by Iain Banks
Mr Douglas, senior partner at Macrae, Fietch and Warren, said he would contact a firm specialising in criminal work, and a good advocate, and would have the former find out where Tommy was and whether any other lawyer had received instructions to defend him. He was sure they could come to an arrangement. I signed a letter authorising him to make all necessary disbursements to deal with Wee Tommy's case, as soon as his family got in touch.
Macrae, Fietch and Warren's offices are on Union Street. I left them, buzzing with energy, wanting to do something. I marched up the road to the side entrance to Central Station, found a phone and rang the Griffin. Bella answered.
'Aye?'
'Bella; it's... ah... Jimmy Hay,' I said, my mood of busy happiness evaporating instantly as I realised I didn't even know what name to use now.
Bella wheezed. 'Aw aye; that Jimmy Hay the Dan Weir?' She laughed bronchially. I was left, stunned and dismayed, unable to tell whether it really was all a big joke to her or she was being deliberately unkind.
'That's right,' I admitted quietly, as Bella's cackles subsided.
'Okay then, Jimmy; ye'll be wantin that boyfriend of mine Ah suppose, aye?'
'Eh?'
'Ma boayfriend.' Bella wheezed and laughed at the same time. 'Haw, heid-the-baw,' I heard her say to somebody else, 'it's that big ugly guy wi the funny hoose.' I closed my eyes, wanted the ground to swallow me up. 'He's just cummin,' Bella said. 'Here he is noo.'
'Aye?' It was McCann.
'McCann?' I said, fearfully.
'Ah, it's yersel, is it?' McCann said.
'Yes,' I said, feeling foolish now, not knowing what to say. Ah; what the hell. 'Are you still talking to me?'
'Ah'm talkin tae ye noo, am Ah no?'
'I know, but are you still talking to me? You know what I mean. Are you mad at me? I mean angry?'
'Course Ah'm angry, but that doesnae mean Ah'm no talkin tae ye.'
'I'm not a real capitalist, McCann; I don't own any shares...'
'Aye, aye. Look; dinnae apologise to me, son; life's too short. Buy us a drink an Ah'll tell ye what a lyin basturt ye are.'
'Right! Stay there!' I said.
'No the noo,' McCann said, exasperated. 'Ah've got tae go fur ma check-up at the infirmary; Ah only came in fur a quick hauf on ma way; Ah wiz pittin on ma coat when ye rang.'
'When'll you be free?'
'Ach, they take ages; might be oors. Ah'll get back when Ah can, but probably no before five.'
'Okay, I'll see you then.'
'Right ye are, then.'
'Oh!' I said. 'McCann; do you know anything about Wee Tommy? I've put a note through his mum's door and told her to use my lawyer; I'll pay.'
I wanted to bite my tongue.
McCann tutted. 'Aye, money talks, eh?' He sighed. 'Naw; I havnae heard any thin more. Ah heard the polis came tae see you, that right, aye?'
'Aye. Look, can you think of any other way of getting in touch with his mum and dad?'
'They might be at his auntie's. Ah'll call in; it's on ma way.'
'What, now?'
'Aye, if ye'll let me aff this fuckin phone...'
('Hi you; swear box!' Bella shouted in the background.)
('Aw, shut up, wumin,' McCann muttered.)
'That'd be great... or I could phone them,' I suggested.
'They're no oan the phone,' McCann said loudly. 'Noo will ye let me go? Ah'll have tae run if Ah'm tae see them an get tae ma appointment. Goodbye.'
'Take a taxi!' I yelled. 'I'll p...'
But he'd rung off.
I stood for a moment, holding the phone and remembering something about names... (The first time I'd met Wee Tommy, in the Griffin, I'd leaned to McCann and muttered, 'He's nearly the size of me; why's he called "Wee"?' and McCann had muttered back, 'His da was called Tommy, tae.' I must have looked puzzled. 'Couldn't they,' I said, 'have called him "Tam" instead?' McCann had just looked at me.)
Names; Wee Tommy... Jumping Jesus, he must have known all the time!
The policemen had asked for me by name. 'Daniel Weir?' they'd asked. That was what they'd said, and it didn't seem to mean anything special to them, I'd have known. But they knew my name, and the only people they seemed to have talked to had been Wee Tommy, his pal at the supermarket, and Wee Tommy's mum. So Wee Tommy must have told them. He'd known, or guessed, who I was.
