by Grace Monroe
‘It would have been harder to watch me when I was that age.’ I squeezed her tightly to me, trying to make light of what had kept us apart since the day I was born and for many, many years afterwards. ‘I was shit.’
‘And selfish,’ butted in Glasgow Joe. ‘Always really selfish.’ He looked at me. ‘With the ball, I mean.’ I knew exactly what he meant.
‘Deciding to talk now, are you? Well, don’t bother sticking your nose in where it’s not wanted.’ I bridled, instinctively raising my chin. All the mothers were ogling him so we had an audience. He was wearing his kilt. The wind swung it round his legs, and the mums who’d seen the size of his feet were praying the wind would blow it higher.
‘Aw ref – are you fucking blind?’ Eddie shouted. I turned, following his line of vision, and, surprisingly, my attention was instantly there. Connie was down. Mud spattered her face and was mixed with the blood pouring from her nose. It looked like it must hurt like hell. She clenched her teeth around her mouth guard, keeping the hot tears away. Kailash started to run, but Malcolm placed an arm in front of her chest, barring her. She watched him run onto the pitch instead, healing bag in hand. Kailash remained quiet and a deep furrow creased her brow.
‘He spoils her, you know,’ I said to Kailash.
‘He’s allowed to. He raised her. Anyway, look who’s talking. I hope you haven’t gone overboard with a Christmas present? I’ve already warned Moses and Joe.’
‘Connie has enough stuff without getting more of it in a couple of days,’ I said, keeping an eye on what was happening on the pitch as I spoke. Relief washed over me. Connie’s Christmas present was a worry. It was too late for eBay and there were only two and a half shopping days left. I suspected that Joe and the crew were well organized, but I wanted to get her something special too. Perhaps now I could just pretend that I was more thoughtful by getting her a chocolate Santa and a bag of satsumas, making sure she didn’t get all materialistic. On the pitch, Connie was shrugging Malcolm off, back on her feet with a glint in her eye that suggested revenge was going to be sweet.
I could see Joe standing on the sideline like a silent assassin, giving the ref one of his special looks. I had come to know that look well over the last six months – it was unpleasant, to say the least. It told you in no uncertain terms you had fallen short of the mark, and no one blamed the ref when he succumbed to crowd pressure and pulled out a belated red card.
When I say no one, I’m not being strictly accurate. The girl’s father made a move to complain but backed down shamefully quickly when Joe pulled himself up to his full height and squared his shoulders. Glasgow Joe’s creed was written all over his face – no one messed with his girls. Kailash, Connie and Lavender are certainly in the gang; I’m not sure about myself these days.
Eddie and Joe ran along the pitch shouting tactics, encouragement – and taunts – when necessary. I’d seen managers and coaches receive touchline bans for less in the real world, but the officials here turned a deaf ear in spite of opposition protests. I wondered if Connie knew what was going on. She seemed oblivious, running herself ragged chasing a dirty ball on a muddy field; the enjoyment she was obviously getting was a mystery to me.
‘Joe’s got the trike,’ Lavender said, sidling up to me with the last of the coffee in the top of the thermos flask to warm my frozen fingers. ‘Connie and Joe are going Christmas shopping. I wish I’d thought of that … I still don’t know what to get her. I want it to be special – the first time that she really has everyone around her.’
I was always touched by the way Lavender had adopted my family as her own. Even Connie, the ‘newest’ member, was to be her flower girl.
Kailash had kept the existence of my half-sister Connie (then at boarding school in Switzerland) in the dark until she was sure that she and I had a chance of a relationship. I think she was right to do that really – apparently, most mother and adult-child reunions don’t have fairytale endings. Our bond is not one you’d find in a Disney movie but we rub along – although sometimes it feels more like grating. When Connie was finally brought into the picture, it actually made things easier. I had more of a family now than I’d ever dreamed of, even when I still thought that my adopted parent Mary McLennan was my birth mother and Kailash Coutts was just another pain-in-the-arse client I had to defend.
