by John Mayer
For over twenty years, in all weathers, the flower seller had stood at this same pitch, every day that God sent, from ten in the morning until four thirty in the afternoon. He remembered the workmen arriving in their van and the truck with the crane on the back delivering the finely chiselled blocks of snow-white marble. It took them just over a month to complete. At first, it was the moving of a lot of earth from the apex of the hill, but quite quickly, the walls went up and that impressive dome was craned into place. Yes, just over a month, he thought. And, when it was ready, nearly everyone going in remarked on how it gave the cemetery a whole new aspect; as though this imposing mausoleum gave to the dead a grandeur they hadn’t known in life.
Approaching the fourteen inch thick steel door, the man held the flowers up to chest height, paused and almost imperceptibly lowered his head. Standing as still as any statue, he closed his eyes. Not to shield them from the watery afternoon sun, but to recall without distraction the happy years. Those few happy years between thirteen and sixteen. Sixteen! He’d been only sixteen years old. Then suddenly his life was pulled up by the roots and left to die on open barren ground. Surely that in itself was a crime worthy of the most severe punishment. But of course, what the police thought was worthy was their choice; it certainly wasn’t his. Insufficient evidence to proceed: that was all they said with a shrug of the shoulders. They didn’t care that insufficient evidence meant living the remainder of a life once filled with potential in misery among bed sores, hundreds of hospital appointments and, where once there had been burning ambition and personal drive, there was now only ignominy and pain. Their words had rung like daily church bells through both of their minds for just over thirty years. In the first months, he’d tried prayer but now was resigned to mere hope that the dear departed might have found peace.
Slotting the specially made cardkey into the reader, the solid clunk made by the four eight inch diameter bolts retracting served as permission to cross a boundary from a very cruel world over into an impregnable peaceful place. Turning and locking himself in, he picked up the inevitable petals which had naturally withered and fallen onto the polished marble floor. That was to be expected. But so far as the building itself was concerned, the City Architect had done his work very discreetly and kept his promise; not even dust in the wind outside could penetrate this building. Even in the low afternoon light coming straight down through the bullet-proof glass dome, the brass plaque he’d had engraved in London shone as brightly as the first day he’d unwrapped it before drilling the holes himself to mount it on the wall. Lifting last month’s flowers to discard outside, he carefully placed the new arrangement on the slab. Carefully edging back down the two steps, always caused him to look at the blank snow-white wall on the other side and to recall the Architect’s question: ‘How many sarcophagi will you require, sir? You don’t have to make a final decision. There’s plenty of room for a second one; should you decide to be laid there yourself, sir.’
Today he departed from his usual practise of saying nothing. In the only place in the world where his innermost feelings could safely find expression, he whispered:
‘No Brother could be to me what you were, my guide and mentor. You were closer to me than a natural brother. And we could have done what you suggested, I’m sure. We could’ve had a partnership that would've ruled the city. You with a private law practise and me in the public sector. With that combination, we could’ve had it all. However, that worthy ambition was ripped away from us in a matter of seconds. And for what? For giving that fenian bastard the slashing he deserved. He left you to take the three dozen pills every day. For your bones to become brittle and wracked and your hair to become long so as to hide the shame on your cheeks. I was left to soldier on alone. Well, I can carry that burden for both of us. Now you rest in peace my cousin, for I can assure you that with the unexpected help of a Brother in Switzerland, we’re winning.’
Turning the well-oiled lock in his practised way, he listened but heard neither wailing nor her low moaning which had become more frequent lately. Even as he took the carpeted stairs to the top of the house, still all was quiet. Pushing on the door as lightly as any insect landing on a branch, his first check was that her pills were by the bed. Lifting the brown plastic bottle, he narrowed his eyes and counted. Good. One less than this morning.
Lightly descending to the first floor and stepping in to his study, he eyed the sealed bottle of whisky he kept on the sideboard, just for temptation. It had now been more than twenty years since he’d put it there and still it remained unopened. Before sitting down into his desk chair, he ran his finger along the top of a silver picture frame; by way of dusting it. Looking down at the two lads with arms around each other’s shoulders, their unblemished beaming faces looking out at the world with all the promise of youth, he felt free to speak out loud:
‘Oh yes. At last, we’re winning.’
~~~o~~~
Chapter 44
As they did every Monday morning, the servitors and Admin staff filed in to Parliament House, not as they do in commercial offices where cheery Good Mornings and weekend news is exchanged; but rather with the chilly swish of passing ghosts. With no Judges sitting in court, no nervous clients to appease and no interlocutors to pronounce, some newcomers might think that on Monday mornings Parliament House is at peace. Older hands know perfectly well that such an error can lead only to one end: failure. Counsel of course come and go to the Advocates' Library at any hour of the day or night, but on Monday mornings, notable by their absence are those who’ve spent the past week in the white heat of a court battle with each other. They sleep off their celebrations and commiserations while those desperate for work loiter in the near empty Library and around the Clerks’ offices in the forlorn hope that some morsel of legal work might come their way.