I left the phone and wandered across the station concourse, grinning. I didn't know what to do next.
The big black electronic noticeboard flashed yellow with changing orders of departures. Intercities to London and Bristol, a slow train to Edinburgh (I didn't even know about that; I thought all the Edinburgh trains left from Queen Street), trains to Stranraer and Ayr and Largs and Wemyss Bay and Gourock ... passing through Paisley.
The next Paisley train was at platform thirteen. It left in five minutes, according to the station clock. They operate something called the Open Station system here now; no ticket checkers at the barrier, you just walk onto a train, and pay the guard when he comes round if you haven't got a ticket.
Fifteen minutes later I was in Paisley, heading for Espedair Street.
Paisley had and hadn't changed. Busier with cars, maybe not quite so busy with people. Newer, brighter, sometimes different shops. A few higher buildings. I walked through the angled sunshine of a December's day, experiencing a strange mixture of elation and... I don't know what to call it; exalted bitterness seems closest. I sang to myself, inside my head, the songs I had heard the previous night, in the hotel, through the wall and through the years, remembering Christine's voice and the taste of her lips, the way she moved on stage and the touch of her body.
I walked and remembered, and I found I was humming a new tune, to the beat of my steps, and heard new words combine to fit the tune. And the words said:
I thought this must be the end
And never again we'd meet
It's just I hadn't reckoned on
Espedair Street
It's the wrong side of the wrong side of the tracks
The dead end just off Lonely Street
It's where you go, after Desperation Row
Espedair Street
And thought: Ha ha! As I walked to Espedair Street.
Which was a real disappointment, to be honest. They seemed to have knocked a few bits of it down, but I couldn't be sure which bits. It looked less homogeneous than I remembered, more mixed up and unsure of itself. There was a new pizza place just at the Causeyside end; it looked out of place to me, something bright and plasticky from another age, another planet.
Across the other side of Causeyside Street was the Waterloo Bar, where Jean Webb and I had sat that day, twelve years before. It didn't seem to have changed much. I thought of going in for a drink, just for old times' sake, but didn't. I walked down Espedair Street instead, trying to remember which flat had been the Webbs'.
Just an ordinary street; low tenements, more modern low flats (I couldn't even remember if they had been here the last time; the street looked different), semis and detached houses, an old, derelict school, and a new snooker club in an old factory building. I turned around at the far end and started back, oddly deflated.
I tried to recapture the feeling of anticipatory joy I'd experienced that day I'd met Jean, or the sensation of sublimely resigned bliss I'd experienced, seven years later, after visiting her mother, walking down the same street under that stunning sky. Of course no echo of emotion sounded from either occasion.
I walked, humming my new tune, while the words said.
You thought those times would never stop
The glass would always be refilled
You used to be right over the top
But now you're just over the hill
I stood at the traffic lights on Canal Street. There was a man waiting on the other side, looking curiously at me. Suit, coat, briefcase; not the sort of person I'm used to having stare at me. It had been years since somebody recognised me in the street and let me know; an intens
ely embarrassing experience.
This man looked like he wanted to talk. I considered walking away down Canal Street, so I wouldn't pass him... but what the hell. The lights changed. We met in the middle of the road; he put one arm out, as though to stop me, put his head to one side and squinted with one eye. 'Dan Weir?' he said.
'Yes?' I said. He smiled broadly and put out his hand, shaking mine. 'Glen Webb; remember me?'
Jean's brother; the one who'd been in the army, if I was right. I nodded. 'Yes, of course.'
He glanced at his watch. 'You got time for a drink?' He half-turned, to head along with me. He seemed honestly pleased to see me.
I shrugged. 'Well, why not?'
We went to a new, overly plush bar called Corkers; subdued lighting and plump green upholstery. A fan on the ceiling; is this the new insignia of yuppie hangouts in Scotland? Isn't a place proper without a prop? I had a pint of export, ignoring the attractions of inferior British copies of anyway awful American lagers. Glen Webb had a non-alcoholic lager .
'Thought it was you. Hope you don't mind me accostin you in the street like that.'
'No, that's all right.' I said. 'Doesn't happen very often these days.'
'You retired now, aye?'
