by John Mayer
Brogan had been first up, quickly followed by Tam Shaughnessy and Big Jake Devine. Brogan grabbed Anson’s wrist and twisted; the way Big Joe had shown him. Sean was rooted to the spot, blood dripping onto the green baize and had Brogan not tripped the second guy who was aiming a cleaver at Sean, Sean would’ve been dead. When the full story was later told in the Calton Bar, Big Jake Devine had been certain of that fact.
To Joe, it was of course a matter of family honour. There had been five of them and he knew that it was a fool’s errand to try to find them all in the same place at the same time; the odds of success in that venture were far too low. No. It would be more horrific for them and better for his Rep around the city to take them one by one. And that’s what he’d done. Sean’s slash from ear to mouth had brought him the nickname ‘Second Prize’. Making it his life’s work, each of the first four one year apart, got the same from Big Joe. Done in absolute silence and wearing a black balaclava, he’d made certain that none could recognise their attacker. Then it came to Ricky Anson’s turn. Quite how he’d done it, no-one knew. The planning must’ve taken weeks. About four or five years older than Big Joe, it was well-known that Anson had several girlfriends. He was just finished with Glasgow University and several people said he’d been awarded a First Class Degree; in Law no less. Clever and ambitious, he was his family’s pride and joy and on his way to great heights, when one night up a dark lane after fucking a girl goodnight, he waved her goodbye, turned a corner and bumped straight into Big Joe Mularkey: now all of nineteen years old and built like a broad oak tree.
‘Hello Ricky. My cousin Sean owes you something and I’m here to deliver it.’
Trying to dodge Big Joe was a useless exercise. With a twisted wrist and tripped up, Anson thought of crying out for help as Big Joe dragged him down the pitch dark lane. Gripping his mind in this moment of life and death, Ricky Anson instinctively knew that to open his mouth at all could mean instant death.
Easily pinning his captive to the ground by standing on his neck, Big Joe wasted no time with small talk of reason or revenge. Everything he wanted to say could be said with the two things he’d brought to this dance: a switchblade so sharp it could pass through a phone book with ease and a one-piece steel claw hammer which had been made by his father in a blacksmith’s dockyard forge.
Swish!
Waiting with his size 12 boot on Anson’s neck and his twisted wrist in Joe’s powerful hand, it took a few seconds for the blood to show. As soon as the trickle from Anson’s cheek turned to a flow, Big Joe yanked on Anson’s arm, turning him over like a pig on a spit.
Swish!
Now gurgling and moaning, Anson lay in his nice suit and coat among the rat droppings, soaking wet discarded fast food and empty beer cans, bleeding defeated and carrying the worst Second Prize seen in Glasgow for many a long year. But Big Joe wasn’t finished.
The look in Anson’s eyes when Big Joe let him go was one of pure fear tinged with resignation for his situation. Still Big Joe said nothing. A cloud must have moved letting a shaft of moonlight fall on them. As Big Joe opened his coat and slid the claw hammer from his belt, Anson’s unblinking eyes became those of a man facing death. But Big Joe wasn’t for letting him off that easily.
Smash!
Anson’s silent cry was that of those in so much pain that there is no energy left for breathing, far less crying out. His shattered kneecap and shin bone were now sticking through his skin and could be seen as shards in the moonlight.
Smash! Smash! Smash!
At the three ferocious blows to his other knee, Ricky Anson’s mind gave up and consciousness departed him. From the moment he regained consciousness in hospital, he was made aware that he was lucky to be alive; although he’d have to spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. After a month, lying in his hospital bed, having given the smiling nurse his empty lunch plate, Ricky Anson went cold as the figure of a man he recognised passed the narrow window in his door. Waving with one hand as though to a child, the smiling man was letting him know that at any moment his luck could run out and the same could happen to some other part of his body. Isolated in his hospital bed, Ricky Anson had no way of knowing that all over Glasgow, that man’s reputation had soared and absolutely everyone was calling him First Prize.
