The Low Road

by A. D. Scott

  SEVEN

  Next morning McAllister was up early to fetch the newspaper from the corner shop. When he came back his mother had the frying pan in action. He knew there was no point in protesting that coffee and a cigarette was all he needed. Coffee was unheard of in this part of Glasgow, singling you out as a misfit or pretentious or both. Not that those words would be used; a much more vulgar expression, in a strong Glasgow accent, came to mind and made him smile.

  “You still buying your rashers from the butcher in Maryhill?” he asked as he tucked into the perfectly cooked bacon.

  “Aye, and I still go to Tommy McPhee for ma fish.”

  He knew he might be an adult, but Mother’s rules applied—no reading a newspaper at the table.

  She refilled his cup, the tarlike tea having the same caffeine hit as an espresso. “What are you on the day?”

  “Still looking for my friend.”

  “I posted a note to Mr. Dochery last night. He should get it in the second post o’ the day.” There was no change of expression in his mother’s face, or voice, but the disapproval was clear from the way she put the kettle on the stove, with a clang of metal upon metal.

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t want thanks. An’ I hope you have a good reason for getting involved with Wee Gerry Dochery. The man is long lost, especially to his father. An’ you’re no longer a lad trying to make a name for yerself. You have responsibilities.” As she turned away, he knew she was interfering only because she was scared for him. “I’ll help you this once—as much for Mr. Dochery, poor soul, as for you. But I’ll no’ help you any further.”

  She left him to finish his breakfast, although two eggs, three rashers of best Ayrshire bacon, the butcher’s own black pudding, and his mother’s tattie scones were almost beyond him. But he ate it all to please her.

  He pushed his chair back. Taking the plate to the sink, he began to run water for the washing up. That brought his mother back in a hurry.

  “Away and read your paper. It’s a woman’s job washing up.”

  He smiled at that, wondering what Mary would say to that. And Joanne.

  He sat in the bow window with the newspaper, keeping an eye on the street for strangers. The front-page headline was direct: “Gangs Claim Another Victim.” How Sandy could be certain he didn’t know, but he must have the evidence to print such a headline.

  The story told it all. Sources in the police, the fire brigade, the procurator fiscal’s office, all said the same. Fire deliberately started; the boxing club previously threatened by person or persons unknown. Who had threatened the club owner, and for what reasons, no one was sure. And at least one other former boxer had received the same warning, so his premises were temporarily out of business. The information of the threats had come via an anonymous tip to the Herald. McAllister guessed from the wording—a call was placed to a senior crime reporter—that Mary had taken the call.

  He turned to his own copy and was pleased to see the subs had touched it minimally. He’d also been given a byline. That he hadn’t expected. He was reading the editorial, a piece bemoaning the crime statistics, when the realization hit him. The byline—Jimmy would know he was here. And Gerry. And all on the Gazette.

  Joanne would see the paper, as the Herald was delivered to his home. He remembered as soon as he awoke he needed to call them. But he had procrastinated and now it was nine o’clock. The newspaper would be there. He went for his hat, told his mother, “I’ll see you when I see you, but don’t cook for me,” and left to use the phone at the newspaper.

  There were few people in the newsroom. Most would start to drift in around lunchtime.

  A copyboy—girl actually, but that didn’t change the title—asked, “Can I get you anything, Mr. McAllister?” She was another one with that eager look he saw in Mary Ballantyne.

  “Aye,” he said, “twenty Passing Clouds.” He showed her the packet and told her where to buy them, then gave her the money, almost adding, And keep the sixpence change for yourself, as she seemed so ridiculously young.

  No one was around. He picked up the phone and dialed.

  “Highland Gazette, how may I help you?”

  The pleasure at hearing the soft sibilant Highland voice startled him. “Hello, Fiona, McAllister here.”

  “Hello, Mr. McAllister, how are you?” He could hear the pleasure in her voice.

  “I’m fine, thanks. Is Mr. McLeod about?”

