‘That was American.’
Tom grunted non-committally. ‘Off and on.’
‘Well, you didn't exactly help. Wanda … Vonda. If you're going to mouth a phoney name you could at least make it obvious.’
However, both agreed that despite Roddy's vowels and Tom's consonants this latest plan had got off to a brilliant start. It was a propitious moment—they were rid of Willie. It was time for phase two.
‘Now we work on papa.’
‘I want it on record,’ said Roddy grimly. ‘This is going too far. She wouldn't talk to her dad for years—they're rebuilding their relationship.’
So far Tom had tried and failed to make Jane miserable by sabotaging her career and then her relationship with her boyfriend; all that remained was her dad. Tom liked Benny Lockhart, didn't want to hurt him, but there was no other option.
And it wasn't as if he was trying to cause a permanent rift between father and daughter; a temporary falling out should do it. Briefly he'd considered enlisting Benny in the plan. That way the older man would know it wasn't a real quarrel and avoid any potential heartache. But Benny was no actor and if the scheme were to work then Tom needed him to feel every raw emotion. When Roddy voiced his doubts Tom didn't admit that he had them too, and instead resorted to his usual refrain.
‘I'm just trying to help her finish her book. She'll thank me in the end.’
Dark clouds rolled in over the Campsie hills that ranged along the northern edge of the city, bringing the threat of rain and a deluge of fair-skinned men in boldly patterned knitted sweaters. Tom drove carefully through the packed streets, threading his car amongst the throngs waving flags and singing heartily in their Nordic tongue.
It was the night of a crucial World Cup Qualifier, a clash between Scotland and the unfancied Faroe Islands. Despite his long residence in the country Tom took little interest in the qualification chances of the Scottish national side, but earlier that day Roddy had helpfully laid out their prospects.
‘It's a disaster,’ he'd said, ‘we only need the one point to make it to the finals for the first time since 1998.’
That made no sense to Tom. ‘Why is that a disaster? The Faroe Islands aren't exactly Brazil. You've never lost to them before, right? One point is all but a certainty.’
‘Shhhh! Shhhh!’ Roddy waved his hands frantically. ‘For pity's sake, man, do you want the football gods to hear you talk like that?’
Tom had dismissed Roddy's paranoia; for him there was a far more important fixture that night. Through an accident of scheduling the final of the pub quiz was due to start soon after the big match kicked off. Tom was certain that even should Scotland falter at Hampden Park, France would triumph at the Walter Scott Pub.
He turned confidently onto Gallowgate and headed east. Just before he'd left him Roddy had tried to confer on tonight's plan yet another of his codenames.
‘I don't want to hear it,’ said Tom peremptorily.
‘Aww, but it's a good one.’
‘I don't care. Every time you give something a name, it dies on its arse.’
‘That's not true,’ Roddy objected. He folded his arms, miffed. Then a moment later offered a conciliatory nod. ‘OK, so yes, it's true.’ He looked shocked. ‘Bloody hell. I'm jinxed.’
By the time Tom parked his car on the corner outside the pub, the rain had arrived. He pulled his jacket over his head and made a dash inside.
The place was packed, the regular crowd swollen with football supporters unable to get a ticket for tonight's game. The air was thick with the reek of sweat and wet woollen coats. Growling men gathered around the satellite TV, soaking up the pre-match build-up, nervously downing pints and talking down their chances of victory. A thin man with a sallow, pinched face who'd been in the crowd the last time Scotland had made it to the finals, rocked in the corner.
It was a little after seven o'clock; the game kicked off at half past, the quiz started at eight. Tom searched the crowded pub. Benny Lockhart leaned on the bar between his teammates. He seemed to be concluding a pep talk so Tom held back, allowing him to finish.
‘How you feeling?’ Benny asked the man with the bobbing Adam's apple.
‘Good,’ he replied.
‘Sharp?’
‘Sharp,’ he agreed.
Benny turned to the other man. ‘Rory?’
‘Brand new,’ said Rory. He looked over his shoulder at the quizmaster and then said slowly, ‘Mind you, I'm a bit worried because I don't know what he's gonna ask us.’
Benny pinched his brow. ‘Aye, well it's a quiz, Rory.’