Joe edged nearer to us as his eyes scanned the skyline. In the distance, the hill of Arthur’s Seat was barely visible because of the low-lying cloud. He huddled into us close before pulling a rolled-up newspaper from his pocket. ‘Brodie, it’s time to stop being so daft,’ he said. I raised my eyebrow – in my mind, he was the one to blame and I most certainly hadn’t been in on any daftness. ‘Seriously, Brodie, there’s things going on that … well, things just don’t feel right.’ If I’d expected an emotional outpouring, I was disappointed. ‘Have you seen this?’ he asked, going back to the newspaper. It was the afternoon edition of the one we’d discussed in the office; the dead girl stared out at us from the front page, demanding justice.
‘Do you ever have the feeling you’re being watched?’ Joe asked, staring over his shoulder.
‘Joe – you might have red hair but you’re not the Ripper’s type: your family jewels rule you out,’ I replied.
‘I’m glad you remember, Brodie, but I wasn’t talking about myself. I meant you,’ he said. ‘Do you ever feel you’re being watched?’ he asked again. His face was weary and I no longer wanted to laugh. A cold trickle of sweat dribbled down my spine.
A primeval sense of wariness had me on edge. Joe was still scanning the horizon, and he wasn’t looking at the weather. I knew better than to laugh at him or dismiss his instincts. He held on to my arms, pinning them down at my side. The cold wind carried his scent to me and, as always, I cursed myself for responding. He noticed me involuntarily pressing up against him but said nothing. If I needed any convincing he was serious, that was it.
Pride comes before a fall, I know, but I shrugged him off. I didn’t know how to handle the new Glasgow Joe, the one who could resist me. I stomped round to the other side of the pitch; I didn’t need to glance over my shoulder to know Joe was watching me.
My smile fell.
Joe wasn’t staring at me – he was scouting the Meadows.
Hunting for the bogeyman.
Chapter Five
Cumberland Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 12.30 a.m.
The point of the stiletto blade nicked the underside of my chin. A dewdrop of blood dribbled down my neck. This couldn’t be happening. Please God, don’t let this be happening. Pure panic controlled my body. I wanted to scream but I was shamefully afraid. The knife meandered down my throat, slicing open the cosy grey tee shirt I loved to sleep in. It had once, in happier times, belonged to Joe. Darkness hid the face of my torturer but I knew who it was, and he wanted me dead.
The pain was slicing through me as he traced spirals with the blade. Opening my mouth wide to scream, a disappointing squeak came out. Gripping handfuls of the sheet, I tried to push myself up the bed. Perhaps if I could sit up, I’d be able to fight back. He second-guessed me and dug the point of the blade into my carotid artery. It danced as my pulse raced. I imagined a slow smile crossing his face. How had he gained entry? I’d recently been robbed and I’d installed new security; they promised me I was as safe as the Bank of Scotland.
I didn’t believe them and I hadn’t shared their faith. The satisfaction of being right did nothing for me. I-told-you-so doesn’t cut it when you’re staring death in the face. I refused to expire pitifully in silence so I shouted for the first person I could think of through the fear – Joe. I knew he wouldn’t make it in time but just saying his name made me feel better. At least I’d found the strength to call on him, I reflected as his name rang out through my bedroom. Then my reality shifted. I woke up. Sweat had drenched the tee shirt but otherwise it was undamaged; just another horrible dream and a lingering feeling that the man I needed wasn’t there.
I swung my feet over the side of the bed, and my toes landed in leftover pizza. The empty bottles of lager showed me just how much punishment I’d inflicted on my poor body – but I’d live. The phone was ringing in the hall. In an effort to get a good night’s sleep, I’d disconnected the one on the bedside table. Last night had obviously been a night of great decisions. I swore under my breath and trampled on the mound of clothes lying in a heap on the floor, smearing tomato sauce and cold mozzarella cheese on the LBD I’d bought last week from Harvey Nicks. Three hundred and fifty pounds I’d paid in the pre-Xmas sale, and now it looked like a window rag. The phone had stopped ringing. I surveyed the bombsite that was my room. My flatmate (and assistant) Louisa had called me Scrooge and then insisted on setting up a fibre-optic Christmas tree; its garish colours threw a macabre glow on the scene and didn’t add anything remotely positive.