  “No, but Rob is here.” She transferred the call to the reporters’ room. As he waited for Rob to pick up, knowing he would answer only if there was no one else to take the call, he felt uneasy. He would have to explain he would be away for a week and preferred it was not to Rob, his junior reporter. Definitely no more than a week. If I don’t find Jimmy in that time, so be it. He was so busy reassuring himself, he didn’t notice Rob saying, “Gazette. Hello?”

  “McAllister.”

  “Not McAllister the hotshot columnist?”

  “No, McAllister the small-town editor.” It came out more bitter than he meant. “I need to speak to Don.”

  “Leave a number. I’ll get him to call you back.”

  “He can reach me at the Herald until noon.”

  Rob whistled. “Definitely the big time.”

  McAllister ignored him. “Have you seen Joanne?”

  “No, but I promised I’d call round there tonight.”

  “Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.” He hung up, not wanting any more questions from Rob. Or teasing. Rob had a good nose for a story, and he’d want to know what was so important that McAllister needed to be in the city.

  He knew now was a good time to speak to Joanne. He would not have to hear the doubt from Annie. And Rob would be with her in the evening for company, for her to talk to, for her to ask Rob the questions that he didn’t have the answers to, and for Rob in his bright joking way to reassure her. Making her laugh—he seemed to have lost the knack.

  He dialed. The phone rang out. There was no answer. He tried again. Again no answer.

  The girl came back with his cigarettes and change. He still had two left in the packet on the desk. He offered her one. She accepted. He gave her a light, and when she started coughing, he said, “You don’t smoke, do you?”

  “No, but I’m trying to learn. Makes me look older.”

  He grinned as it all came flooding back. First a copy kid, then a cadet, then a junior reporter, five years in all. Then, and only if you were very good, and lucky, and if the right story came at the right time, and if you cultivated the right contacts, and kept the sub-editors sweet, and kept on the right side of the cynical hard-drinking old journalists who had seen it all, only then might you get somewhere, especially if your starting place was the Herald. If none of the stars aligned, you’d end up on a local newspaper, in whichever small town you’d originally left to make your name in the big city. A newspaper like the Highland Gazette.

  “Empty.” Mary had appeared, picked up the cigarette packet, and shook it. Throwing it at a bin and missing, she ignored it, saying, “I’ll die if I don’t get a some coffee down me.”

  “If we go to Seraphini’s I might just offer you a cigarette,” he said; waving an unopened packet at her.

  “You’re on.” She laughed.

  The café was not far, but it was still a brisk walk. He remembered coming here after his return from Europe, when he craved the sound of any language other than Glaswegian.

  “It’s yerself, McAllister,” the still round but greatly reduced owner, Marco, said as he and Mary walked into the warmth and fug and chatter.

  That Marco and his brother and father had been interned for the duration of Italy’s alliance with Hitler, McAllister knew. How it had reduced the man formally known as “Romeo” he hadn’t given much thought to. But the sight of him, with little of his hair left, and a distinctive stoop, and his hands, hands that had once been roughened by no more than guitar strings, showed the effects of years of hard labor on a farm or a quarry or wh
atever menial duty the interned prisoners had been assigned, reminded McAllister how much the Italians of Scotland had suffered. It made no difference that they were mostly second- or third-generation Italian Scots who had brought coffee and ice cream, art, music, and vitality to many a small town in their adopted homeland; they were classified as enemy aliens, interned on the Isle of Man along with many Jewish people, and also other longtime citizens in Great Britain, including some of German heritage.

  They took a tiny table covered with a red-and white-checkered oilcloth, then ordered.

  “What’s happening?” Mary asked after she had thrown back the first espresso in one gulp, then signaled for a second.

  “I had an emissary from Jimmy visit me last night . . .” He saw her stare and knew she was about to say, Why didn’t you tell me? so he quickly continued, “A wee girl, she brought a message and . . .”