‘Oh, right.’ Rory nodded. ‘Aye.’
Tom chose that moment to announce his presence. ‘Monsieur L …’
‘Tommy!’
The two men shook hands warmly. Benny insisted on buying him a drink.
‘Big night, huh?’ remarked Tom.
‘No kidding. Winning team gets a holiday to America. And two tickets to Disneyland.’
‘That's wonderful. Good luck with that.’
Benny smiled up at him. Tom hated that he had to deceive him, but kept reminding himself that it was for the greater good. A cold pint of Tennent's duly arrived.
‘I know you and Jane haven't always seen eye to eye,’ said Benny, ‘but I'm sure she'll be pleased you're here.’
‘Where is she?’ Tom looked innocently about the pub.
‘Not here yet. But the quiz doesn't start till eight.’ He inclined his head towards a clock behind the bar. There was still nearly three quarters of an hour to go.
‘Ah, well,’ said Tom, raising the lager to his lips, concealing a half-smile behind the glass. ‘Plenty of time.’
She'd left plenty of time to get to the pub for the quiz, but the cheery blast on the horn signalled that the cab was already here; now she'd be even earlier than planned, which would be a relief to her dad. Although just five or six miles separated them, for Benny the genteel West End with its curling Georgian crescents and Arabica-tinged air was a mysterious uncharted place and she might as well have been coming by flying saucer from Venus.
Outside the flat the minicab idled at the kerb. Jane slid into the back seat. The radio was tuned to the match; a pre-game interview blared platitudes. A Christmas tree freshener swung from the driver's rear-view mirror and in it she caught his reflection. He wore a flat cap pulled down over his brow, a chunky woollen scarf wrapped round the lower half of his face and in the narrow strip between them his eyes were obscured behind a pair of black spectacles with thick lenses.
‘That was quick,’ she said. ‘I wasn't expecting you for another ten minutes.’
‘Aye, well, I was just roun’ the corner, hen,’ he said, his voice muffled in the scarf. ‘Where to?’
‘East End, please. The Walter Scott.’
The driver stirred the gearbox and with a crunch located first gear. The cab lurched into the road. There was a steady swish and squeak from the windscreen wipers as they made progress through the wet streets.
‘You look familiar,’ he said. ‘You on the telly?’
‘Oh no,’ she said with a chuckle, then conceded, ‘Well, I've done a few interviews …’
He snapped his fingers. ‘You're that writer! Jane Somethin’ … My wife read your book. What's it called again?’
‘Happy Ending.’ He did recognise her. How … odd.
‘Aye, that was it. Happy Ending? She was greetin’ her eyes out by the end, it was that sad. And you wrote it.’ His flat cap swivelled as he turned his head in admiration. ‘That's amazing.’
Jane demurred with a faint smile, quietly pleased at his reaction.
‘She was in floods. Said it was the saddest thing she'd ever read. Really depressing.’ He glanced back. ‘God, you must be a right miserable cow.’
Stung, she sat back, pushing herself deep into the seat. Outside the window the city passed by in grey gloom. Red sandstone terraces that would glow in the evening sun were cold and mute, rain washing out their colour. The last of the da
ylight gurgled down storm drains.
She wondered how Willie was getting on at his meeting. He hadn't called her all day, which was probably a good sign since it meant he was too busy. She'd hoped his absence would free her up to beat her writer's block, but there had been no magical breakthrough. Instead she'd made brownies and vacuumed for three hours. On the radio the studio presenters wound up their interview and handed over to the match commentators for kick-off. In the background she could hear the giant football crowd churn with anticipation.
They passed a railway station. She was vaguely aware of the sign over the entrance as it slipped by, but fully five more minutes elapsed before the name on the board worked its way into her consciousness. Rutherglen. Not only was she not going to Rutherglen, it was the wrong side of the river from her intended destination. With a flutter of panic she leaned forward to address the driver.
‘Where are we going?’
‘The Rabbie Burns.’
‘I said the Walter Scott.’
‘You sure?
‘Of course I'm sure!’ she snapped.
‘Hey, hey! No need for that. They're both iconic pillars of our national literature arguably responsible for the over-romanticisation of Scottish history that persists to this day.’ He sniffed. ‘Easy mistake to make.’
