Stretching backwards, he clasped his enormous hands behind his head and leant back in the chair further. This suit was different from the one he had worn in Luke's flat but no less extravagant. The silk shirt strained slightly in opposition to his reclining but the blazer was tailored so well that it barely rode up: no pull at the armpits and no tightening at the waist. A more subdued dark navy was the choice for this afternoon, with a grey waistcoat and matching trousers. There was not a single component of this outfit or any of the rest that he kept at his home or indeed in his office that had cost less than the top prices and as he leant his head back to fix his eyes on a point somewhere among the cornices on the ceiling, he knew he would not have it any other way.
His son was the prime example of the exception that proved this rule of his. Robert had been given every opportunity. Raised in privilege under his own roof and treated to the best food and entertainment that money could buy or the man himself could offer. An enviable academic career which was thankfully no true representation of his seemingly endless capacity for stupidity and disinterest. All of this he had provided because he was his son and for better or worse, he was a representation of himself. Ungrateful. That's what he was. Unable to see beyond his useless lowlife friends and the fun they had together (which seemed to him to consist of nothing more than sitting in the darkened games room playing on the consoles and smoking endless “cigarettes”). His constant source of shame. The spoiled fruit of his loins. Heaving a deep sigh, he levered his massive frame forward and sat upright, pressing the intercom button briefly. It was answered immediately by a curt voice.
'Yes Sir.'
His secretary, Claire, had been with him for almost a year now: a true testament to her staying power and thick skin. Geoffrey Reid prided himself on being a firm man and this notion of “firm but fair” was for the birds.
'Would you come through here please Claire?'
The lack of response was in the affirmative and the Magistrate leaned back once more in his seat, listening to the muffled traffic roar outside on the street. The soft ‘tip tap’ of high heeled shoes pacing towards his office down the long corridor became louder and louder until they paused right outside the heavy door. There was a tentative tap that resonated through the wood and he allowed himself a brief pause before speaking.
'Enter.'
One word. One syllable. Through many years of practice, he had got it down to a fine art - the duality of command and politeness. The undeniable instruction which was seemingly an invitation all at once. As the door opened soundlessly, his head turned, still rested on his arms to watch Claire walking in. It was a treat that never got old.
The timid knock had belied the creature that was now closing the door firmly and walking towards the desk. Tall and slender, she had dark hair down to her shoulders tied back in a severe looking ponytail. She carried herself entirely erect, soft shoulders deliberately squared and the heart shaped face atop her neck held upright. Through the square rimmed spectacles, her eyes were a burning brown. The overall look of a stern librarian made most men come over all a quiver or at the very least tone back whatever lewd and boorish behaviour they had been undertaking or even planning. Geoffrey Reid bore her gaze lazily.
'Yes. How can I help you?'
Even the voice was severe. He truly understood why the timbre and cadence of this imposing woman's speech when coupled with her appearance and manner had reduced many of his powerful and occasionally hostile guests almost schoolboy like obedience. His head turned back to the window as a raven landed on the sill. Even as he watched it looking through the pane, head cocked in confusion as if wondering what to make of the supine giant whose head was also rolled to the side, he could feel the irritation begin to emanate from Claire. The fire in her eyes had taken hold now and they were attempting to sear a hole in the back of the Magistrate's greying head to get his attention. She made an indistinct noise of annoyance. On the granite window ledge, the raven had concluded its leeward inspection and now had its head pointed to the other side. Its beady eyes surveyed the room briefly; the impatient secretary, the Victorian furniture, the tapestry and diplomas on the wall. They ran across the fireplace, for display purposes only now, and the ornaments that sat heavy and imposing on the mantelpiece, but they returned to the Magistrate. Claire coughed and Geoffrey's head whipped back round.
'Oh yes. Sorry Claire.'
