The Guest House

by David Mark

  ‘And where do we come in?’ asks Smetana, as cautiously as she can.

  ‘Pope controls most of the drugs trade in the West of Scotland and has a hand in almost every territory down as far as Manchester. The cartels have been using Spain and Portugal as an entry point into Europe for their product. Pope has made the necessary connections to change that. He believes that the West Coast of Scotland is one big pearly gate for bringing cocaine, heroin, meth and fentanyl into the United Kingdom. And from there, on into the eastern European states. He has the connections to make sure people turn a blind eye at the right times, and the cartels certainly have the product to spare. They courted him, by all accounts. Sent their fixer to butter him up.’

  ‘This is Bishop?’

  ‘Yes. And Bishop found that the man who held the keys to the kingdom was dying. Doctors had given him months to live. Even if they could get him a donor for his liver, his heart was packing up. He was falling apart. And he wasn’t ready for that.’

  She stops. Breathes out, slowly, through pursed lips.

  ‘He agreed to let them use his network, his connections, his entire bloody operation, and all they had to do was save his life.’

  She looks at each of them in turn. ‘He knew as much about Bishop as Bishop knew about him. Illegal transplants. Unwilling donors of everything up to and including a beating heart. That was his price. He wanted to live.’

  ‘And Ashcroft shared all this?’

  ‘Bishop had insisted on meeting Pope’s contacts. Ashcroft had been wined and dined. Pope had grilled him. Wanted to know every conceivable problem they could face and needed to know who was reliable and who wasn’t. Ashcroft chatted to him like he would any other business associate. Told him that he lived on the peninsula and that he had too much to lose if it all went wrong. Talked himself into his own problem but impressed Bishop. And Bishop insisted on Ashcroft being involved in future discussions. So he heard the lot. Heard he was now involved in human trafficking for the purposes of illegal organ transplants, along with everything else. Why do you think he spilled his guts when he got picked up?’

  ‘And this is going ahead? They’re flying him out to God knows where for a heart transplant taken from some poor bastard…’

  ‘No. Pope doesn’t fly. Only been abroad twice and didn’t care for it. And he’s on so many drugs to stay alive that he probably wouldn’t survive a flight. No, it’s happening closer to home.’

  ‘In Scotland?’ asks Bizet, taken aback.

  She sits forward. Presses an icon. An image of a near fairy-tale castle surrounded by woods and water fills the screen. ‘This, people, is on the verge of becoming a private hospital. It is six miles from Scotland’s most westerly point, and close enough to the sea for people to smell the heroin. And this is where the likes of Pope will soon be able to purchase whatever body parts they feel they’re lacking. The couriers bringing the product from South America don’t know they’re for sale as well. Three couriers per trip, one trip per week, only the captain making the return journey – his crew sold off for parts once they arrive. And those parts sold to the highest bidder…’

  ‘That’s grotesque,’ says Smetana. ‘What’s our involvement? What’s the objective?’

  She nearly smiles at that. She does like enthusiasm. She nods to the back of the room, to where a scrawny man with bad skin and bleeding gums is leaning against a bookcase and regarding them all through a cloud of cigar smoke.

  ‘Team, meet Puccini.’

  Heads turn and eyes widen. It’s as if God, or perhaps His opposite number, has crept into the briefing room.

  ‘He’s going to buy himself a life, just like Pope. He’s in the market for body parts. He’s our way in.’

  He waves, lazily, at the troops. ‘I know,’ he says, sucking the butt of the cigar. ‘Who’d believe it, eh? Me, with my Robert Redford looks…’

  The boss considers him. Feels something so unfamiliar she barely recognises it. Feels a genuine warmth as she regards him, broken down and pained: dying in increments because of what he endured after betrayal. And for an instant, she wonders if this will work. If they can play it in such a way that not only will they get a result and stop some very bad people doing very bad things, he might just snatch himself a couple of spare parts along the way.

  She touches the final icon on the dossier. Calls up an image of the man at the back of the room, taken in better times. Taken, when he was Detective Chief Inspector Colin Ray, and the world knew him as a hard-as-nails thief-taker who would do whatever it took to get a result.