Easing the needle out of his forearm and gently shaking him by the shoulder, the young nurse’s question seeped into Big Joe Mularkey’s conscious mind as though being delivered by an angel:
‘Mr Mularkey. Mr Mularkey. Are you awake?’
Squeezing his eyes together and rubbing them so hard that no doctor could recommend it, Big Joe Mularkey shook his head and swallowed deeply:
‘What? What did you say?’
‘Mr Mularkey, I have good news for you. Can you sit up?’
Looking around the room, Big Joe saw three or four others in space suits, but now their headgear and zipped-on gloves had been removed. Getting up onto one elbow, Big Joe swung his legs out and shook his head once more. The man who seemed to be in charge came over, shone a small torch into his eyes and looked under his eyelids:
‘Yes, Mr Mularkey. I’m Professor Graeme MacIntosh and this is my Isolation Unit. I’m very pleased to be able to tell you, that whilst we had you … you were sleeping, your results show that you are clear of the virus which has struck our patients. You can see your wife who I think is waiting outside with clothes and things for you.’
Big Joe shook his fuzzy head once more: ‘Sorry doctor. Did you say I don’t have the virus?’
Every medical head in the room nodded the same answer: ‘Precisely, Mr Mularkey. The laboratory analysis shows that you’re most certainly not the carrier of this virus. You’re quite fit and well as far as I can see.’
Touching his forehead and unable to take in what he was hearing, Big Joe tried again: ‘But doctor, I’m the only one who’s been to Africa. There must be some mistake. Yeah. That’s it. Somebody said something earlier about Malaysia. Is that it?’
‘No. We’re now certain that the Malaysian strain is not present in our patients. So although it seems to be a close relative of whatever is ailing our patients, we can rule that one out.’
Being led back through the empty observation area, Big Joe naturally looked down to the far end where his mother lay. To his shock, the untidy bed was empty. Stopping in his tracks, open-mouthed, Big Joe went rigid and couldn’t speak. Sort of half pointing, he began to sweat and shiver. But help was to hand. The young nurse who’d wakened him flicked through the sheets on her clipboard while Professor MacIntosh saw his plight. Laying a hand on Big Joe’s forearm, he re-assured him:
‘It’s alright Mr Mularkey. Your mother is down in another ward. She responded very well to treatment and seems to be a very strong woman. You can see her if you’d like.’
The professor’s words were coming to Big Joe’s ears as though through an echo chamber. Raising both hands to his cheeks, Big Joe swallowed and tried to speak; but no words would form in his head. Pointing to the empty bed beside his mother’s, with his eyes filled with tears, he could only gasp. This time no-one checked their sheets nor sought clarification. They could only drop their eyes. It fell to Professor MacIntosh to grip Big Joe’s forearm and say as quietly as the grave itself:
‘I’m so sorry Mr Mularkey. I saw that Mrs McLane lived in the same tenement building as your mother. Did they know each other well?’
~~~o~~~
Chapter 35
McLane had argued against an electronic lock, positing that it hadn’t been electronics which had kept marauders out of castles and city walls for thousands of years, but iron barricades and stout oak. So why in the third basement of Parliament House was the government installing an electronic entry system to the room now reserved for the National Security Council? Why not an old fashioned barricade and a big lock? There were plenty of those around Parliament House; another one would make no difference.
But the government men had their way, and when a revolving code was b
eing set, McLane had been consulted as to who might have access to those codes. He’d written back saying, no, his answer wasn’t a mistake. He really did want only the Deputy National Security Commissioner - Advocate Miss Maisie Rodgers - and the Queen’s Macer, old Jimmy Robertson to have access. The suits in the government had agreed, subject only to a corresponding code being operated by an ‘official’ who would log each time the room was used.
At the bottom of the narrow spiral stone stairs, if one looked straight up, the little hole of light three levels above and the high vaulted ceiling beyond that, gave the impression that one was directly connected to God on Most High.
McLane turned over his shoulder and apologised: ‘Bloody ridiculous thing. Sorry about the wait everyone. The government wheels turn very slowly, even during epidemics.’