The warmth of his tone was not entirely false. He took a great amount of pleasure in attempting to rile Claire. The smile that split his great face like a razor, flashing his unnaturally white teeth and the kindness that appeared in his eyes did little to quench the furnace building inside his secretary. She crossed her arms across her chest and looked at him pointedly, breaking the heavy silence with a single tap of her shoe. With her head lolling slightly to one side, she put him in mind of the raven on the window. Only the raven was less likely to try and peck his eyes out at the moment.
'I was getting rather hungry. Would you do me a favour and order me something in?'
Under the bridge of the black glasses frame, her small nose twitched. This was the tell that Geoffrey had noticed: - the one chink in her armour. It was the reason he did not fear her like most did and he often thought how funny it was that this was all it took. She had spent years being cold and distant. She had remained professional and stern and endured a lifetime of building a wall to keep these so called men of power where they should be – on the outside. But Geoffrey saw her nose twitch when she was close to losing her temper and he knew it was all an act. The anger that she was showing, however, was not. She liked order and routine and here he was dragging her out of it to order him a sandwich. It was just because he could and they both knew it. She informed him that she would and turned to leave. The Magistrate looked to the window but all he could see was the traffic whizzing up and down the mound. As the click clack of Claire's shoes echoed through the halls, he raised his eyes to the ceiling once more.
After lunch, he supposed he'd check in on this Luke Calvin character that was supposedly going to find his son. All the recommendation in the world couldn't give him faith in a man he had only just met and he would not accept anything less than quick and decisive success. Once Claire had cooled off to a medium boil he'd ask her to bring the files she had found on his detective, through the correct channels and the very shady ones alike. It was difficult to get references for this sort of work. There wasn't usually a manager to call and check if they'd had a good attitude or shown up drunk all the time. He reached for the telephone and dialled the Major's direct line knowing full well that he wasn't meant to have it. He knew the Major would be polite but unimpressed. He knew that checking up on a job he'd issued 3 hours earlier would probably look unprofessional and pushy. But this was just how Geoffrey Reid was wired and he would apologise to no man for it. As the final number was punched into the phone, he glanced outside once more, hoping to glimpse his bird. Two carnivores, eye to eye. He had sensibly remained gone.
'She'd have scared me off too buddy.' he murmured as the line began to dial.
Leaving The Archer, it was close to 2 o clock. An unnatural warmth was flowing through Luke's body and it wasn't entirely down to the sun that seemed to hang overhead. Tam had been in at the bar and had furnished him with what sparse information he could. Information, facts and possibilities were what he required to make headway but they usually came at a cost. Luckily for him, the old man had never upped his prices – giving out the goods both large and small for nothing more than a few rounds of drinks and a bit of company in the meantime.
Tam had known of him and promised to ask around, graciously accepting the smaller copy of the headshot that the Magistrate had provided. Luke paused outside the high rise flats to light up again. As the smoke hit his lungs, he held it briefly before exhaling. The taste of whiskey subsided temporarily and he made a mental note never to quit. There was something about the way it hit the spot when you had a drink in you that made it all worthwhile. Walki
ng down past the playgrounds in-between the flats, he took the small black notebook out of the back pocket of his jeans and opened it to where he had begun writing inside the pub. The hand with the cigarette reached upwards to sweep back the hair that was threatening to curl down over his eye and obscure his vision and he began to read.
The first thing he had written was always the same; “Stop writing in notebooks”. Aside from the date and location, this was the main pointer in the numerous notebooks that lay in his flat that it was Tam who was helping him out. He always insisted on making him write it down at the top of the page; a bizarre habit that had started the very first time they had become acquainted. It was one of Tam’s favourite stories to tell…
It had started when the older man had eyed him warily as he took the pen and paper out to write during their first chat, a good few years ago. Tam had jabbed his whiskey in an accusatory manner towards Luke's hands.
'That's not normal son.'
Luke viewed him with confusion. 'How?'
Tam's head shook sadly in response to the question. It was a gesture of disappointment. His mouth was puckered upwards and the wise old eyes avoided Luke's. The whiskey took a neutral position in-between them around shoulder height.