‘OK, OK.’ She glanced at the time on her phone. ‘Just … please hurry.’
There was still time. But only just. She scrolled through her contacts and dialled her dad to let him know what had happened. It'd be fine. So long as the traffic wasn't too bad she'd get there before the quiz started.
The phone rang six times before connecting.
‘Dad!’
‘Hullo, aye … it's Benny Lockhart … I can't get to the phone right now so please leave me a message.’
With a twinge of concern she guessed that he couldn't hear it ring in the noisy pub. There was a dull tone. Jane decided not to leave a message; it would only make him worry. She'd see him soon enough. The cab hit a pothole and her stomach lurched. The bump dislodged the driver's scarf. It unwrapped itself, baring his mouth and chin. She squinted at him in the mirror.
‘Do I know y—?’
He shoved it back across his face before she could take a good look.
‘Out of fags,’ he said quickly. ‘Gi'e us a minute.’
‘What? No. I have to get to the …’
He stamped on the brake, the sudden stop drawing hoots of protest from cars behind, then fumbled for the handle. The door flew open and he flung himself through it, stumbling over the sill in his hurry to escape. Picking himself up he lowered his head and pelted past Jane's window.
She scrambled out of the cab. ‘Come back!’ she shouted after his rapidly receding figure. ‘I have to get to the … pub.’ Her shoulders slumped. He'd gone, disappearing into the traffic and the night.
The driver's door flapped. She ducked her head back inside the car. The ignition was empty; he'd taken the keys. Slamming the door in frustration she began to walk briskly along the slick pavement, willing a black cab to materialise out of the rain. Then she remembered the number of a taxi company in her phone. She got through on the first ring. Nothing available for half an hour. The big match, y'understand.
In half an hour it would be too late. Desperate now she stepped into the road to flag down a car, waving her arms at the approaching traffic, trusting that amongst them one good Samaritan would stop. Cars and vans swerved past, sweeping her with watery light from their headlamps, blasting their horns in irritation. One driver rolled down his window and for a moment she was sure she was saved, but instead of offering her a ride he unleashed a foul-mouthed tirade and then with an upward thrust of his middle finger was gone.
She tried her dad again. He wasn't picking up. Fat drops of rain pattered against her phone. The weather was worsening and she hadn't bothered taking her umbrella tonight since she hadn't been planning a bloody walk. She cursed the minicab driver; why had he abandoned her? Was he so desperate for a cigarette that he'd legged it into the night? Had his wife been so upset by Happy Ending that he was taking some strange revenge? And what was all that chat about Walter Scott and Burns—was he an aspiring writer with an unpublished novel of his own? She was mystified.
Up ahead a cluster of figures took refuge at a bus shelter. She saw several arms extend to hail a bus and seconds later one rolled past her, coming to a stop with a squeal of brakes in front of the bedraggled line of people. She had no idea if it was the right bus, but it was pointing in the right direction. And it was dry.
She jumped aboard and made her way along the aisle as it bounced down the road, finding a seat next to an old woman in a white knitted hat that steamed gently as it dried out.
‘Dreich night, hen,’ remarked the old woman, gazing dismally out of the window. ‘As black as the earl o’ Hell's waistcoat.’
For one insane moment Jane contemplated calling Tom for help. She got as far as to highlight his name in her phone contacts list, before common sense prevailed. Firmly tucking away the phone she studied the route map above the window. The bus was making good progress in the general direction of her destination, but in about a mile it would turn off the main street taking her farther from the pub. There was nothing else for it—she'd have to walk.
‘Unbelievable! How did Miller miss that?!’ The match commentator's anguished howl was taken up by the denizens of the pub as Scotland's star striker contrived to poke the ball past the post of an open goal.
‘Dismal,’ groaned Benny Lockhart. ‘Pathetic.’ He turned to Tom, shaking his head. ‘See, it's at times like these I think it might be nice to be someone else. Someone who wasnae a Scottish football supporter.’ He paused. ‘Though I cannae see mysel’ as a German.’ He put his head to one side. ‘Maybe a Brazilian?’ He nodded, warming to the idea. ‘I like goin’ to the beach.’ He patted his belly. ‘Though it's a wee while since I fit into my Speedos.’