Stumbling across to the dressing table I picked up a photograph. Why hadn’t I just thrown it out? The frame was a plastic snow dome; in the centre of the snowstorm Glasgow Joe had a huge grin on his face as he held me in a bear hug. He smiled like a prizewinner. We were on top of the Empire State building – I should have guessed what was coming when he took me there seven months ago. Bizarrely, Glasgow Joe adores the film Sleepless in Seattle.
Naturally, he’d taken me there to propose.
Again.
Being reasonably sane, I said no – on reflection, I did more than just say ‘no’. My exact reply went something along the lines of ‘when Hell freezes over.’ On the picture, I traced the contours of his face with my finger. It was the closest I had intended to get to the real thing, no matter how much Lavender pushed and shoved. It wasn’t that I didn’t love Joe, or even, God help me, not love him in that way. There were bigger problems this time – Joe wanted a baby. If there was one thing I knew, it was that there was bad blood in me, and that bloodline needed to stop when my candle snuffed.
It wasn’t just the need for a baby that had changed him in the past year or so. Joe’s paternal streak had been manageable until he met Connie – then he’d fallen hook, line and sinker. Nothing but the best for Connie. He was reliving our childhood, except that now he had money. Eddie and Joe had stepped in to manage the football team when none of the fathers would do it, and there was constant bullying until Lothian and St Clair provided the strips. Naturally, Connie had wanted to be sponsored by Joe’s pub, the Rag Doll, but Joe and Eddie didn’t feel that gave ‘their girls’ the appropriate image.
The phone started to ring again. Whoever was calling was bloody persistent. Normally it would be annoying, but tonight I needed the diversion.
I knew who it would be. When Lavender got engaged she insisted I employ him full time. He needed a regular wage and I – apparently – needed to get a life. Now that I had someone to share the custodies with, I wasn’t on call 24/7. In fact, Eddie did more than his fair share, and, as Lavender made up the work rota, it meant one of two things – either she had gone off Eddie and wanted him out of the house as often as possible or, alternatively, she wanted me to make Eddie a partner. It didn’t take a genius to figure out which one she was angling for. Which was just as well, because by the time I reached the telephone my head was beginning to thud.
‘Brodie?’
It was a voice I knew well. My heart sank. Trouble was in the offing. No one makes social calls past midnight. I’d expected St Leonards police station, the central holding station for the city, and I’d got Malcolm. I didn’t bother to ask him what it was; he was hysterical and not in a mood to listen, preferring to blurt everything out. ‘Derek’s been arrested and it’s all my fault,’ he gasped through tears. Dismal Derek is Malcolm’s partner. At fifteen years his junior, and although no spring chicken himself, Derek has played Malcolm for a fool. I doubted very much that Malcolm was to blame for Derek’s incarceration. Another thing I knew for sure was the last lawyer Derek would ask for would be me.
‘What happened?’ I asked, thankful he couldn’t see me rolling my eyes, and almost smiling at the irony that all calls would lead to St Leonards after all.
‘We had a tiff.’ Malcolm sounded embarrassed, which was just as well because I suspected he was underplaying what had gone on. He knew my views on domestic abuse – abusers aren’t looking for a marriage licence, they need a dog licence. He started to sob, big heart-rending sobs. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me up there in the cold early hours of the morning holding his hand and telling him everything was going to be all right.
‘Hold on. I’m coming,’ I told him.
‘Brodie, I came out in such a rush I forgot my angina tablets, I phoned Moses and he’s picked them up. I said you’d stop and collect them.’
‘Okay, keep calm … I’m coming.’
I owed Malcolm big time; he’d patched me up physically and mentally on more than one occasion. I needed to get to St Leonards quickly but I’d never get a taxi at this time of the night or year. I pulled back the curtains and saw the cobbles shining with ice. Despite that, I still decided to take the Fat Boy. This decision was influenced by the fact I could see exactly where my leathers were. I stumbled around, pulling on my trousers, and accidentally bumped into one of the grotesque decorations Louisa had put in my room – a fat dancing Santa. A nasally sound that was meant to be Elvis singing ‘Lonely This Christmas’ echoed around the room.