'There's only three types of people who use notebooks.'
As the whiskey made its shaky way towards Tam's mouth, Luke waited for the rest. A sip later and the glass returned to the table but nothing more was forthcoming. His face was placid as if trying to recall a memory just outside his grasp. Luke raised his glass almost to his lips but then paused and pressed the issue.
'Well. Who uses notebooks then?' he asked, trying to keep the irritation from his voice.
A great amount of air emanated out from the bushy white beard. The head began to shake again and the whiskey glass rose.
'Imagine not knowing that.' Luke took a sip instead of taking the bait. 'Imagine.'
Tam swirled the dregs of the amber liquid round the glass slowly and drained it. Turning on his stool with one mangled hand on the arm of his walker for support he faced his younger companion. The hand not being utilised for support was raised in front of Luke's face with the index finger extended upwards.
'Reporters. Nosy bastard reporters. Always asking questions. Asking who and whit and how come. And it makes nae odds whit you say, they'll be scribbling away in that notebook and ye ken that they'll be twisting it to suit them.'
There had been only two other men in the pub at this point, besides Brenda the barmaid. Both were known to Luke by sight but not by name. Stalking each other around the pool table, they were smashing every shot. He had clocked them on the way in and between the ink on the hands and the 'whit you lookin at' glances that he had gotten, he didn't reckon they were there to make friends with him. Tam had been sitting at the bar right by the pool table, to decrease his journey time should he want to play. Both of the players' heads whipped round on the announcement of Tam's next point. Luke fancied it was more out of habit than anything else.
'Cops.' A second gnarled finger made its way up to join its companion. 'No matter whit you're up tae or whit ye say it aw goes intae that wee book. They write and they nod but they watch ye and ye can tell they think they're better than you.'
Luke could feel the pool players' eyes on him. Being pegged as a reporter or a cop could literally be a death sentence in this place. Brenda had sidled up to the end of the bar and taken the empty glasses from in front of him. She clocked the intensity of the glares and the growing tension between the men on the stools so made an effort to kept her voice as breezy and light as possible.
'Same again boys?'
The white hair and beard rose and fell slowly to indicate “yes” but the eyes never left the man sitting opposite. Brenda began whistling to fill the silence as she started the drinks and made a note to get the jukebox on as soon as was possible. Luke remained calm. The iciness of the old man's eyes cancelled out the heat he could feel building behind him. He realised it had been a long time since he'd last heard a shot being taken.
'If you're no a cop.' One finger curled painfully back down to the fist. 'And yer no a reporter'. The second joined it and the fist clenched tight. 'Then you must be the third kind of person.'
Scar tissue ran thick and deep across his broken knuckles and Luke eyed him warily. The two men were now very interested in what the older man was saying and he could almost feel their breath on the nape of his neck. Brenda was in the middle of pouring the second pint, far too far down the bar to intervene. It felt like there was something coming and Luke gripped his empty whiskey glass tight in his right hand, ready to spin and smash it on whatever part of either pool player he could reach before the cues came down. Tam leered through narrowed eyes and reached the fist forward until it was just touching Luke's chin. His voice when it came was coarse and breathy.
'Yer a traffic warden.'
The two pool players behind him laughed so hard and so close that Luke nearly glassed them anyway as a reflex. He let out a long breath that he hadn't even realised he'd been holding and looked up the bar to Brenda who was pretending not have heard yet seemed to be finding the pint she had just poured somehow hilarious. Tam had both hands braced on his thighs and was rocking back and forward, eyes glistening with both tears and mirth. He reached out and clubbed Luke's shoulder playfully, nearly sending him flying.
'Ah, I cannae put the shiteners on you son. But I'll keep trying.'
