by John Mayer
‘You see, I’ve worked for Glasgow City Council nearly all my life. Now as you may know, there’s barely a catholic working in the Chambers; even nowadays. But because I was from Bridgeton and called Fraser, everyone just presumed that I was a proddy. A pal of mine got me started in the post room. Well, I worked my way up and now I’m the oldest serving servitor and I’ve been approved as the only one who can serve Mr C. Oh, you won’t know who that is. But he’s the Chairman of the Planning Committee, the Finance Committee and God knows what he’s not in charge of. Make no mistake, it’s not the Lord Provost who’s in charge in Glasgow City Chambers. It’s him. He’s the top man.’
Meeting his eyes, McLane interjected: ‘You say he’s called Mr C. What does the C stand for?’
‘Oh that’s for ‘Control’ - from the old TV series - Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.’
‘Err, OK. Go on.’
‘Yes, well as I said, I’m the only servitor allowed to bring him things. His tea, his mail, inter-office messages. Everything and anything that flows through his office - and that’s a tremendous amount of stuff - I deliver. But he never speaks to me. No, I tell a lie. He’s spoken to me once, years ago. It was to ask me a few questions. I was wearing a name tag stamped ‘Fraser’ and he asked me if I was a protestant man and where I lived. When I told him I lived in Bridgeton in Robert Fraser’s house in Tullis street, he asked if that was the same Robert Fraser who was a Member of the Orange Order in Bridgeton, whose name he seemed to know well. When I said it was the same man, he immediately ordered that no-one else but me be allowed to come near his office.’
Around the circle of chairs, the faces were interested, but everyone was thinking the same thing: ‘You deliver mail to this powerful man in the Council Chambers. So what?’
‘But that’s not really what I’ve come to tell you about.’
Everyone left the obvious question unanswered and just stared at this stranger who’d been born among them:
‘You’ll be wonderin’ why I’m tellin’ ye’ all this. Well, I suppose it’s a combination of two things really. I wasn’t born in a hospital. I was born in Mrs Tobin’s wee tenement house, just like this one, and brought up in it. Mrs Tobin was kindness itself to me and her daughter still lives in that house. I suppose I just don’t want to see it demolished, if possible.’
Jean and Bella stared open-mouthed at each other. Everyone in the room knew Tessa Tobin.
‘But there’s another reason. That bastar … sorry ladies … that swine Mr C has treated me like dirt for more years than I can remember and I suppose I would feel a lot better if he got a good kickin’ from you, Mr McLane. Oh, in a court, of course.’
McLane nodded his understanding.
‘Since I heard about the Calton Residents' Association, I’ve been thinking about comin’ to see you all for a wee while, but it was somethin’ that happened just a few nights ago that really made my mind up. I was washin’ the dishes in the kitchen sink - my kitchen window overlooks the car park at the back of Olympic House - that’s the Headquarters of the Scottish Orange Order. I often see a few men parkin’ and goin’ in. You’ll know, of course, that the LOL is a men-only society. But the other night was obviously some sort of big meeting. So I turned out the light and put up the window to see better and hear what people were saying. It was the cars that drew my attention really. Very posh they were and there was even a Rolls Royce. A couple of guys got out of it and they were speaking German.’
Instantly, McLane sliced the air with his hand, as though in Parliament House: ‘German? Are you sure?’
‘Not really, Mr McLane but I think it was. I’d seen the lights go on in the upper floor and I knew that was the Master. He always arrives first. Oh God, I’m not explaining myself very well. Mr C in the Council is also the current Master of the Grand Orange Order in Scotland. So he’d arrived before the cars. Anyway, the meeting didn’t last all that long. Just about half an hour, I’d say.’
Again, McLane leaned forward: ‘Tam, could you see the men who were getting in and out of these cars?’
‘Oh aye, Mr McLane. What was unusual was that the Master came round and got into one of the cars. He doesn’t usually do that. So I figured they were all goin’ on somewhere else. They were all laughing and slappin’ each other on the back; so for a celebration, maybe. There’s a big flood light that comes on when there’s any movement, so I got a good look at all of them.’