  That man died in the cellar. Died when he was betrayed by his number two.

  She hopes that he likes the new character she has created for him: a corrupt shipping clerk and occasional gangster, unfinished business to attend to and morally ambivalent. It isn’t much of a stretch.

  ‘Team. Meet Nicholas Roe.’

  PART TWO

  14

  It’s a foul night: wet and dark and filled with the roar of the storm. Beyond the garden the trees thrash like fighting stags, the sound fighting for superiority over the suck and surge of the water against the shingly bay across the road and the churn of the rising river beneath the bridge. On such nights I cannot help but think of the crofters who used to make their home here: huddling together in a single room, arthritic fingers struggling to light a peat fire in the cold, black hearth. I know I am a child of my time. I sometimes wonder how much weaker we will become before we turn our backs on softness altogether.

  Within our safe, warm space, the children glower at each other across ketchup-crusted plates, debating the great issue of the day.

  ‘It’s a skua! Skew-ah! Like, a skewer you put marshmallows on. Or eyeballs. You are so stupid, Poppy. How can you even…?’

  ‘It’s pronounced squah! Like, I dunno, “car” or “far” or “I hope Atticus gets attacked by a jaguaaaar” or something! Mrs Lewis said it!’

  ‘Then she’s wrong as well! Who’d call a bird a squaaaah? That’s just dumb.’

  ‘Ask Alexa, if you need proof.’

  ‘I don’t need proof, I already know I’m right. Tell her, Mum, tell her she’s stupid.’

  ‘Poppy not stupid. Atcus stupid.’

  ‘Mum, did you hear what Lilly said? That’s not on. No way. Lilly stupid!’

  I’ve tuned them all out. It’s like listening to the shipping forecast: a tapestry of random, indecipherable words that somehow provide a vaguely restful background hum. I only snap back in when Lilly picks up a cold chip from my plate and starts using it to clean her ear.

  ‘Don’t do that, baby – it’s unhygienic.’

  ‘What’s ’ngenic?’

  ‘It means it’s dirty. Germs. Yuk.’

  ‘Chips not yuk. Chips ’licious.’

  ‘Not with earwax on them,’ says Atticus, scowling. I glance at him. He looks so much like his dad that I want to turn away. I don’t let myself. It’s hardly his fault. I force myself to see the boy, and not the shadow of the man. It’s not easy, with his jaw set as if he’s sitting in a Friday night traffic jam. His fingertips are white where they grip the pages of his ornithology book. He and Poppy have been arguing since before I served up an evening meal of slightly overcooked chicken sticks, oven chips and spaghetti hoops. Atticus likes to think of himself as an expert in all things nature-related, having received the Bumper Book of Birds for Christmas, not much more than a fortnight ago. Poppy, on the other hand, likes to think of herself as the font of all knowledge, and has consistently been top of her class throughout her life. So far the debate has been relatively civil, though Poppy has definitely started changing her grip on her fork.

  ‘Mum, you decide. Skewer or Squah?’

  I look at my children, expectant expressions on their faces. I’m in an impossible situation and they know it. But I’m an experienced parent and know how to play this game. I can lie on demand. ‘It’s both,’ I say, apologetically, as I busk like a jazz virtuoso. ‘I heard it on the radio – a debate ab
out this very thing. Turns out there’s no correct way to say it, and the closest to the original dialect word is actually “squaw” like an Indian woman.’

  They both look equally disappointed, though I’m rather pleased with the lie. Poppy doesn’t take long to identify an opportunity to remind me that I’m well past my sell-by date as a human being.

  ‘You mean Native American, I’m sure,’ she says, primly. ‘Indian is a term of oppression. It’s like somebody calling you a Jock.’

  ‘People did,’ I say, sighing. ‘At university, I was a Jock. The Welsh were Taffs. The poor sods from Liverpool were Scouse. Does it always have to be something to worry about?’

  ‘Where would we be if people thought that about the N-word?’ asks Poppy, and I find myself wondering, not for the first time, if Greta Thunberg’s parents occasionally sent her to her room for being too bloody wholesome by half. ‘Anyway, I’m not a Jock. I’m Scottish. A Hebridean, in fact.’