  “That means Jimmy McPhee knows where you live.”

  He hadn’t thought of that. And he hadn’t given thought to Gerry Dochery knowing where he lived, and that he was there, at home, with his mother, and writing about the gangs.

  “Jimmy didn’t identify himself, but he told the child his mother’s name so I’d know it was from him. ‘I’m going across the water. Stopping at the place where they study the fishes,’ that was the message.” He didn’t have to explain to Mary that “stopping” meant staying. She was Scottish enough in spite of her accent to know that. “Maybe he meant ‘doon the water,’ but not being local . . .”

  “No, he meant ‘across,’ ” Mary said. “The island of Cumbrae in the Firth of Clyde has a marine biology station in the only town there—Millport. Across—he means by ferry.”

  “Of course!” He felt stupid for forgetting. “But why Millport?”

  “Maybe he knows someone there. Maybe he thinks he’ll be safe hiding in plain sight amongst the holidaymakers. The Fair Fortnight is their busiest weeks.”

  “A few times, on Fair Fortnights, when my wee brother and my dad were alive, we went to Millport. Lots of families in the fire brigade did. One time Gerry and his dad came with us.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Long story.”

  She looked at him, saw he was not going to elaborate, and didn’t push. Mary Ballantyne was certain she would find out. One day. “Right. Let’s go. It’s probably too late to catch the last ferry across, but first thing in the morning . . .”

  “You can’t come.”

  “And who’s going to stop me?” She stood. She slung her bag over her shoulder. “I’m off to work. You go get the train tickets for Largs. First class. It’s holiday time so the train will be booked out.”

  “Not first class to Largs it won’t.”

  “There’s a big race meeting tomorrow. All the trains to Ayrshire will be busy. Or have you forgotten everything about your homeland?” She was grinning as she left, waving cheerio to Marco. And she left McAllister with the bill.

  Racing at Ayr. That reminded him of Don McLeod, a horse-racing fanatic. And Joanne. He must phone. He must call before evening or he’d miss Don. If not he’d have to phone home and answer to an eleven-and-a-half-year-old.

  First the train tickets, then I’ll call.

  He didn’t. When he got to the Herald, return tickets safely in his wallet, the breaking story blew everything out of his mind.

  “The boxing coach was alive when the firemen reached him. He died of multiple burns,” Mary told him as he came into the newsroom.

  The brutal way she said this he recognized as distress. “So it’s murder.”

  “Aye. It’s murder.” She squinted up at him, the unnatural blue of her eyes bright with anger. “So we’re still on for tonight?” She saw him stare. “A tour of the boxing clubs? Or is it too dangerous for you?”

  He laughed out loud. He needed her levity to take away the horror of death by fire. Some heads turned towards them, saw it was Mary, and went back to their task of keeping the citizens informed of the dark side. “I’m up for it if you are.”

  “I’m going. With or without you.”

  And he knew she was stating nothing but the whole truth.

  McAllister sat at his borrowed desk keeping out of the way of the well-oiled machine that was a large daily newspaper. It would flow flawlessly, one edition to the next—unless another story broke minutes before deadline. Then it would be controlled panic.

  Tomorrow’s headline would declare the death murder. The article would remind readers of the horror of the fire, pontificate about the scourge of the gangs, and ask what the authorities were doing to control them.

  There would be the usual comments from the police saying as little as possible, and the journalists attempting to write between the lines of what they knew and what they could write. Any comments from the Lord Provost’s office would be full of all the usual platitudes about crime and punishment, and the safety of the citizens being paramount. And letters to the editor from “Outraged, Bearsden,” or “Major (retired), Milngavie,” would harp on about the iniquities of the heathen city, the solution being to bring back hanging for everything from theft to adultery.

  McAllister used the time to make the call to Don McLeod.

  “A week?” Don asked, a none-too-disguised reprimand in his voice. “You’re the editor. Your decision.”