Raising his hand again, McLane drew the attention of everyone in the room: ‘Wait a second. Was one of these men a very tall guy. Maybe six feet seven or so and bald as a coot?’
A look of sheer astonishment came over every face in the room. Big Joe Mularkey looked at McLane and shook his head. Was there something McLane was holding back? Surely not. But in a moment, everyone but Tam Fraser had figured it out, so it was left to the stranger to ask:
‘How in God’s name did you know that, Mr McLane?’
Replying with another question, McLane was in full flow: ‘And was he with another man who was very fat with snow white hair covering his ears?’
Tam Fraser threw open his hands: ‘Mr McLane, are you some sort of a magician?’
Shaking his head, McLane proffered: ‘No Mr Fraser, just someone who can put two and two together. You may not know this, but recently Glasgow City Council was granted something in Parliament House called a …’
‘Declarator, Mr McLane.’
Now it was McLane’s turn to ask, but he did so by answering his own question: ‘Ah, well played. You hand delivered the Certified Copy of that Declarator to the Chairman of the Planning Committee, didn’t you?’
For the first time since he’d arrived, Tam Fraser looked relaxed and actually laughed out loud at playing this game with none other than Baron McLane of Calton: ‘I did, Mr McLane. But who were the other two you mentioned?’
‘Oh, none other than Heriot Pembroke QC and Lord Harwich of Houndsward. The two who stitched up that Declarator behind my back in Parliament House. Alright, so we’ve got Mr C who is also the Master of the Lodge, the two from Parliament House and a few more, you say. Is that right?’
Nodding deeply, Tam Fraser lifted his finger:
‘Oh yes. I also recognised the Sheriff Court Judge in Glasgow - Lord Sunnybrook - from dinners he’s been to in the Chambers - many a time. So I’m sure of him. Plus there was the Secretary of State for the Environment. I saw him only a month ago in the Chambers for a meeting with Mr C about the Calton demolition. He must’ve come up from London.’
‘And the Germans?’
‘Well that’s the odd thing. Mr C has been gettin’ mail from Zurich and Geneva for the last … well, since the Demolition Order was first discussed. But I think those cities are in Switzerland, not Germany.’
Tam Fraser couldn’t have known it, but in McLane’s mind, his bona fides had just been sealed. McLane leaned back into his kitchen chair and announced to those who didn’t know:
‘Those cities are in Switzerland, but their people speak German.’
‘Wow. Right. I didn’t know that, Mr McLane.’
Satisfied that Tam Fraser was now an ally, McLane wanted to wind this meeting up:
‘So Tam, is there anything else we should know?’
‘Eh, aye. I should have said. Mr C’s real name is William Randal and he’s a really cold fish. A really strange one that, if ever I met one.’
Holding out his hand, Big Joe Mularkey said: ‘Thanks Tam. Sorry about earlier. I just had to be sure, you know?’
Shaking Big Joe’s hand warmly and looking around at the smiling faces, Tam Fraser remembered a detail that he thought might be useful. While shaking hands with McLane, he offered:
‘Oh, by the way, Randal keeps the only key to his office on him at all times. But there’s an adjoining ante-office where the City Architect’s model of the Calton is sitting on a desk. Everyone thinks the key to that office was lost years ago.’
Cutting in, Big Joe’s eyes widened to their fullest: ‘Hold it!
You don’t mean …?’
‘I do. I’ve had it in a drawer for nearly ten years.’
~~~o~~~
Chapter 24
Nothing much was being said, because McLane figured the less he knew the better. Since getting home from school at just after three, she’d been up in her room on the phone and on their minds. Now just a week and a day before her official sixteenth birthday, in the five years Ababuo had been with them, she’d never given them a moment’s trouble: so Joanne thought that to make too much of this overnight party might spoil it for her. She had her little circle of friends but now new names were being mentioned all the time and it even seemed normal for her age group to have gay boy friends in their circle. How things had changed since their school days. This party was in a friend’s house, so they hadn’t asked too many questions and trusted her not to do anything stupid. After tonight, she was to come home in a taxi on Saturday morning with no more than three friends - and no boys. That was a rule. And as for Saturday night, she had to be at home; again with no more than three friends. One of them would call the house at a time to suit them and they’d be home sometime on Sunday afternoon: expecting everything to be as they left it. To her credit, Ababuo was becoming more mature with every passing month and this first time of letting her stay out and leaving her alone in the house was a milestone, but one they were happy to meet.