Tom watched as Benny reached into a battered holdall.
‘Here, what d'you think?’ He pulled out a collection of coloured skip-caps sporting Mickey Mouse ears, each embroidered with the name of a team-member, except for Jane's, which in addition to her name also displayed the word ‘Captain’.
‘Me and the boys have discussed it, we're going to make her captain.’
That still left one question. ‘And the mouse ears?’ asked Tom.
A soft smile spread across Benny's face. ‘When she was little she always wanted to meet Mickey Mouse. Saved up all the pocket money her ma gave her for a trip to Disneyland. Every birthday it was the same—all that wee girl ever talked about was Mickey Mouse.’ His tone darkened. ‘Every birthday until her seventh.’
The memory clouded Benny's face. Tom wanted to tell him to stop. That he knew. But it was too late.
‘Her ma had taken her to Woolworths for her present. They were late getting back. I was at home, mad that my dinner wasn't on the table.’ The words caught in his throat. ‘That was the night I walked out on them.’
Tom felt a shudder of unease. He knew the story—it was Jane's after all—but this was different, this was the other side. Until now he hadn't heard it from the villain's point of view.
‘Son, I wish walking out was the worst thing I did that night.’ Benny stared vacantly into the middle distance. ‘But no. I thought I'd teach them a lesson. So that's when I did it.’
‘Oh god …’ Tom mouthed, knowing full well what was coming.
‘I emptied Jane's piggybank of all her Disney money,’ he said quietly. ‘Went out and spent every penny on drink.’
Tom listened dry-mouthed as Benny relived the memory.
‘You know why they were late home?’
‘Ah … yes,’ he confessed and saw comprehension dawn on the other man's face.
‘‘Course you do—it's in the book, isn't it?’ He dredged up the horror. ‘Her ma had dropped dead in Woolworths. Her ma was dead in the Pick ‘n’ Mix aisle in Woolworths and I was out spending her Mickey Mouse m
oney on booze.’
Benny played nervously with Jane's cap, turning it round and round in shaking hands. His eyes flicked to Tom's half-empty pint of lager and he licked his lips.
Tom felt sweat prickle his forehead. Could he really bring himself to continue with a plan that might break Benny—again?
‘I know I can never make it up to that wee girl,’ said Benny, trying to keep his voice steady, ‘but if we win the prize tonight, I'm going to take her to Disneyland.’ He paused. ‘No’ the shit one in Paris, obviously.’ He raised an apologetic hand. ‘Nae offence.’
Benny leaned on the bar.
‘Years later I found out that the police brought Jane home two minutes after I left. Two minutes, son.’ He glanced up at the wall clock. Ten to eight. ‘She'll be here. I'm sure nothing's happened.’ He swallowed. ‘Not again.’
A cry of distress rocked the pub. ‘Another near miss for the plucky Faroe Islanders!’ bellowed the TV commentator, adding in a high-pitched squawk, ‘Is history going to repeat itself tonight?
Tom looked at Benny. ‘Will you excuse me for just one moment?’
‘Sure, son.’
He moved along the bar, out of Benny's earshot, dug out his phone and dialled with shaking fingers.
The plan had seemed so simple. Aided by Roddy's illegal radio scanner—obtained cheaply off a former News of the World reporter—they would eavesdrop on the minicab channels until they heard a dispatcher send a cab to Jane's address. Roddy, disguised as a driver, would then arrive outside Jane's flat before the real cab she'd booked turned up. He'd take her far enough away from the pub that there'd be no way she could make it to the quiz in time. Her dad would be disappointed, she'd be upset—enough to get her writing again. So simple. God, he was such an idiot.
‘Roddy!’
‘Tom …’
‘Call it off,’ he barked into the phone. ‘Bring her here, immediately!’
‘Tom, she's gone.’ His voice was frantic. ‘I'm back at the car. She's not here. We've lost her.’ There was a horrified pause. ‘In Rutherglen.’
Tom lowered the phone without hanging up. Roddy rattled on, his voice distant. The hubbub of the football supporters seemed to fall away. Tom stood in the dreadful silence. A voice pierced the stillness.
Not Another Happy Ending Page 18