In more dangerous centuries long past, the old octagonal stone floored room had been the Lord Justice General’s Chambers. In the enormous fireplace which now, half way up, had an iron grid deeply set into the stones that zig-zagged up to roof height, there was a good going blaze of heavy logs. Also, coffee and shortbread had been provided; a sign that old Jimmy Robertson had been in before them.
Flashing her eyes sideways at McLane, Maisie took a deep breath and prepared to be secretary to McLane’s tenth Chairing of the National Security Council. Around the table, she noted McLane in the chair, flanked to his right by the Chief Medical Officer for Scotland, then acting as Police/NSC liaison, McLane’s old friend Police Commander Imrie, followed by Professor Sir Isaac Neuberger who was specially co-opted for this project and lastly, herself.
With everyone settled, McLane leaned forward and rolled his pen between his fingers: ‘Well, Nadia. Where are we on the medical front?’
In her old job as Regius Professor of Forensic Pathology in the University of Edinburgh, Nadia and McLane had crossed professional swords in court a few times, but he’d always be grateful for the fair way she acted when he’d been set up for the murder of that piece of scum, Lord Aldounhill. She’d never said so, but she liked McLane - very much - and was glad to see him rise even against the pressure of those in the Lochie Society in Parliament House who would stab him in the back at any opportunity:
‘Mr Chairman, we …’
‘Oh Nadia please, there’s no need for titles. At this table, for the duration and purposes of this epidemic, although there are other standing members, effectively we are the National Security Council.’
‘Thank you … Brogan. Well, we still haven’t identified the source but we are close to identifying …’
‘Sorry to interrupt, but can you say with certainty that it’s not Mr Mularkey?’
‘Oh yes, with absolute certainty. He is not, nor was he ever the carrier.’
Breathing out a big loud sigh, McLane inwardly gave thanks for that vital information. He’d never have forgiven himself if he’d been responsible: ‘Sorry; you were saying?’
Yes. We’re now close to knowing the characteristics of this virus. Graeme MacIntosh is the very best in his field and will ID this for us before the day is out; would you agree Isaac?’
Of all the members of this small but important circle, Sir Isaac looked most relaxed; as though he dined in rooms like this all the time: ‘Indubitably ma’am. I have every confidence in him doing so.’
‘OK. Containment is our next priority, I suppose. Right, Nadia?’
‘Oh yes. Absolutely. But first I want to ask a few exploratory questions, if I may?’
Now leaning back with an arm hooked around one of the two carved lions in the back of his chair, McLane appeared to Maisie like a man who’d just dropped a wet sack of bricks from his back: ‘Ask away, Nadia.’
Turning towards the chairman and half leaning on the table, the Chief Medical Officer hesitated, which was very unlike her:
‘Erm, Brogan. Am I right in saying that you grew up in the Calton?’
‘Erm, yes. Yes you are. But I haven’t ever been to Africa. So I don’t think I’m your man either.’
Raising her hand off the table, she didn’t quite get it to full height before interjecting: ‘In the section of questions about association with other people locally, quite a lot of respondents mentioned on their forms that they were members of something called the Calton Residents' Association. Do you know what that is?’
Unsure if she should be noting all this, Maisie touched her elbow to McLane’s, but he shook his head:
‘Of course I do. I can’t be a member because I’m legal counsel to the CRA, but I suggested its formation. What are you thinking Nadia?’
‘Well, I’m still exploring an idea I have that’s based on one person’s full account of their movements in the week before the outbreak. A visitor who’d come to see a Mrs Isabella McLane. Is she a relative of yours, perhaps?’
‘Yes. Bella’s my aunt. Why? What’s the idea?’
‘Her visitor, a Mrs Caitlin Shaughnessy, mentions on her form that she was with Bella at a meeting of the Calton Residents' Association in a place she called the old Meat Market. Do you know if that’s correct?’
‘It is correct. The last meeting was just a few days ago. In fact, there have now been two meetings of the CRA in the old Meat Market. The first was weeks … No, several weeks ago. Don’t get the wrong idea: the place I’m talking about is a big wood-built barn of a place with a tin roof. It’s been closed and derelict for years. I don’t know who owns the buildings now, but I do know those buildings were built by the old Glasgow Meat Traders’ Association who paid rent for decades. But the land has always been owned by Glasgow City Council.’