Down in the newly refurbished first basement corridor, in almost perfect silence and with mastery of the legal procedures they served, staff glided between offices while heads peeked out from behind armfuls of manila folders. Some made copies, others licked envelopes and some sorted through Exhibits. But one thing was common to all: everyone watched their own back and to Hell with everyone else.
In the Office of the Keeper of the Rolls, the man himself was busy. His well-worn bowler hat hanging on the same hat stand on which his father’s hat hung before him. In wing collar, waistcoat and Marlborough trousers, he was cocooned from the view of anyone who might have straggled their way down here from the outside world. At precisely 9:05 in the forenoon of the non Sederunt Day - which the outside world called Monday - he consulted with the Principal Clerk of Session about sorting out the week’s legal debates, deciding on how much time to give each of the Hearings, what to give the Emergency Judge to do while he waited all week and generally try to plan ahead so as to avoid some catastrophe which might attract the attention of the Lord Justice General; or worse, a bloody politician.
Out on the periphery of the Keeper’s Office next to the corridor, four diligent young men worked at a partners’ desk designed for two. Around the office, they were jokingly called the ‘four corners’. The longest serving of them was allowed to call himself the ‘senior’ but it was well understood that that was unofficial.
Lifting the ‘weekend wire basket’ which was light, he tipped out the contents onto his desk. There were the usual few Motions for injunctions drafted over the weekend more in hope than expectation. There was something glossy inviting the Keeper to a masked ball, which he immediately dropped into the bin. Another sought the impossible release of a lifer from Peterhead maximum security prison. Lastly, there was something cross-border that he thought properly belonged in the English courts; which he tossed over the desk for the junior man to re-direct. At the bottom of the basket, the corners of one rather thick foolscap envelope, sealed with a very familiar wax crest, had got stuck in the wire.
After work the previous Friday, as was his wont, he’d made straight for his favourite watering hole. Down Advocate’s
Close off the Royal Mile, the Jocular Judge bar was dark, smoky, pricey and exclusive. Packed with lawyers, clerks and journalists it was the perfect place for a young man such as himself to advance his career. Standing at the bar with his hand in his pocket ready to pay for his first drink of the night, he’d been quite surprised to feel the hand on his forearm and a voice saying ‘I’ll get that. And his next one.’
He was even more surprised when he turned to see who might be the source of this generosity.
Not knowing quite how to address a Queen’s Counsel who’d offered to buy him drink, the young man stuck to formality:
‘Erm, thanks very much, sir.’
Leading him by the elbow to an alcove, his generous benefactor had been all smiles and adopted a very un-Parliament House friendly tone. The young man had felt a surge of excitement as one of the top Queen’s Counsel in Parliament House sat down, shielded his face with his cupped hand and looked straight into his face:
‘Terrence, isn’t it?’
‘Err, usually it’s just Terry, sir.’
‘Well Terry, there’s a thousand quid in a mixture of cash, in this envelope. I’m asking nothing illegal. Just administrative. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Woah, sir. A thousand pounds! What …? I mean, what exactly would I need to do for that kind of money?’
Leaning right over the small table, Heriot Pembroke QC whispered into Terry’s ear.
Leaning back and lifting his drink, Pembroke said softly: ‘Think of me as a kind of partner. Yes, this can be the beginning of a partnership between you and me, Terry. But on this first one, you must understand, it’s vitally important to us that we get as much notice as possible. When you get your hands on it, it’s very important that you do nothing unusual. So? Will you do it?’
All weekend he’d kept the money safe in a drawer; not wishing to tempt fate. When Monday morning arrived, he knew just what to do.
Dragging out the foolscap envelope from the wire basket in which it had lain over the weekend, he made sure to carefully break the wax seal straight across the middle. Looking down at his desk and flicking his eyes from side to side, he was relieved that only one other of their four was at the desk; and he was on the other side busy trying to telephone a lower court judge who’d made a mess of something last thing on the previous Friday.
Rising and reaching over the broad top of the desk, he grabbed back the papers for the English courts and looked around. Speaking out loud to no-one in particular, his voice was scathing:
‘There’s never a bloody copy boy down here when you need one. I suppose I’ll have to copy the damn thing myself.’
In the tiny cubby hole into which a monster of a copier had been squeezed, he was perfectly placed to keep his back to everyone passing along the corridor. Pulling out the papers and opening the lid, he scanned the frontispiece. The private wax seal of the Keeper of the Advocates' Library had been the tell-tale sign, so of course these papers were exactly what he expected them to be. Now looking forward to spending some of the money, those words ‘We’re asking nothing illegal’ resounded between his ears.
Gathering himself together, he opened the paper drawer and hauled out a few sheets, crumpled them and flung them into the bin. Tapping in the code for ‘Test after fault’ he thought eight sheets, each printed on both sides, would do it. If he needed any more, then a second test wasn’t unusual. Copying the front took only a second or two. When he turned over the foolscap sheet and saw the Heading of the Petition, his blood ran a little cold:
Unto The Lord Justice General of Scotland
Petition
of
The Right Hon. Baron McLane of Calton QC
on behalf of
Mrs Jean Mularkey standing in the stead of Mrs Isabella McLane (dec’d)
for
Judicial Review of the Administrative Action
of
Glasgow City Council in issuing
Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018
HUMBLY SHEWETH:
To Your Lordships the Judicial Review Judges within Parliament House.