'Aye, sort of,' I said. I'd never thought of it like that, but he was right. 'What about you? You look prosperous.'
'Oh, I'm doin all right for myself. I'm working for a firm in Glasgow now; just on my way to do somebody's books.' He laughed, and I thought: wrong brother. This was the accountant who'd been in England. 'Well, this is a right surprise. I was just talkin to Jean about you the other day.'
'How is she?'
'Fine. A lot happier now she's settled down again.' He took a sip of his gassy lager. 'You knew she'd got divorced?'
'No,' I said, surprised. And, right there and then, before the words were fully out of his mouth, something inside me seemed to leap.
'Did you know Gerald? Her husband, did you?' Glen asked. I shook my head. 'Ah, well, he wasn't a bad guy really, but I think they just... drifted apart, you know? And then she found out he was seein this other woman...' He shrugged. ' All sorted out now. You knew they had a wee girl?'
'Dawn,' I said, pleased to be able to remember.
'Aye. Well, Jean and her live in...' He frowned. 'Damn me, I can never remember the name of the place...' And I was sure he was going to say 'Bahrain', or 'Adelaide' or something, but he didn't. 'Arsey? Harris-egg ... something like that. I've got the address somewhere...' He reached down to his briefcase. 'Near Fort William; on the Road to the Isles.' He searched the briefcase for a few moments, then shook his head. 'Must have left it at the office. Never mind.'
'Arisaig?' I suggested. He snapped his fingers.
'The very place. Anyway; the two of them seem to be happy enough there. What about you? This you makin a sentimental journey, or what?'
'Yeah, I suppose I am,' I admitted.
'Aye, I always come up this way myself, just to look at my mum's old flat. Daft, isn't it? Doesn't even look the same since they were all renovated.'
'Aye, I know.' I supped my beer meditatively. 'Yeah, it is a bit daft.' We sat in silence for a moment. 'How's your mum?'
This time, I was sure the answer would be 'Dead', but I was wrong again. 'Ah, she's no too bad. She's in a wheelchair now; my aunt Marie looks after her.
'Aye, she was in the wheelchair last time I saw her.'
'Of course, aye; she told me about that. Thinks you're wonderful.'
'What? Who does?'
'My mum. Oh God, aye; she thought it was great, you calling in like that. Her with a famous rock star in her wee flat, taking tea.' Glen laughed. I shook my head, looked down. This has been my Modesty Act for so long it's no longer an act. I felt the way I had when I'd just left her flat that time, the way I had at the far end of Espedair Street quarter of an hour earlier; saddened.
'Whereabouts you livin these days?'
'Oh, I... move around a lot. I'm in Glasgow, just now,' I said, lying, and wondering why I lied.
'Ah, well, if you're ever moving around in the Highlands, you should drop in and see Jean. She'd appreciate it. Still talks about you a lot. You've got a couple of fans there, her and wee Dawn.'
'Really?' I tried to make it sound self-deprecating without making it sound insulting to them. I busied myself with my glass. My heart was misbehaving. This was absurd.
'Aw , aye,' Glen said, smiling. 'Great to be famous, eh?'
I agreed it was, most of the time. We spent another five or ten minutes talking about other old friends we had in common, and people we'd gone to school with, until Glen looked at his watch and started draining his lager. I finished my pint. 'I've got to go,' Glen said, taking up his briefcase. 'Here;' he handed me his card. 'Give us a ring if you want Jean's address... or my mum's; you're always sure of a cup of tea there.'
'Thanks.' We went to the door. A light shower had started outside and we stood on the pavement, under an awning, while Glen dug into his briefcase for a small umbrella. I looked up and down the street.
'Aye, you'll see a few changes in the old town, I suppose.'
There were actually fairly few in sight from where we stood, but I knew what he meant. I nodded. 'Aye. There weren't any places like this here then,' I looked back at the bar we'd just left. 'The Waterloo doesn't seem to have changed much, though... not from the outside, anyway.'
Glen Webb unsheathed the little Knirps and fiddled with it. 'That your old watering hole, was it?'
'No,' I said. '... I think the only time I was in there was once with Jean; I was celebrating because we'd got our first advance. Practically kidnapped her to get her to have a drink with me.'