Unsure if she should speak or just act as secretary, Maisie Rodgers rubbed two fingers across her forehead. McLane knew that habit very well. Turning to his left, he asked:
‘Maisie. Do you want to say something? Please do, if you have an idea.’
Everyone at the table was well aware of the part this fresh faced curly haired young woman had played in saving the nation from what might’ve been a catastrophe when the Russians hacked in to the vote in the Scottish Parliament on the subject of whether or not to keep the Trident Nuclear Submarines in Scotland. So every eye turned to look at her:
‘I was just thinking, that if the Meat Market has been closed for more than ten years, …
‘Errmm, ten years? Yeah. I’m pretty sure it has. A little more than ten. So?’
‘Well, if as you say, Glasgow City Council has always owned the land, then, because of a change in the law about eighteen years ago, the buildings forming the Market have now acceded to the land; that is to say, the buildings have been abandoned by the owners and become part of the land: thus the buildings are now owned by Glasgow City Council; who would be responsible for any legal causes or effects emanating from the old Meat Market. I’m talking for instance, about failing to maintain the place and slates falling from the roof and hitting passers-by - though there are no slates in this instance. You know the kind of thing. Failure in a legal duty leading to injury: or even death. I don’t know if that helps us get anywhere today. I just thought I’d mention it.’
McLane looked like he’d stopped breathing. Maisie couldn’t have known it because she didn’t know the background facts, but he did. It was his old friend Commander Imrie who dared to speak first:
‘Brogan. Your mind is whirling. It’s written all over your face. Out with it, man!’
McLane continued to sit silently for several seconds before lifting his eyes and looking around the table:
‘This can’t have anything to do with meat, can it Sir Isaac?’
Making a face like a schoolboy refusing vegetables, the Professor of Epidemiology in the University of Oxford, shook his head:
‘I strongly doubt it. Both because the Market has been closed for many years and the general strain we’re seeing isn’t present in any bovine cases we’ve seen around the world. So no, I don’t think this has anything to do with meat.’
The country’s Chief Medical Officer could see that McLane w
asn’t at the end of this train of thought. He was at its beginning:
‘Go on, Brogan. What are you thinking?’
Pressing his lips tight together, McLane obviously didn’t want to say what was on his mind, but at last, he relented:
‘Pigeons? Could it have something to do with pigeons?’
Sir Isaac leaned forward: ‘Perhaps. Are there pigeons in this old Market?’
‘Thousands. Well, it looks like thousands. Definitely hundreds. I’m sure.’
Again the professor was nonchalant: ‘Hmm, no. I’m not keen. If they were the carriers, then they would’ve spread the virus around the whole city and perhaps further. And anyway, why now? Why not before now?’ No, your pigeon idea isn’t persuading me.’
Getting into team phase, Nadia Suilleman laid her hand on Sir Isaac’s sleeve: ‘Excuse me Isaac, but I sort of like the bird thing. Please Brogan, tell me more about this latest meeting of the Calton Residents' Association.’
McLane opened his hands and shrugged: ‘Well, what can I say? Everyone was sitting on chairs and lots of old benches left by Glasgow City Council. There was a desk at the front. The meeting was quite well attended, I thought, for a very cold night. About two hundred and fifty were there. Two hundred. Two fifty. Some number around there.’
Professor Sir Isaac Neuberger leaned even further forward: ‘A cold night, you say.’
‘Oh yes. Very cold.’
Nadia Suilleman could sense her old friend was warming to her bird theory: ‘Was there any heating at all?’
McLane nodded vigorously: ‘Yes. As a matter of fact, Arab … sorry, a local man had arranged for some wood burning furnaces to be brought in. Four of them. Big ones. The irony was, that the wood being burned came from some demolished houses in the Calton. A few people had taken what in the Calton is called the Queen’s Shilling; if you know what I mean.’