Stepping out of her taxi half a mile short of the destination the radio controller had taken over the phone, Ababuo checked around for the car. When she saw the headlights flash once, her heart leapt. A big Bentley! And a driver! Wow. Ana did know how to live. The photos she’d been getting - and instantly deleting - for the last four months had made her lie awake at night longing for this moment. As she got in to the back seat, Ababuo’s excited breaths were shortening. Anastasia clasped her hand, leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks.
‘First things first, OK?’
Ababuo’s girlish excitement was barely controlled: ‘Ooohhh yes. Pinkie trust.’
Linking pinkies as they’d done while dancing with each other at that party in her parents’ house, at the touch of Anastasia’s finger, Ababuo shivered with joy. With her corn rows specially prepared for tonight, in her loose shimmering silver top, tiny black skirt and fabulous long legs, but for her wide-eyed expressions, Ababuo could have passed any doorman in the city. Looking into her young friend’s dark chocolate eyes, Anastasia told the truth:
‘You look utterly fabulous! Did you have any trouble?’
‘No. None at all. So do you! Your dress is a-ma-zing. As I said, they’re going to Aberdeen for a couple of nights and I just told them I was going to a party. It’s all cool. Wow! I can’t believe we’re going out together. And like this! Where are we going? You’ve kept me guessing but now I can ask. Is it a club?’
When the Bentley whispered away, Anastasia waited until the driver pushed a button and the screen came up: ‘No. It’s a party. I wanted to take you to a house party so that you wouldn’t be lying. It was going to be in a flat I have, but instead we decided to have it at a friend’s house. It’s bigger. Want a drink?’
Luxuriating in a deep leather seat she thought made her father’s Range Rover feel like her hard school seats, Ababuo nodded enthusiastically and excitedly drew a lot of breath through her teeth. Anastasia touched a silver button to reveal five half-litre bottles in a polished wooden rack, all bearing names of drinks Ababuo had never heard of; a fact which was written all over her young face:
‘Don’t worry. They’re all Russian. Here. Let me choose.’
Lifting a bottle so beautifully curved and opaque Ababuo thought it should contain perfume, Anastasia cracked the seal and picked out two tiny glasses:
‘You must try this vodka. It’s one of our best. My father has it sent from his cousin’s distillery in the Stanovoy Highlands where the water is the purest of melting snow. Its name is Kauffman Soft. It’s very strong but beautifully smooth. You should sip it, don’t pour it down.’
Touching glasses, the pair looked into each other’s eyes: ‘Oh thank you so much Anastasia. I’m so excited. I’ve been looking forward to this ever since my Dad’s party.’
‘Сегодня вечером’
‘Ooohh, what does that mean? Tell me!’
‘It means ‘To a good time tonight’. In fact I think we’re going to have an amazing time.’
Pulling through some high iron gates in complete darkness, Ababuo thought the Bentley glided over the driveway stones rather than crunched them the way her father’s car did. Leaning forward she replaced her vodka glass for the second time. Just then, she raised her head and got her first glimpse of the house:
‘Aaahh! Oh My God! Is this your friend’s house?’
Momentarily ashamed that her jaw had fallen open, Ababuo pressed her head against the window to get a better look at this incredible place; that was more of a castle than a house. The way it was lit discreetly around the high stone doorway made the two huge men in black suits barely visible. And the warmth of the candlelight chandeliers seen through ten tall windows just beckoned party-goers to come inside. While they waited, a few people Ababuo thought must be in movies or the fashion world were welcomed by a woman who looked about forty, with flowing soft blonde hair, wearing a scarlet gown with the deepest possible cleavage. Around her neck, she wore a black choker and a diamond necklace which fell between her ample breasts to her navel. Trying not to stare, Ababuo was sure she’d seen that same gown on TV at the Oscars.
As their Bentley drove away and Ababuo was easing her tiny skirt down an inch or two, Anastasia flicked her eyes up to the attic windows. She couldn’t see the man who would’ve arrived in the country a few days ago as Professor Van Der Bijl, but of course without him, nothing like this could be arranged. In the darker rooms he’d have the lights and cameras discreetly placed, the doctor would inject the diluted gamma-hydroxybutyrate just under her big toenail and the very well-endowed guests whom Ababuo would never meet again would be on his private plane at first light, if not before. This was her first big assignment as a Level 2 and Anastasia was glad that it was off to such a good start.
Lifting the hem of her gown above her open-toed shoes, Anastasia glided up the three stone steps ahead of Ababuo, kissed the hostess on both cheeks and turned around:
‘Please allow me to introduce my friend Ababuo McLane. She is the daughter of National Security Commissioner, Baron McLane of Calton. Ababuo, please come and meet the Countess Katarina Yiorgievna.’
~~~o~~~
Chapter 25
After all the fussing about exactly where it was, whether to drive or take the train, what to wear and what to take for an overnight stay, remembering how to address him and his wife when they met all got on top of her. Joanne McLane could take no more and just flung herself flat on their bed with discarded clothes lying all over the room. Until now, after the Induction in The House itself, life had gone on more or less as it was before. He was in court a lot and worked in the Advocates' Library till all hours on bigger and bigger cases. Of course there was also now the matter of being woken at all hours of the night by Special Branch Police and in some cases by Military Intelligence showing him evidence and asking for his approval for this or that. Apart from offering refreshments, Joanne mostly stayed away from these strangers, whom he always took into his study and closed the door. To Joanne, life after he became National Security Commissioner didn’t feel any safer. If the truth be told, she often wondered what foreign eyes might be on her during the day, or on Ababuo at school. But right now, all that had to be brushed aside. This morning there was the arduous task of choosing a wardrobe for a visit to Mayfield House, the country seat in Aberdeenshire of Lord and Lady Mayfield.
Calling to him in their en-suite, Joanne McLane’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky and a little nervous:
‘Brogan. Brogan!’
The man who stepped out of their bathroom didn’t look like her husband. In his brand new twisted tweed suit a
nd checked shirt, he looked more like a tailor’s dummy. Loosening a new green tie he’d been trying to get right, McLane flung open his arms:
‘What? I’ve got my own problems here, Joanne. What is it?’
Getting up on one elbow, Joanne looked her husband in the face: ‘Maybe we could cry off. Say it’s Ababuo. She needs us for something. We could say she’s been out all night and got sick or something. Anything, but please, no more decisions.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Get ready. It’ll be fine.’
Sitting down on the bed and taking her hand, McLane scratched her fingers with his: ‘Do you remember when we first got married? On our honeymoon, do you remember? On the third night, we walked along the pier, had fish and chips that were really salty with plenty of vinegar and we said ‘One day when I’m a big-time Advocate we’ll be dining with Lords and Ladies.’ Jeez, who knew it would come true? Not me.’
‘Do the ladies really leave the table after dinner to let the men smoke cigars and talk about affairs of state?’
Squeezing her fingers and kissing her on the forehead, McLane reassured his wife: ‘Don’t worry. It’s to be just the four of us. I’m told he’s the Father of the House pro-tem. He’s not the oldest in age or longest serving; just the oldest who can put on a good dinner for the new guy. And he’s Scottish. That’s got something to do with it. I’m not sure myself of all the etiquette but a few of the older judges I’ve spoken to in Parliament House say he’s a good guy. Posh as posh can be, but a good guy. And I know a few of them now.’
All the way up the motorway, they chatted and laughed, finished each other’s sentences and only a few times wondered out loud if Ababuo had enjoyed her party. After coming off the motorway, they snaked about eight miles along a country road until in the fading afternoon light, there on top of a hill beyond a copse of trees, Baron McLane of Calton and Lady McLane caught their first sight of Mayfield House.