'Oh, God.' Glen grinned, opening the umbrella. 'You wouldn't have needed to kidnap that lassie.' He nudged me with one elbow. 'If that was the time she told me about, she was nearly asking you to take her with you.'
Did I stare? I don't know. I looked at the man, and listened to the traffic roar. 'Aye,' Glen chuckled, 'you'd a narrow escape there.' He held his hand out again. We shook hands. 'See you again, sometime, Dan. Give us a ring. Take care now.'
'You t-too ... goodbye.' I said.
Glen Webb walked off into the bright drizzle. I stood, brows furled, thinking furiously.
I walked back to Gilmour Street, over glistening pavements, under slowly darkening skies, wondering if I was stupid enough to do what I was thinking of doing.
McCann was sitting with a half and a half in front of him when I strode through the doors of the Griffin. 'Oh fuck, it's Bill Haley. Ye want a drink?' McCann stood up.
'A pint of heavy,' I said. I rolled my eyes. 'Bill Haley,' I snorted.
'A pint of your finest heavy beer for Zippy Stardust here, Bella,' McCann said. I didn't bother to ask whether it was a deliberate mistake. 'Well you're lookin pleased wi yersel,' he told me. McCann's forehead was not a pretty sight, but I'd seen him with worse damage.
'Come and sit with me a minute, McCann,' I said. McCann looked at me oddly.
'Your check-up all right?' I asked once we'd sat down.
'Right as rain. They asked me aboot this, mind.' McCann pointed to his bruised, cut head.
'What did you tell them?'
Ah said the wife fell down the stairs.'
'The wife fell down the stairs?' (Apart from anything else, McCann is a widower.)
'Aye; on top of me.' McCann winked.
I shook my head. 'What about Wee Tommy?'
'Ah found his maw and paw; they were at his auntie's right enough. In a right state. Ah gave them that number, of yur lawyers. They were very grateful. Wee Tommy's in court Thursday; Ah called in again on the way back from the hospital an his dad wiz back an say in according tae yur lawyers they think they can get him oot on bail. That okay?'
'Perfect. I'd come along on Thursday, but I might not be here. I'm leaving; probably just a holiday, but I'm going tonight. Or tomorrow mornmg, anyway.
McCann didn't look surprised. 'Aw aye? Where aboots y
e goin?'
I took a deep breath. 'Arisaig.'
There are times when you can't do the sensible thing, when you can't act like a responsible adult at all; you just have to do whatever insane thing comes into your head. When bad people do it they end up murderers, when good people do it they end up heroes, and when the rest of us do it we end up looking like total idiots. But when's that ever stopped us?
I'd got the train back to Glasgow Central, couldn't see the shuttle bus for Queen Street, judged it would take ten minutes for me to get to the front of the taxi queue, so walked the quarter mile. There were only two trains a day to Arisaig on a Tuesday, and I'd just missed the last one — the 1650 to Mallaig — by five minutes. I'd stared down at the empty tracks, fuming.
Then I calmed down and tried to think rationally — however inappropriate that might have been, given my current state of mind. I was crazy doing this anyway, but I was totally mad to think about going right now. I had to see McCann; I'd agreed to meet him, and I still didn't know what was happening about Wee Tommy. There were a couple of other things I had to do as well.
I went to see when the next train was and picked up a timetable. 0550 tomorrow; ten to six in the morning, for God's sake; a sleeper from London. I bought a ticket and booked a seat (first class; old habits die hard). Due in to Arisaig at 1118. I got myself a cheapo digital watch in the station and set the alarm for 5 a.m. It seemed like a long time to wait. I had a horrible feeling I'd talk myself out of it by then.
Oh heck, might as well go the whole hog...
I ran to Macrae, Fietch and Warren's again, had the receptionist ring the Griff to say I'd be there in half an hour, and caught Mr Douglas before he left the office.
'I beg your pardon, Mr Weir?' he said when I told him what I wanted to do. He'd gone a bit pale.
'It's perfectly simple,' I told him, still breathing hard from the run. 'Let's get my Will out and we can have it drawn up from that in five minutes.' It took twenty, and Mr Douglas frowned when we took out the bit about being of sound mind, but it was done.
'I cannot believe, Mr Weir,' old Douglas said, adding weight to his words by the slow removal of his half-moon glasses, 'that you are not going to regret this... hasty decision.'