That finally got the attention of the man in my bed. He sat up and scratched his head.
‘Please tell me we did?’ he said – though it was clear from the look on his face that he remembered all too well.
Jack Deans was back in town.
Chapter Six
Cumberland Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 1 a.m.
‘All I knew, Brodie, was that I missed you.’
Jack Deans. Investigative reporter, ex-rugby player, and my booty call, was getting serious.
‘I missed you, Brodie.’
‘Yeah. You said.’
I was running around like a headless chicken trying to get ready to leave for the police station. As usual I couldn’t find anything and I was making another promise to myself to be more organized.
‘You’re a bloody infuriating woman, do you know that?’
‘So people keep telling me.’ I pushed my feet into my bike boots.
‘You make me so mad but all the time I was in Darfur, I wanted to talk to you, to run stories past you, to get your opinion – even if the only one you ever seem to have is that I should shut up.’
He looked at me, waiting for an answer or encouragement – I couldn’t give it to him. The safest way was to continue ignoring him. I rifled through a bag searching for my keys – Malcolm was waiting and I needed to see Moses on my way to St Leonards.
He sat up in bed and a shaft of light came in the window. He was tanned, lean and, in this light, without my contact lenses, did a fair impersonation of George Clooney’s less attractive brother playing a war correspondent.
‘Brodie – this has been going on too long … Is there any point in me taking all this crap from you – always ending up back in your bed?’ I wanted to object to his use of the word ‘always’, but maybe he had a point. I thought I was safe with Jack; Mr Deans was definitely not the marrying type. Was I wrong? It’s sod’s law. Whenever you’re not looking for commitment they come running – it’s the same principle as buses.
‘I’ve spent the last few hours watching you wrestle demons in your sleep, wanting to hold you and make it all better, and knowing there’s no point in me even trying. That’s not my job is it? That’s for Glasgow Joe to do.’
He was trying to look all appealing and sad, but that was never really the type I went for. I liked him rough and uncommitted, and I liked him knowing where the door was as soon as we’d finished having sex. He wasn’t playing ball at all.
‘Brodie …’ he began. Again.
I held my finger up to him. ‘Uh! No!’ I barked, as if he was a leg-rubbing puppy (which was a pretty accura
te description, come to think of it). ‘There was never a point when I said I wanted to hear another word from you, Jack.’
‘You weren’t complaining a couple of hours ago,’ he replied, predictably.
‘Oh, shut up – that wasn’t talking, that was grunting. And you may have noticed you did a hell of a lot more of it than me, so don’t go thinking you’ve waltzed back into town like bloody Casanova.’
‘I got a call. A personal one.’
I didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow of interest, finding my cuticles much more interesting instead.
‘From your Grandad. He had a bit of news for me – namely that you and Joe were definitely over, and if I came back, I might find myself in with a shout.’
‘Lovely,’ I hissed. ‘Did he offer you a dowry as well?’
‘The timing was perfect – the Sudanese government was throwing me out anyway. And I got here in time for Christmas.’
He pulled on a red Santa hat that lay on the floor.
‘How about we give it a try?’
I slammed the door on my way out.
Chapter Seven
Susie Wong’s, George Street, Edinburgh
Sunday 23 December, 1.25 a.m.
I’d ridden the Fat Boy thousands of times – I needed the instant focus that comes over me when I kick-start the engine. I wanted the answers to some questions and the first one was – how drunk was I when I dragged Jack Deans back to my bed? Sadly, I couldn’t have been that bad as I seemed fine to drive – I’d have to just put it down to bad judgement. Again.
I had other things to bother me – I had to get to Malcolm and had been delayed by the festive scenario I’d just left behind in my flat. A chill had settled in my bones; I hoped it could be explained away by the fact that it was minus two degrees. The pavements were slippery and young girls teetered down the street singing Christmas songs.
