ‘Let me go,’ she said. Nothing happened. She said it again, this time raising her eyebrows and staring him down.

  He released her and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Fine,’ he said, rejection turning the plea in his eyes to the cold, hard stare of anger. ‘Let the cards fall where they will.’

  Let the cards fall … what on earth did that mean?

  He turned round and began to walk back to his car. And as he did she remembered the other questions she had for him.

  ‘You were with Thomas the day he died,’ she called after him. ‘I know you had lunch with him. Why did you never tell me?’

  ‘I…’ He turned and met her eyes briefly. Then looked away.

  But then he seemed to square his shoulders. He turned back to face her. Paula could almost read his thought process. He had considered denying it, but the added detail about the lunch had made it impossible.

  ‘Yes, we had lunch that day,’ he said. ‘My brother all but died in front of me.’ His eyes clouded over, as if with the horror of being in that moment … and with awareness of his own failings. As if no matter what their personal issues were, his little brother’s heart stopped and he was powerless to save him. ‘Talking about it isn’t going to bring him back, though, is it?’ With that he turned away once more and stomped towards his car.

  ‘Bill,’ she shouted. She wasn’t done with him yet. She decided to change tack. ‘Ballogie. Does that word mean anything to you?’

  He stopped as if he’d walked into an invisible door, then slowly turned, his eyes burning into hers with an intensity that made her step back. ‘It was a street just round the corner from where we grew up. Why?’

  Something about the way he looked at her in that moment gave her pause. She decided not to mention the full name of the shell company. She would hold that piece of information back for now, or at least until she knew more. She groped in her mind for an answer that might satisfy him.

  ‘I found a file in his desk. A flat for sale on that street … Do you know if he was planning something?’

  ‘Tommy wasn’t prone to share his business dealings with me, Paula. You should know that.’ The charming man of only a few minutes ago was completely gone, and in his place, a man whose disappointment, mingling with grief and anger was on the turn towards hate. Paula couldn’t read whether that loathing was aimed at her or was being directed internally.

  With one last look at her, he turned and walked away.

  Paula felt a charge of worry. Let the cards fall. Was he going to do something stupid?

  ‘Bill?’ she shouted after him. ‘Bill!’

  But he was in his car and without looking at her, he started the car engine.

  Paula moved back and away from his car as if distancing herself from the cloud that hung over him. Her own grief was more than she could bear, how could she possibly help him handle his? She felt something brush her ankle. Looked down a
t the ground and saw a pile of leaves had been swept there. Hundreds of them. Each leaf not that much larger than a fifty-pence piece. They had settled there underneath the tree like a drift of crisp and tiny amber hands, curled at the edges. Plaintive. Needy.

  As Bill drove past her, she studied his face and considered the swift changes she’d seen in it these past few minutes; so much emotional movement in only a few thoughts – his apology, grief for Thomas, pleading for her to recognise they could have something together, then struggling with her rejection.

  She followed his passage back down the street and couldn’t help but worry he was going to do something that men do when the terror of dying no longer exceeds the pain of living.

  38

  Paula was still there a good ten minutes after Bill drove off. How can someone be lost while standing in the same position? she asked herself. What should she do? Who could she talk to? Thoughts whizzed through her mind like a crowd of angry wasps.

  Should she have chased after Bill?

  Did he know something about the shell companies after all? There was a definite reaction to her mention of Ballogie. And what on earth did he mean about the cards falling as they will?

  There was something wrong there, but she recognised that as he spoke, her mind was drifting away from him, protecting her from him and his worries. She simply didn’t have the emotional energy to take on his concerns as well as her own.

  A cry sounded from the small copse across the road from the church. A large brown bird – a buzzard? – lifted from a branch with a sweep of its powerful wings. Then two small black shapes shot after it. Then a third. Crows. The three birds were each about two-thirds of the size of the raptor, but they crowded it, harassed it far into the sky as if pushing it away from their nests. Two of them then dropped their speed and wheeled off in an arc, but the third, smaller crow continued to harry the buzzard, swooping in from the rear as if picking at the larger bird’s tail feathers.

  Paula heard a shoe scuff at the pavement behind her.

  ‘Are you okay, Mrs Gadd?’ Father Declan leaned towards her, bending from the waist. ‘Would you care to come in for a little heat and a warm drink?’

  ‘Sorry, Father,’ she replied. Feeling a moment’s absurdity at giving this young man who could barely grow a beard such a title. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ She looked into his eyes and wondered about unloading on him. And just as quickly she dismissed the notion. The poor man wouldn’t be able to handle what she had to say. ‘Very kind of you to offer, all the same.’ She gave a little nod and walked off the path and towards her car. Aware that as she did, his eyes followed her, and she sensed how unsettled he was that he couldn’t help her.

  Where was she going? she asked herself, as she drove along the Great Western Road. How had she even got here? She looked at the clock on the dashboard. That was half an hour she’d lost. Had she just been driving around? She must have just described a large circle. Hadn’t she passed this road end already?

  She adjusted her course and at the next junction turned right into Hyndlands Road. Further along she remembered it had been the route she’d taken the day she’d been mugged. The day Anton saved her.

  His café came into view. Beans and Bites. She indicated and pulled in further down the road, where she spotted a space. He’d been the one person who had been any help in this whole situation. Perhaps she should go into the café, buy a coffee and lay off all her worries on him.

  The only person apart from Joe, of course. She should phone or text him. Make sure he was alright. Talking to Bill, hearing his revelation, had pushed her concerns about Joe out of her mind. She retrieved her phone from her bag, found his number and pressed call. It dialled out and went to voicemail, so she cut the connection and sent him a text instead. He rarely listened to his voicemails. Texting was always the best way to get Joe’s attention.