Chapter 6
Robert Reid never went anywhere without Grant. Grant Ferguson could rarely go anywhere without Rab. They had started the same day at Fettes College, sat next to each other in registration and never really properly separated. Starting into the “big school” at the age of 12 is a harrowing experience for anyone and just because someone comes from a well off family, it doesn't mean they are above the usual childish bullying that you expect in a “normal” school. A “free” school was the derisory description of choice among the self-proclaimed elite who had nothing to earn the money that sent them there but felt they deserved the respect regardless.
Grant was big for his age; strong and broad; whereas Rab was and always remained rather slight. Short, slender and quiet, he struggled to raise his head from his shoes when spoken to and was even less inclined to do so when the interaction consisted primarily of name calling and cuffs around the ear. The Fergusons were a local family who had made their fortune in the fitness industry. Their house had improved but they stayed in the same place they always had and they made the best effort to keep their only child in the precarious balance between enjoying the avenues opened by their wealth and keeping him grounded and grateful. They both agreed that the merit of a private education was well worth the investment in their son but Mrs Ferguson feared daily. The first day that they had deposited him in front of the main building and waved him off, she had spoken to her husband about her worry:
'We've stuck him in there with all these snobs. God knows what they'll do to him or how they'll change him.'
Mr. Ferguson had put an arm across his wife's shoulders as they looked together at the grand school building looming over them. He shared her fears but one of them had to keep the sensible head on or Grant would be withdrawn and placed in a normal school before the day was out.
'He'll be fine. This is the best opportunity we can give him.' The confidence in his voice surprised him. He pulled her head sideways onto his shoulder and smoothed her hair as gently as a man with hands the size of ping pong bats can. 'Who knows, maybe he'll change them?'
The very first lunchtime, Grant and Rab took a walk down to Stockbridge for some food reasoning that they had sat together so now they might as well eat together. Young Master Ferguson wasn't yet entirely sure what to make of his diminutive companion – with his blonde hair cut short and the eyes that tracked the toe of each foot as it shuffled along the pavement seeming watery to the point of tears at all times. When he did speak, he mumbled indistinctly, although Grant was sure he had almost looked
at him when replying most recently. It was a minor improvement, but an improvement none the less. None of this behaviour made sense to a boy who was bigger than his classmates. Who bore any name calling with the indifference of a man who knows it won't escalate beyond that. On they went. Rab shuffling and mumbling. Grant striding easily, head up, eyes forward. They came upon a group of their classmates standing around eating who noticed their approach and fanned out to block the way. Grant paused two feet in front of them and held his left arm out across Rab's body to stop him since he wouldn't have noticed otherwise. Rab glanced upwards briefly and seeing the boys in the path, thrust his head back down towards his shoes, furiously avoiding eye contact.
This was the main group that had been riding him all morning. With their matching haircuts and expensive shoes, they looked like copies had been made of one original toff and the details changed ever so slightly with each iteration: a transmogrification by Chinese whispers. Even though Rab had the same style as them; the pricey satchel, the £100-pound haircut, the shoes and even the affluent upbringing; they had all been to school together from the start and knew that he didn't belong. Grant knew he didn't belong either but no one had chosen to mention that: in fact, the guys had treated him well and even now they greeted him warmly.
The question was asked about why he chose to associate with the Reid boy. A sly dig about his father's reputation for backhanders and biased judgement was made. Grant stood impassive as they all drew closer, beaming smiles at him that excluded the scrawny blonde who had begun to sniff audibly. He was cordially invited to reconsider his choice of friends. He scanned the faces of each of the boys in front of him as the subtle implication came that Grant would be more than welcome to carry on and go eat but they needed to speak to his friend about something. Rab's shoulders had begun to tremble slightly and his nose dripped clean onto his patent leather shoes. As his despair and shame built, he knew that Grant would walk on and leave him and he felt he almost deserved it. With the ever increasing heave of Rab’s shoulders, Grant's eyes went once more from the face of one boy to the next. Each of them had the pride and unwashed arrogance of a boy who had never been given the kicking he had deserved.
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