by A. D. Scott
Annie stood in the doorway and said, “See you Sunday night, McAllister,” daring him not to be back by then.
The front door slammed. They were gone.
Joanne said, “I’m going out to the garden.”
He was uncertain if she wanted to be in the garden or not be in his company. “I’ll join you in a minute.” Alone with Granny Ross, he started, “Mrs. Ross . . .”
Something in his tone made her squint her eyes at him. “Aa’ ye?” she drew out the word to a question.
“I know it’s a lot to ask, but would you be able to stay here over the weekend, until Monday?”
“If needs be, of course I will. They’re my family.”
He suspected from the way she was standing, facing him square on, that she was not happy with his decision. Or is it something else? he wondered.
“Mrs. Ross, I’d like to pay you to be our housekeeper—you’re here every day, and most weekends, and you deserve payment.”
“Please don’t insult me, Mr. McAllister. Joanne is like a daughter to me. And I’ll remind you that those girls are my grandchildren.” She turned towards the sink and began clattering the dishes so loudly he feared the crockery would crack. “I’ll be here as long as I’m wanted. You can count on that.”
He had the good sense to say no more. “Thank you, Mrs. Ross, I’m sorry if I offended you.”
“Just be back when you promised. Monday morning. That should give you enough time to do whatever it is needs doing.”
“I will. And thank you again.”
There was no reply.
He went to the garden. Joanne was in the deck chair doing nothing. He hugged her goodbye.
“See you very soon,” he said.
“Aye, I hope so.” She closed her eyes against the sun and didn’t open them until she heard the back door open, then shut. Then she closed her eyes again. “I’m as scared as you, McAllister,” she said to no one in particular. “I made a disastrous choice the first time around, so I’m just as scared as you.”
SIX
He arrived in Glasgow seven hours later and went straight to the Herald. Mary was at her desk.
“Oh, hello,” she said, looking up, “the editor wants you.” Then she continued typing.
Sandy Marshall was busy with proof pages, marking this, running a pencil through that. “Take a seat, I’ll be with you in a sec.” He turned to the sub-editor. “This’ll do, and make sure you up the font on the headline.”
When the sub left, Sandy turned back to McAllister. “Good to see you again.” He pushed the proof pages of an article towards McAllister. “This whole gang thing is blowing up, and you’re our lead to Gerry Dochery. Can I second you for a week or so to work with Mary on the story?”
McAllister dropped into the chair across the desk from his old friend. They were more than colleagues, they had been cadets together, had grown up from full-of-themselves cocky young men to fully fledged journalists before their paths separated, McAllister to cover the Spanish Civil War, Sandy Marshall into some never quite explained position in the army dealing with information.
Misinformation, Sandy had once said. But that was all he’d ever shared.
“I know you have commitments up north,” Sandy started, “but this story is big. And Mary is convinced it goes beyond plain old gangster territory disputes. Plus there is the mystery as to why your tinker friend’s name keeps cropping up.”
“Mary suggested I become involved?”
“No, this is me asking for a favor.”
McAllister reached for a cigarette. A favor, he thought, that’s what brought me down here in the first place. But he was interested. More than that, he was beginning to feel the thrill of a big story about to break. “How long will it take?”
Sandy laughed. “You know better than that . . . it takes as long as it takes.”
“A week. No more.” Elated at the opportunity, yet guilty, how am I going to explain a week away? McAllister couldn’t believe he’d agreed so readily.
“Done.” The editor reached for the phone. “Mary, join us in my office, will you?” He lit a cigarette. “Don’t say I said this, but keep an eye on her. She’s mixing with some right evil souls and she . . .”
“And she—meaning me, I suppose—can look after herself.” Mary flopped into the chair next to McAllister.
He could see she was exhausted. He saw that her hair had lost its luster and her clothes were grubby.
She caught him looking. “I’ve been poking around the remains of the boxing gym and haven’t been home. I need a bath, I need a hair wash—my clothes stink of fire—but later. You can sit across the room if you can’t take the smell.” She reached across for her editor’s cigarettes. McAllister offered his lighter. She accepted, then asked, “So, you on board?”