  Here to talk if you need me. Let me know when you get home?

  Then she pushed the door open and clambered out of the car. She crossed the road, but was so lost in thought she didn’t judge her progress properly. A horn blared. Tyres squealed on the tarmac. She looked up to see a hot-faced woman, mouth open as she flung a torrent of abuse at her through the windscreen.

  Paula ducked her head and jogged the rest of the way to the pavement, throwing a wave of apology over her shoulder at the woman she had forced to brake.

  The shop she remembered Anton going into had a simple sign – which looked temporary – over the top quarter of the floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window. A small wooden table that looked unable to withstand a stiff breeze, with two matching chairs sat outside.

  Inside, the space was just as simple. A handful of tables and chairs dotted around the room, the wooden slats of the chairs protected with some cushions in primary colours. The counter was a wide glass chiller cabinet, filled with two rows of cakes and pastries. Behind it, against the wall sat a massive Gaggia coffee machine.

  Paula assessed the cakes as she remembered Anton’s comments about having Polish specialties. There were croissants, apple Danish, cheesecake, a couple of tray-bakes and a large Victoria sponge. Nothing that looked particularly Polish, she thought.

  Apart from an old man at one table, reading his newspaper, and a suited woman, a red coat draped over her chair, studying a mobile phone, the place was empty.

  To the right of the counter there was a small doorway, presumably to the staff area. A hand pushed through a bead curtain, and then a small, chunky, bald man emerged. He was wearing a white long-sleeved shirt, a pair of black denims and a small black apron. It occurred to Paula that he looked more Indian than Polish.

  ‘Can I help you, doll?’ he asked, his accent pure Glasgow.

  ‘Is Anton about?’ she asked.

  ‘Anton?’ The waiter made a face. ‘There’s just me here, doll. My sister helps out now and again, but mostly…’ he pointed at his chest. ‘It’s just me.’

  ‘Anton, the owner? Big guy. Polish? He’s a builder too. His name’s…’

  ‘Aye. Anton. You said that already.’ He offered her a big smile to show he was only joking. ‘Ain’t nobody here but us chickens. Nae Anton the Pole. Just me. Amit, the wee Bengali guy from Shettleston.’

  ‘So, this…’ Mystified, Paula looked around. She stared out of the window down the street towards her car, as if the sight of it might add some concrete detail and place her firmly, for once, at the centre of her own life. ‘He came over here … saved me from … got me a…’ What the hell was going on? She felt dizzy.

  ‘Here, missus,’ Amit reached out, took Paula’s arm and led her to a seat. ‘You look like you’re about to take a funny turn. Can I get you a wee glass of water?’

  As politely as she could, Paula shrugged off his concern.

  ‘Sorry, Amit. I’m not myself today. I’ve had some bad … And I thought this was where Anton worked. I’ll just get out of your hair…’ She looked at the shine on his scalp. ‘I better go.’

  She walked out the door and along the street towards her car, her mind a whirl. It was on this street she’d been mugged. It was that café Anton claimed to own. She knew this city. She wasn’t about to get confused over a street so easily, regardless of how grief was addling her brain. That was definitely the place he claimed was his.

  Anton Rusnak, she thought, who the hell are you?

  39

  Cara was on the mat in the dojo, facing off against Dave Roberts. Her fringe was plastered to her forehead. She was breathing hard, but felt a reserve of strength in her thighs. With some satisfaction, she noted that Dave was in a similar state. At least she was making him graft. He answered her look with a grin.

  ‘C’mon on then, hen. What you waitin’ on?’ He knew she hated it when people called her hen.

  Grinning in return, she rolled her shoulders, stretched off a pain in her upper arm and adopted the stance necessary to receive his attack and deliver her counter. This was perfect. A good workout was just what she needed to try and sweat off some of
her anguish and guilt at Danny’s death. She couldn’t shake off the feeling that she was somehow responsible – that if she hadn’t pushed him into agreeing to talk to Paula Gadd he might well be alive right now.

  And with his demise, her last hope of getting Paula to face up to the kind of man her husband had been was evaporating. Not that she expected it to achieve all that much. The police refused to listen. The case was long closed as far as they were concerned, but she had hoped at least to find some kind of acknowledgement of Sean’s murder.

  Dave slid in. His bare feet a sharp squeak on the mat. She quickly prepared for the attack. Read his movement. Countered. He overbalanced, fell and rolled back onto his feet in one fluid motion.

  He faced her and bowed.

  ‘Nice.’ Grin. ‘And now I need to hit the showers. Got the girls tonight. I’ve promised them a Teenage Ninja Turtles marathon.’

  ‘Ha,’ Cara laughed. ‘Serves you right.’

  ‘Hey. Don’t diss the turtles. Better that than My Little Pony.’

  They walked over to the changing area. Dave paused before he entered the men’s locker room. ‘You okay, Cara? I sensed a wee bit more anger in you tonight.’

  Cara looked into Dave’s eyes, surprised yet again at how well he could read her mood. She considered how much she could safely tell him.

  ‘An old pal of our Sean’s got killed the other day.’

  A sharp breath came from Dave. ‘Man, that’s shit.’ He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Did you know him well?’

  ‘Not really.’ She shrugged. ‘But when he and Sean were kids they were inseparable, so I can’t think of Danny without thinking of Sean.’ She felt the high from her activity fade and her mood fall. ‘Listen, you go on and get out of here.’ She took a step back towards the gym. ‘I’m going to get a good session in with a skipping rope.’ That had always been Cara’s reaction to stress. Exercise the feeling away.

  Dave pushed the door that led to the gent’s changing rooms open, but then turned to Cara, as if he’d just received a sudden insight.