  ‘Shut up Poppy,’ grumbles Atticus, returning to his book.

  ‘Yeah, shurrup, Poppy,’ says Lilly, following her mummy’s lead and spreading her criticisms evenly. She angles her head, looking up at me to see if she’s in trouble. Then she does that thing of hers, putting a palm on my cheek and staring into my eyes as if she’s been alive for a hundred years. It always manages to slow my pulse. She calms me as readily as she drives me mad.

  I glance at the clock. It’s 6.40pm. No police yet. No questions. Nothing on the news. The Ardnamurchan Noticeboard on Facebook has been relatively traffic-free, though a few residents further towards the headland have asked each other whether anybody knows the reason for the increased police traffic on the peninsula. I’ve been only half-present since Mr Roe made his absurd request of me. I’ve gone through the motions of my reality like an automaton, my whole consciousness devoted to trying to work out what to do. I’m normally pretty good at knowing what I think about things but in this situation I feel as though there are far too many grey morale areas to be able to act decisively.

  Yes, Bishop and I were on the verge of being a couple. Yes, it saddens me to think he may have been killed. Yes, I find it revolting that he may have been involved in some criminal enterprise. Yes, I want the police to catch whoever may have done this to him. But no, I don’t want to be involved. No, I don’t want the island talking about me and my personal life. And no, I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the people who may be using the old castle a front for illegal organ transplants. Who the fuck would?

  Then there’s Mr Roe. I grow irate whenever I think about him, but at the same time there is something about him that makes me want to help him to secure a few more years. He looks in such pain, inside and out. There’s something in his eyes that speaks of agonies that nobody should have to withstand. And he showed affection to Lilly. Spoke to me with kindness and respect, right up until the point he pulled out the CS spray. I only half believe his story. Some of it sounds too outlandish, but then I know to my cost that sometimes, remarkable things really do happen to unremarkable people. If things had worked out differently, they could have happened to me. If not for circumstance, I could be somebody else entirely by now.

  ‘What do you think, Lilly?’ I whisper in her ear, nuzzling my forehead against hers. ‘What’s Mummy got to do?’

  She seems to consider this. Gives it some intense concentration. When she makes her pronouncement, it’s virtually profound. ‘Biscuit,’ she says, and nods, solemnly, in complete agreement with herself.

  I’m laughing, cuddling her tight, when I see the yellow light flash through the darkened glass by the door. Headlights, pulling into the drive. Every cell in my body seems to clench: folding in on themselves like petals at dusk. Atticus gives me a strange look, and I realise I must seem horribly unlike myself. I’ve only picked at my meal and I’ve barely engaged with the ceaseless chatter over dinner. I’m a ghost at the feast.

  ‘I’ll get it!’ yells Poppy, pushing her chair back from the table with a squeak.

  ‘No!’ I yell, and it comes out like a blast from a gun. Poppy stops, eyes wide, a hurt expression on her face. I feel so bad that I’d whup myself in front of her if it made a difference. ‘Sorry, Poppy, that’s way out of order… That sounded really harsh,’ I mutter, and I realise my fingers are twitching, like the legs of a dying spider. I make fists, in mimicry of the clenched hand that bangs on the door. I try to make out the identity of the caller from the shape they cast in the frosted glass. They’re tall. Wide. Burly, even. Dark coat, pale skin.

  ‘Are you not getting it?’ asks Atticus, looking puzzled. ‘It might be one of the guests needing something. I’ll get it, if you like.’

  We stay as we are, frozen in some bizarre tableau. The knock comes again, harder this time, and then the shape at the door is joined by another. I watch as the person outside tries the handle, and I’m thankful that I chose to lock it again when the kids came back from school. Then, with mounting horror, I see the letter box flip open.

  ‘Mum, are you going to…?’

  ‘Ronni! Ronni is that you? It’s Theresa. I really need to see you…’

  My breath comes out so fast it feels as if somebody has stamped on my chest. I give a hurried nod to Poppy and she runs to the door, fiddling with the key in the lock. In my lap, Lilly gives a little yelp and I realise I’ve been holding her too tight.