“He is,” Sandy answered.
“What do you want me to do?” McAllister asked.
“Talk to Wee Gerry Dochery,” Mary answered.
“Why would Gerry talk to me?”
It was a rhetorical question. He and Sandy Marshall understood the implications—if Gerry Dochery talked, he would be signing his own execution warrant. Mary understood, but in an intellectual sense. She’d walked the streets and alleyways; she’d stood in the sawdust and blood of a Saturday night at a pub in the slums. But her name gave her protection; connections as high up as advocates and chief constables and peers of the realm, not to mention her late father’s regimental colleagues. The gangsters were not stupid; they knew what harming her would bring down on the community.
Mary was impatient. Her legs, not quite touching the floor, making her look like the shrunken Alice in Wonderland, were swinging in a steady rhythm. “I don’t know, he’s your pal. Can’t you persuade him to talk for old times’ sake? Blackmail him? You know the man, we don’t. All I do know is that this fire was an attempt to kill your Highland friend. And it succeeded in killing his former coach, a harmless old boxer, a man who was minding his own business, running a decent club, and encouraging a lot o’ the young lads to find a legitimate way of venting their violence—in the ring.”
“You know the Jimmy McPhee connection for certain?” McAllister saw her flush and look away. He recognized her ambition; he’d trained enough cadet reporters. He also knew that the training emphasized that speculation has no place in a journalist’s repertoire. Facts, facts, and at least two sources to confirm those facts, were what he’d drummed into the overeager trainees.
“A very reliable source told me McPhee was hiding out in the gym, had been since he was released from Barlinnie . . .”
“So if someone is after him, why would Jimmy stay around the city?” McAllister was thinking aloud, not expecting an answer.
“Search me.” Mary had thought this over and had no answers, and that annoyed her.
“So someone set fire to the place to flush him out?”
“No, McAllister. Someone tied up Old Man Laird, removed what was left of his teeth, and some of his fingers, then they set fire to the gym, with him still in it, alive.” She saw the editor and McAllister look away; even they were distressed by the description, or perhaps distressed by the cold way she laid out the story. “The doctor who attended the deceased is hoping his heart gave out first, as they only removed three fingers. But . . .”
“If that’s correct—the heart giving out first—it’s manslaughter. If not, it’s murder,” Sandy Marshall spoke quietly. This was the first he’d heard of the torture. “That’s why we need to contact Gerry Dochery before more deaths occur.”
“More murders, you mean.” Mary was not one to let a euphemism pass.
McAllister sighed. “I said I’m in. I meant it. Let me go home first. Let my mother know I’m here. I’ll be back in an hour or so.” McAllister stood. “See you.”
As he left, he heard Sandy asking Mary, “When will you hear if it was his heart or the fire?”
“Don’t know. Everything’s speculation and . . .”
McAllister lef
t them to it. He knew what a front-page murder entailed. He knew the adrenaline rush of pursuing a story, composing it, fact-checking, subbing, checking with the lawyers if need be, and having everything finished before deadline—deadline in a big daily newspaper being absolute. He knew he wanted to be in on this, if only one more time, before the anonymity of life as editor in a local Highland newspaper swallowed him up.
Twenty past eight was nearing his mother’s bedtime.
Mrs. McAllister gave no hint of surprise at his unannounced arrival—twice in two weeks, once more than in previous years. She made tea, saying little until fifteen minutes later he said he had to get back to the Herald.
“Does this have to do with Wee Gerry?” she asked.
“Indirectly.” He was fudging the truth, but she was not fooled. “I want to speak to him, that’s all.”
“I’m right sorry I wrote you yon letter.” She shook her head, sadness leaking out from her voice into her shoulders. “John, Gerry is lost to us. Has been for a long while, poor soul. But I can see it must be important, if you’ve left your Joanne alone, not to say your job. I’ll write to Mr. Dochery. Maybe he can help you with Wee Gerry.” The way she said “maybe,” full of doubt, said she was not hopeful.