  McAllister knew Don was right. The Gazette could spare him, it was the silly season, after all, but he should not be taking a week away from home. Not now.

  “I’m about to call Joanne. I know she has a lot of support, but would you keep an eye on her?”

  “There’s no need to ask.” Don was clearly offended.

  “I know, but . . .”

  “Jenny McPhee was asking for you.”

  “I have a lead as to Jimmy’s whereabouts, that’s why I’m staying on. I don’t want to get her hopes up, so best not say anything yet.”

  “Call me when you have information, then I’ll let her know.”

  “I will.” There was no more to be said, so they said their goodbyes.

  McAllister took a deep breath, picked up the phone, and gave the operator the number.

  Granny Ross answered. “Joanne’s asleep,” she said. She listened as McAllister stumbled through his explanation before replying, “Aye, well, it can’t be helped. Don’t worry; we’ll look after the lass. Telephone again later, but not too late.”

  He heard her sigh before she hung up, and could imagine her shaking her head, muttering one of her catchphrases—Whatever next? He felt like dashing to the station and booking the first train to the Highlands. But knew he wouldn’t.

  The phone rang not two minutes after he had hung up.

  “Mr. McAllister?” It was the switchboard operator. “I have a trunk call for you. Putting you through.”

  It was Jenny McPhee. “Have you heard from Jimmy?”

  “He sent me a message. I think he’s in Millport—it’s an island in the Firth of Clyde.”

  “I know where Millport is.”

  Now McAllister was attentive. Jenny McPhee knowing Millport, an obscure place except to Glaswegians, alerted him.

  “I could be wrong,” she said, “but there was this gagie living there, a friend o’ ma late husband’s, no’ a tinker, but he came to all the horse fairs. He kept a horse or two, an’ ponies . . . I think he’s still alive.”

  “We’re on the train first thing tomorrow, I’ll find him . . .”

  “We?”

  “A crime reporter from the Herald who has a lot of contacts in Glasgow is helping.”

  “And helping hersel’ to a good story an’ all.”

  He was surprised Jenny knew it was a “she,” then remembered Jenny McPhee never missed much. She must be following the story in the Herald.

  And with that remark she was gone. No cheerio. No “look after yerself.” No thank-you. But he expected none, as he had achieved nothing. Yet.

  EIGHT

  Every gym McAllister had ever visited cried out poverty. Whether it was
in Glasgow, or the east end of London, or one memorably seedy place in Berlin four years after the war had ended, they all smelled the same: disinfectant, iodine, and the sour smell of sweat-soaked ropes, punching bags, medicine balls, head protectors, and mitts. Overlaying the sweat was the faint stench of urine, whether from the lavatory or fear he didn’t want to speculate.

  And all the gyms he had ever visited were all painted the same institution-green, a color also favored by mental asylums and mortuaries. Disappointment and menace hung in the air like an early-morning haar over the North Sea. Posters lining the walls showing past and present champions who had never trained in boxing clubs as low down the evolutionary scale as this one were there to give hope to the hopeless.

  Boxing, football, the army, or becoming a mercenary in whichever army would have Glasgow men—notoriously short in stature—were all the hope open to the boys of this city. Fighting was part of the streets and the alleys and back greens and schoolyards. Fighting was bred in the bone.

  Mary was looking around for someone to talk to. Everyone in the place was watching her, openly staring, particularly the two troglodytes guarding an office with a glass window. The glass looked tinted, but was more likely unwashed since the place had been built, in the twenties, and was speckled in one corner with a spray pattern that might have been sweat or blood.

  “What do youse want?” Gog, or was it Magog, asked.

  “The boss,” Mary answered as fast as the fist of the man pummeling the punching bag in the corner.

  “He’s no’ here,” the second creature told them.

  She and McAllister had already visited four boxing gyms that evening and had almost given up hope of finding anyone who would talk. Mary turned to peer through the office window when the twins, or brothers, or siblings hatched from the same shell, stepped in front of her.