  ‘Sorry, baby,’ I whisper. ‘Sorry…’

  Poppy pulls the door open and Theresa stands in the doorway like a drawing in a horror magazine. She’s soaked to the skin. There’s green slime on her trousers and up the front of her raincoat and her wiry hair hangs down her pale face like kelp. I begin to stand, to ask what’s wrong, and I see the bruise on the left of her face. It’s got a pattern to it: a series of straight lines, as if she has been pressed to a crimping iron. She’s shaking: her whole being a strangled scream of pain.

  ‘Oh, Theresa, what on earth…?’

  Behind her, a large man appears in the doorway. His head almost reaches the frame and his huge barrel chest strains against the material of his shirt. He must be six foot seven at least and his arms look like skinny jeans stuffed with footballs. Theresa steps into the house and he ducks to follow her inside. As the light finds his features I see he’s probably somewhere under thirty, and handsome with it. He looks a bit lost, as if he’s embarrassed to be here. He’s wearing a pale pink shirt under a sensible waterproof coat, and I realise that despite his size, he’s not to be feared. He looks like a bear in a story for children, trying not to knock over anything valuable or cause anybody fright.

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ mumbles Theresa, dripping water onto the floor. She lurches forward, moving as if her feet are nailed to the floor. ‘This is Lachlan. He picked me up. Bodily, in fact! Helped me. Brought me here. He’s got friends on Coll. Missed the ferry just for me. I couldn’t ask him to take me all the way home… Told him to stop in here…’

  ‘Found her by the forest,’ says Lachlan, in a low, self-conscious growl. ‘Thought she was a deer. She didn’t want to go to hospital. Said to come here… She said that already, sorry…’

  I look around for something I can offer my unexpected guests – something that might help the situation. I’m breathing heavily. I want to grab the kids and turn them away from all this. Want to turn myself too. I spot a towel drying on the radiator and put Lilly down so I can grab it and hand it to Theresa. She takes it gratefully. Up close I can see she’s been crying. There’s a cut on her lip and the bruise on her face is already swelling up. I look down at her feet and have to stop myself from exclaiming out loud. She’s wearing borrowed boots – huge great walking shoes, their laces trailing. She follows my gaze, and I see her bottom lip give a quiver.

  ‘They took my shoes,’ she says, in a whisper. ‘Lachlan loaned me these, to keep me warm.’ She shivers, a great tremble that seems to shake every part of her. I find myself reaching out, an arm around her shoulder, pulling her in close. I feel an overwhelming sense of pity at seeing somebody
so tough and indomitable transformed into such a pitiful, tear-streaked mess. I’ve known her since I arrived in this part of the world and she’s not the sort to scare easily. Right now, she looks terrified. Looks broken.

  ‘They?’ I ask, sharply. I look up at Lachlan, who has his head bowed. Atticus appears at my side, holding Lilly, and Poppy slips in beside them, an audience to this strange play taking place in the kitchen.

  ‘She wouldn’t say,’ rumbles Lachlan. ‘I didn’t want to ask too many questions. Not sure it’s my business. But I couldn’t leave her…’

  ‘You did right,’ I say, though I don’t really know whether I believe any of what I’m saying. ‘Theresa, come inside now. Let’s get you warmed up and put some ice on that bruise, eh? Lachlan, do you need your boots back? Where are you staying? Theresa, put your weight on me. It’s fine, it’s fine…’

  She’s crook-backed, hobbling, as I help her to the kitchen table and she slips painfully onto one of the high-backed chairs. She gives a nod of thanks. ‘A glass of water would be nice,’ she says, looking up at me like a child. She slides her gaze to Lachlan. ‘Your boots,’ she says, dreamily, as if she’s taken a bang to the head. ‘Here, sorry… Thanks…’

  She pushes the toe of one boot against the heel of the other, and I hear a noise like paper tearing before the boot hits the floor. And then she shrieks. It’s a primal sound; a full-throated screech of pain, as if somebody has just torn grooves in her flesh with a dull blade.

  I glance down at her feet. Raise my hand to my mouth.

  Her feet are all blisters and glistening pink meat. Across the arch of her foot, the skin hangs loose: ruined flesh drooping low like popped bubble gum.