He knew Mr. Gerry Dochery senior was a good man, but didn’t think he would help; it would mean betraying his son. Then he realized he had no other way of finding Gerry. Out of contact with his previous informants, he wasn’t certain he’d be welcome back in his old haunts in the Tollcross, and Maryhill, and some of less salubrious areas of the Gorbals—if there were any salubrious areas, which he doubted. He knew the inner-city areas of desolate streets, and back lanes, and poverty. The Broomielaw, stretching along the banks of the Clyde, better known for public houses than trees, was now almost foreign territory. But he had to find Jimmy. He’d promised.
“If you would write, I’d be grateful,” he told his mother.
“I’ll ask him to come here on a visit. No more. The man has enough troubles, what with Gerry and . . . and all that. He needs to know he still has friends . . .” She was waving her hand around, encompassing the whole city.
“Thanks, Mother.”
“Aye, and the sooner this is sorted the sooner you can go home to your new family.”
“And you can come north. Meet Joanne and the girls.”
“Maybe.”
He left, knowing maybe was a fraction from a yes. He should have been elated; he’d been trying for three years to persuade her to make the trip. Instead he felt his conscience settle in the pit of his stomach, reminding him of his misgivings. A new life, a ready-made family, I hope I’m up to it.
“Get a grip, McAllister,” he muttered as he swung himself onto the bus platform, the pole sticky from previous passengers.
“If that’s a prayer, I’ll let you off at the cathedral, will I?” the clippie asked.
“The pub’s mair likely to gie ye an answer,” an old wag said as he stood beside McAllister, waiting to alight at the next stop.
McAllister smiled. This was Glasgow, home to a thousand comedians, and counting. He was back.
He ran up the steps of the Herald building to the swing doors, looking and feeling like a man on a mission. On the news floor he settled in at the desk. Happy. Enthused. Everyone was busy, too busy to notice him, although one of the subs gave him a wave and the six months’ pregnant man across the way glanced up, then ignored him.
Mary’s desk was empty, and he didn’t ask. He rolled in the copy paper, interlayered with carbon sheets, flexed his fingers, took a deep in-breath of newsprint-soaked air, and, with a cigarette drooping from left of center in his mouth, he squeezed his eyes half shut and started to type. No notes; he knew what he was doing. Give me background, context, was all Sandy had said.
The typewriter was newer than the ones at the Gazette, whose machines felt like they had been installed in the heyday of industrial Victorian Scotland. Ash dropped onto his lap unnoticed. Only when he felt his lips burn did he put out the cigarette, then review the article. Poverty, slums, empty bomb sites, drink, endless children, shared outside toilets . . . No, he thought, delete that, who would believe the poor deserve to have indoor plumbing?
If someone from the Gazette could see him, they would not recognize this man, a man possessed. At forty-six years of age, he felt the cozy job as editor of a local paper marked the twilight of a once illustrious career. Here, at this desk, on this newspaper, surrounded by the crème de la crème of the country’s journalists, he was John McAllister, crime reporter, columnist. Somebody.
Writing the story, he could feel the pavements, the cobbled alleyways, smell the buses, the trams, the underground, hear the city, every element of it vibrating just below audible level. He felt like Lazarus as he relived, through his words, a night in the pubs around Tollcross with stumbling drunks at the “unco” stage, the hesitant, not quite ready for a fight stage, but with fists raised, dancing a drunken weave around your opponent, doing the “Glasgow jive.”
He could smell the centuries of spilt beer and whisky as he typed, see the walls and ceilings so discolored from tobacco and open fires that there was no telling the original shade, but he guessed white, as whitewash—“distemper,” in Scottish parlance—was the cheapest paint.
With every “ping” of the return carriage, the adrenaline surged. Half an hour to go and the article was almost finished. He knew it was good. He knew he was only revealing what everyone knew; the activities of the gangs accepted as much as the weather, causing comment and irate letters to the editor only when the violence was in plain sight of churchgoers of the smarter suburbs—the ones likely to write to the city councilors and the newspaper.
But to see it in print, spelt out for the rest of the country—even the English—to read, that was different, might require action from the city fathers, or at least a reaction. For a short while.
He glanced at the clock, a quick revision and it would be ready with ten minutes to spare. He smiled to himself as he edited the copy.
I’ll never get away with “unco,” he thought. Sub-editors everywhere, including Don McLeod back in the Highlands, would have their pencil through it. “Uncoordinated,” he was about to type. Mildly drunk was what he should have put. No poetry to that, he told himself. And left it in.
He called across the room for the copyboy, decided against another cigarette, putting on his hat and coat instead. He glanced around. No Mary. Ah well, we won’t know if it’s murder or manslaughter until after the postmortem. He left the newsroom to another night, another edition. Exhilarated.
Coming down the steps, he turned up his coat collar against an almost rain. Being Glaswegian, he did not classify the light spray of non-puddle-forming precipitation as rain, no matter how penetrating the soft mist. When he reached the entrance to the communal close of his boyhood home, he removed his hat to shake the moisture out, and discovered the rain for what it was: deceptive, hat- and coat-penetrating, typical of the west of Scotland. He was shaking his coat before going into the flat when a voice came out from the alcove below the stairs.
“Hey mister, ’re you McAllister?”
In the dim of the forty-watt lightbulb the girl looked eight but was more likely to be twelve, with the stunted growth and rickets that still blighted the poor of the city.
“Who wants to know?”
“A man said ye’ll gie me half a crown if I tell ye summut.”
McAllister knew that a sixpence would have been promised, perhaps a threepence. He gave her a half crown.
She screwed up her face, then recited, “He said to say you ken his mother. She’s caa’d Jenny.” She watched McAllister to see if he recognized the name and when he nodded she continued, “Tell McAllister I’m goin’ across the waater. Stopping at the place where they study the fishes.” She finished, saying, “That’s all he telt me tae tell you,” and she was gone in a flash of off-white summer dress, no coat, no proper shoes, only plimsolls.
“Thanks,�
� he called out, but she didn’t hear.
Surely it was ‘doon the waater’—a boat down the Clyde, he was thinking. Not that Jimmy McPhee, a Highlander, would have said it in that dialect—this was a purely Glasgow expression describing the steamboat trip down the river into the Firth of Clyde, making for one of the seaside destinations like Rothsay or Dunoon. Then again, Jimmy had lived in Glasgow as a young man, did his boxing training here. Where they study the fishes—McAllister puzzled over it, made no sense of it, before deciding he needed help.
The phone box smelled of fish and chips and urine. The receiver was sticky. He only had a florin, no pennies. It was nearing midnight. The switchboard was closed, but the sub’s desk was taking calls.
“Herald.”
“John McAllister here. Is Mary Ballantyne around?”
“Mary, it’s for you.”
He heard a silence as the call was transferred.
“Ballantyne,” was all she said.
“McAllister,” he replied, amused at her adoption of a very male sobriquet.
“Uh-huh?”
“Tomorrow night. Fancy a visit to some boxing clubs?”
“Are you asking me on a date, then?”
He could hear her smile, but the question perturbed him. “My mother promised to contact Gerry Dochery senior, and I think a visit to some of the deceased’s friends is in order.”
“I’ll be in late morning. Say midday? See you then, McAllister.”
And she was gone. And he was left holding the receiver, the dial tone loud in the still, late night. And he was feeling foolish. Why he hadn’t mentioned the message from Jimmy he didn’t know. Holding it back to impress her in person, are you? his conscience asked.
As he walked back to the flat another thought nagged him. A week, Sandy had asked. How could he stay away a whole week? But he knew he was committed. Telling Joanne, dealing with the disapproval of his soon to be stepdaughter, his mother, Granny Ross, Don McLeod, all at the Gazette, that he would deal with—tomorrow.
His last thought as he fell asleep in his boyhood room, the one he had shared with his wee brother, the one who went to “sleep with the fishes,” was of Joanne, the time he had keeked through the sitting room window and watched her as she danced to a record of Elvis, totally unaware she had an audience; this was the Joanne he had fallen in love with. This was the Joanne who was now absent. He was terrified she would never return. And afraid his cowardice would delay his own return. Maybe forever.