PRIMO: That the Petitioner is one Jean Bridget Mularkey, aged sixty seven years, and residing within the area of Glasgow known as The Calton; which area is outlined in red on the plans of the City of Glasgow attached hereto (see Schedule 2). She stands in as substitute for one Isabella McLane who is the principal holder of the Legal Aid Certificate numbered LA/318/2018/IMcL/PetPro/PH but who is deceased. The house in which Mrs Mularkey has lived all her life and which her parents before her tenanted from Glasgow City Council lies within the said district of Calton and will be demolished if the Order mentioned Secundo issued by the Respondents is executed. The Petitioner accordingly has legal right, title and interest to raise these proceedings.
SECUNDO : That on the date mentioned hereunder and after scant if any public consultation as required by statute; namely the Planning and Reconstruction of Urban Communities Act 1968 S49 (2) (b) (c) and (f), the said Glasgow City Council issued Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018 which effectively provides for demolition of that entire area or district of Glasgow known as The Calton. This demolition, the Council claims, is required for the extension of the Glasgow M8 motorway network, which work they claim is of national economic and social importance and thus outweighs the rights and claims of the tenants of the houses making up that said district of Glasgow known as the Calton.
TERTIO : That, besides extending the motorway all as documented in the plans attached hereto (see Schedule 3), it has recently become known to the Petitioner that the said Glasgow City Council has auxiliary plans to enter into a Public Private Partnership with foreign investors in order to build shopping malls alongside the said motorway extension. The Petitioner’s main but not exclusive argument is that her house lies within the Calton but outwith the area required for expansion of the said motorway network. Demolition of the Petitioner’s house is unnecessary and is thereby beyond the scope of the powers of Glasgow City Council who have not properly consulted with the tenants of the Calton nor provided any emergency reason why demolition of the entire (emphasis added for legal purposes) Calton is necessary.
QUARTUS : That, the said Glasgow City Council has acted ultra vires (that is to say, legally beyond) its statutory powers and accordingly the court ought to GRANT INTERDICTUM halting any such plans to or the act of demolition until Glasgow City Council can make clear exactly which houses it requires to demolish for the purposes of the said motorway extension and which houses it seeks to demolish for the speculative purpose of erecting shopping malls.
QUINTO : That, the court ought to GRANT an Order Ad Factum Praestandum (that is to say, for open declaration) whereunder the said Glasgow City Council must DECLARE the full identities, locations and institutions to which its private partners belong and the amounts (in Sterling) of their investments. Further it is sought that the court should ORDER Glasgow City Council to publicly declare all and any personal interests which any elected member, officer or other employee of the said Council has in either the Public or Private elements of this entire enterprise and the amounts they have invested or stand to gain by executing the said Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018.
SEXTUS : That, Glasgow City Council having already begun to demolish a small part of the Calton and another part having been ordered to be burnt to the ground for public health reasons, there is now great urgency for the court to consider this matter and accordingly the matter ought to be heard ex-parte within the shortest possible …
‘Will you be long?’
Spinning on his heel, the young man turned to see a bright-faced girl in a grey cardigan, green calf length skirt and with her blonde hair pushed back by a black Alice band. He’d never seen her before, but there she was, standing holding an armful of papers:
‘Who the hell are you?’
Holding out her hand, the girl beamed: ‘Sally. Sally McKin…’
Going red
faced, the young man scowled and almost bawled out: ‘We don’t bloody well shake hands in Parliament House. And you don’t speak to The Keeper of the Rolls’ Senior Assistant like that! Who the hell are you? What do you want?’
Backing away, the girl didn’t know what to say and just rushed off at a very un-Parliament House speed. Lifting his eyebrows for the benefit of those who’d turned to watch, the young man slapped the remaining pages of legal pleadings, plans and outlines onto the copier and stabbed the green button as hard as he could.
Waiting for the right moment when the other three were away from the desk was the most gut-wrenching four hours of his life. When the clock struck one in the afternoon, he hesitated, scribbling and folding this and that; almost drawing the attention of his number two. But the other three left promptly for luncheon, affording him his opportunity. Heartily glad that the rain had started, he picked his coat from his hook and bent down as though to retrieve something he’d dropped. On the way back up he had his chance and slipped the copied sheets into his coat pocket.
Leaving Parliament House and stepping out into the rain, he almost pulled the coat too tight to his chest and revealed the bulge. But while crossing Parliament Square, he heard no call from anyone asking what he was doing. No ‘Gotcha my lad. You’re coming with me.’ Striding along Princes Street before turning up Castle Street and round into Queen Street, with bowed bare head into the rain he made his way to the address which his generous benefactor had provided. After taking the wide stone steps two at a time and slamming the big brass knocker a little too loudly into the door plate several times, when the door opened he was amazed to see the same face as he’d scolded just a few hours before. Open-mouthed and dripping, he just stood there. The girl was a mixture of aloof and scornful:
