by John Mayer
The Honourable Councillor Joseph Tanner (or Flaherty) Esq.
Glasgow City Council Chambers
A mis-delivery? A left-over from a meeting? No. Neither of those was possible. The Parliament House envelope was a curiosity. But the name. The name was a real puzzle. Tanner? Well, there are plenty of Tanners. That came from the old days when people called themselves after their work. At one time, the West of Scotland must’ve had dozens of tanning works. But Flaherty? That’s a fenian name and no mistake. Glasgow City Council didn’t have many of them. The few who’d managed to get themselves elected were kept well away from the important committees and they definitely didn’t get mail from Parliament House in Edinburgh. Flaherty? That made no sense at all.
Holding the envelope up to the light was a forlorn gesture. Thick and embossed, there was just no way of telling what was inside. Feeling across the surface with his fingertips, Randal shook his head. Sitting at his desk, he tried the gummed flap but it was stuck fast. There was nothing else for it but to slip the point of his letter opener in and slash open the flap.
Pulling out the contents, he looked inside for a covering letter but there was none. Laying three photocopied sheets on his desk, he flipped the envelope looking for a ‘Return to Sender’ but the back was blank.
Staring down at the first sheet, Randal screwed up his eyes: ‘What in the name of God?’ Who the Hell is this Joseph Tanner or Flaherty? And why is this in my office?’
One sheet showed a copy of an old photo of a priest sitting with three girls around him, all of whom were holding babies. The second was an old article from the Irish Times and lastly there was a copy of a postcard showing both sides. Then it hit him! The address on the postcard!
Putting the fingertips of one hand to his forehead, Randal leaned back into his chair, gripping the arm tighter and tighter: ‘McLane. That fenian bastard McLane and his gorilla pal Mularkey. It must be. But how bad can this be? Are they getting desperate? Are they opening another flank in this war?’
Amid his thoughts about strategy and beginning to fight on a new front, Randal began to feel the first beads of sweat running down his back. His hand was steady but a welling had begun just like those who open the door to see a male and female police officer wearing the masks of doom and whispering the words ‘I’m so sorry’.
Picking up the copy of the photo, he didn’t have to look very closely to confirm the worst fear he’d ever known. Shivering though not cold and sweating though not ill, Randal was looking down a long tunnel into the past where the people were tiny and the air around them was frozen for ever. Her hairstyle was one he’d never seen her wear before; but she was very young and it looked appropriate to the period. Her shoulders looked positively girlish in that plain dress; but the face. That was the face which looked down at him feeding from the breast. The one that picked him up when he cried. And the one that laid down his meals, always with a kiss on the head.
Now shivering uncontrollably and running in sweat so that his shirt stuck to his body, Randal began to speed-read the article: St Clement’s … Scottish girls mostly from Glasgow … Miss Theresa Gilligan screaming in agony died in childbirth … many claims of serious sexual misconduct by their priest Father Flaherty … Father Flaherty … Father Flaherty.
Quarter of an hour dragged past as though he alone was pulling a ship and a sixty ton chain up a slope from the river Clyde. As each second passed, that teenage face smiling down at her child crushed his body and tightened his mind until William Randal could see nothing, hear nothing and feel nothing. But he could still think and although he was now deeply embattled, in that critical condition he was seeing his enemy clearer with every passing second. With his whirling mind going faster and faster, like relentless shelling coming in from behind enemy lines, one question got louder and louder in his head until its blast caused him almost to faint right there in his seat:
‘What else did that bastard McLane have?’
Sitting in plain sight on a bench in George Square, Tucker fed the pigeons and counted the minutes. Twenty-five past nine and still nothing: it didn’t look good. McLane’s Parliament House Clerk had been accommodating enough to promise he’d slip a message to McLane in court as soon as Tucker called. And still he waited. It was beginning to look a lot like he did know when the Tron Church began striking the first chime of quarter to ten and Tucker got a glimpse of that hat and coat coming out of the side door to Glasgow City Council Chambers.
She liked their bright red sofa and the way the sun always shone big and yellow in the sparkling window behind them. She didn’t mind swallowing the tiny little pink ones or even the long white capsules and although the big pills had a horrible bitter taste, the boy’s permanent smile and the girl’s colourful dresses were always a welcome comfort. Without teeth, it was impossible to crunch these new hard brown ones that always took so long to dissolve in the mouth; and the water he gave her never seemed to be enough to get them over her scrawny neck. However, another comfort was that the fluffy inserts in these new smaller restraints felt nice against the wrinkled skin on her pencil-thin arms.
They were waving goodbye from their sofa when the slam of the heavy front door smashed the still air into a million pieces and resounded right up to the skylight. Even in her state of half sleep, from three floors above she could sense the anger flooding into the house. Trying to blink away the dampness caused by these new brown ones, she tightened her bony fingers into a crinkled fist; more in fear than self-defence. In the few seconds in which she should have heard the sound of his study door there was nothing to hear but a low panting growl. When his kick hit the bedroom door, she felt the air move across her face as though a window had been opened to let in a howling gale. Shaking visibly now, all fear of death had long ago been flushed out of her mind and body, leaving only one thing which every day before the pills she asked God to hide at the back of his mind.
Demonic and red-faced, growling and salivating like a bleeding dog, his eyes bored into hers like rusty nails being driven right through to the back of her head. Panting and shaking, she felt the warm involuntary wetness and turned her head away as though that would cure everything. Hovering over the bed like the billowing dark clouds on the Great Day of Judgement, William Randal grabbed her few wispy strands and pressed the back of her head deep down into the pillows. Unable to form words, with his snarling, growling face right up against hers, he spat so hard that both faces felt the effect. Quivering now in a fear so deeply buried for so very long, his mother’s breathing became erratic to the point of rattling.
Letting go, he straightened himself and spat again this time at the source of the smell. The air coming up from his lungs was on fire. Clenching both fists tighter than any vice, Randal beat the air around his head. Screaming at the top of his voice, he wanted with every fibre of his angry being to kill her right there where she lay:
‘Ya fucking bastard! You fucking whore. Ya fen … fenian fucking whore! How could …? I’ll fucking kill you … ghrghrghrghrg …fucking fenian bast …’
The red mist in front of his eyes was now so deep that Randal didn’t notice her breathing had actually all but stopped. Picking up the heavy alarm clock by the side of the bed, he flung it hard into the TV then kicked the pretty French table with all the ornaments on it. Only when he turned to hurl more insults did he hear a rattle. In the silent seconds that followed, her stillness emasculated his venom.
With his head in his hands, he paced the small room, turning and stopping, wishing and hoping that this was all some giant hoax. Wondering how he could hire a hit-man and if his Brothers in Switzerland could help with that, he went through scenario after scenario, but none helped. With his anger fading, replaced by visions of a jail cell, every thought in his head ran up against the brick wall of McLane and Mularkey. There would be police: but many of them were Brothers. However, McLane could slaughter them in court: if this ever went to court. Dead bodies have a habit of popping up, so disposing of her would be diffic
ult. Oh no! Tonight! How could he lead them tonight? How could he say those words and go through those rituals when he didn’t know if McLane had spread this all over the Calton and Bridgeton. It could be all over the city! Oh no! No! The humiliation. The taunting. The looks. The sniping. The resignation in disgrace. A priest for a father and a fenian whore for a mother. No! NO! NO! NO!
Looking up at the hook screwed deep into a roof rafter and the rope around the winch which lifted and lowered the bed, William Randal saw his only way out. Untying the knot from the bed frame, he got up onto the bed and stood astride his mother’s tiny frame, made the noose and slipped it over:
‘Courage William … or is it really … Joseph?’
Reaching for the cable which operated the winch, he flipped the switch to automatic and hit the button. Folding his arms across his chest, as the winch began to whine with the weight, William Randal closed his eyes and in just a few seconds, breathed his last.
Feeling as empty as air and without an ounce of strength in her tiny body, Elsie Tanner now Randal half opened her eyes but thought she was dreaming. How could his shoes be above her eyes? How could he be twitching and swinging about six inches above her? Was she lying in bed? Was she dreaming? Why was the TV broken?
Blinking away the wetness from one eye, she took only a moment to realise the full horror of what he’d done. Helpless in her restraints and with her dead son hanging only a few inches above her, Elsie found the strength to pray just a few private words out loud before her breathing once again became erratic to the point of rattling. But this time, somehow, only God knew how, she closed her eyes and happily slipped back. Those few inches soon became yards and then hundreds of yards. Now feeling nothing at all, it was as though she was flying high above the long years of secret agonies, remembering every day of her life never to get herself into the position of having to explain it all.
Now the skies were blue as she looked down on the wide lawn in front of St Clement’s House on those sunny Irish mornings when all the girls had their babies in their arms and that one day in particular when Father Flaherty had the photo taken.
But just as surely as her fears about taking home baby Joseph used to send her into a dark, dark hole, so the skies went dark: darker than his cassock. Dark … dark … dark.
~~~o~~~
Chapter 58
Down the Royal Mile at 142 in the Faculty of Advocates’ splendid ‘John Inglis’ consultation suite, in black swallow tail coats and white bow ties, two servitors were straightening the snow white table cloth and checking the polished silver and crystal goblets for the last time. Another was on the phone to old Jimmy Robertson in Parliament House. As the three names on the door servitor’s list turned into the narrow stone entrance, he gave a whistle as the sign for his two colleagues to stand to attention on either side of the Inglis suite door.
Laughing together and carrying nothing but a long tube suitable for containing rolled up plans, Mr McLane QC, Miss Rodgers and the newly elected Leader of Glasgow City Council were several steps ahead of the Parliament House servitor who was bringing their forty eight bundles of case papers on a bright red trolley.
Holding open the door for the two ladies, McLane laughed again at another of Jennifer McDonald’s stories. As the group approached his polished oak desk, the door servitor, a Glasgow man himself, positively beamed:
‘Good morning, ma’am. And may I say, many congratulations on your election. All of my family voted for you.’
No-one in Glasgow used ‘ma’am’ preferring to keep to the informal Jennifer or the newly created title of Leader. When she automatically put out her hand, the servitor visibly recoiled, but Mr McLane’s cheerful nod gave permission to shake hands with this particular client of Miss Rodgers:
‘Oh Ma’am. Listen to you. You make me sound like the Queen.’
Letting go after what he thought was too long a time, the door servitor turned to his bosses. With the proper bow from the neck, he informed:
‘Good morning Miss Rodgers and to you, sir. I believe everything is ready. Luncheon is arriving at the rear door as we speak. Now, I understand that the proposed schedule is for use of the Inglis suite for a Joint Consultation until three thirty this afternoon - or before - followed by an appearance in Court One in Parliament House at three forty five. Mr Robertson and Mrs McKay have your wigs and gowns set out and the Principal Clerk is ready to receive your draft submissions to the court. Now, if you’ll just follow me.’
It wasn’t strictly necessary to be escorted to the Inglis suite but McLane let the man have his moment. Inside, the long table had been set for lunch at one end while the other end was bare; the understanding being that the plans could be rolled out for easy reference during the discussions. Taking the silver trays from the delivery girls, the two servitors silently floated around the three as though on air. Forking in some Scottish line caught salmon and taking a sip of the chilled Veuve Clicquot, McLane swallowed and pointed with the back of his fork:
‘Oh no Jennifer, quite the opposite. I’d say you’ve chosen well. You know, just because I’m the Scottish National Security Commissioner and Maisie’s my Deputy, you may have no fear. We’ve done several cases against each other and I can tell you, she’s fiercely independent and not the slightest bit hesitant about telling me when she thinks I’m wrong. In which I may say, she rejoices. So don’t worry. I have every confidence we’ll get this finalised today.’
When they’d finished their white chocolate mousse and turned the bottle upside down in the silver hat, McLane rose first and held the back of Jennifer’s chair. Looking to Maisie, he said with a chuckle:
‘You can get your own! Now ladies, let’s get to work.’
Over the next hour or so, the three sat comfortably at the other end of the table; sometimes getting up to point at some corner or overlay the proposed route once again, just to check ‘the count’.
‘Well, yes of course, Brogan … as agreed, we’ll start by withdrawing all eviction Notices. And, having agreed with central government in London, the compensation payments to the bereaved families will be made within the next four weeks … Oh yes, that’s a simple procedure. Anyone who wants to buy their house from us for One Pound can do so. We’ve used the simplified procedure for these … OK, But would that involve? … Oh no, don’t worry, we’ll accommodate that … No, Lord Mayfield isn’t too worried on that score. I have his instructions to ease up a bit, if necessary … Brogan, it’s becoming clear that what you want first and foremost is … That’s right, I must have that but I wouldn’t say it’s my top priority … No, provided the count is say, less than half of the houses, then on behalf of the Calton Residents' Association I could agree to that … Well that’s good because that allows the City Engineers a bit more room to manoeuvre. That’s a big point for us … Oh I know … It’s just pure luck that the house in which I grew up is quite a bit away from that line … Well we could of course rebuild some version of some of the houses on the west side … Ah, well as we discussed when we met in your office in Glasgow, that brings me to the item which I know is close to many hearts in the Calton … Right, great. Well if Lord Mayfield did that and you could see your way to … Uh huh. Woah. Hold on a minute Brogan. You’re too fast for me. Let me type that into the draft … You think eight thousand? Well, our architect thinks more like eight and a half, but I’m sure he’s just being cautious … What a brilliant idea … That’s going to be great. I can’t wait to see it. Whose idea was that? … OK, then it’s twelve main points in the Heads of Agreement and all of the subordinates we can discuss and agree as we go along. Right? … Yes, I think we’re close to being done … Oh you do? Good, so let’s get up to Parliament House, get into wig and gown and get this done.’
Holding open the double swing doors for Jennifer and Maisie, McLane pointed to where Jennifer should sit and slid into the front row of Court One in Parliament House. Relaxed and still feeling the warmth of that wonderful lunch, with a packed Press bench behind them and
a full court of onlookers, the three sat chatting in whispers, nodding and smiling until they heard the familiar call from old Jimmy Robertson of ‘Co-ou-rt!’
After the last debacle, the Lord Justice General had decided to do this by means of Ius Praesandum Dominorum: under his own authority as the highest judge in Scotland. After fifty one years in Parliament House from young Advocate to Lord Justice General of Scotland, nothing that happened up in these hallowed halls was unknown to him. Slipping easily down into his sumptuous chair, he gave his white handlebar moustache an automatic twist before looking down on this happy occasion:
‘Now, Mr McLane, who appears?’
Floating to his feet, McLane bowed, all the while keeping his eyes on the man who daily had to wade through the murky dangerous politics of Parliament House in order to get things done: but who this afternoon seemed as happy as the day he’d been Called to the Bar of the Court as a young Advocate who’d just been discharged from the Royal Air Force with the highest military honours.
‘My lord, I appear as I did on the last occasion for the Petitioners who are the Calton Residents' Association. My learned friend Miss Rodgers has now been instructed by the newly elected Leader of Glasgow City Council; who I’m pleased to say is in court today behind my learned friend.
My lord, I’m pleased to say that following several most cordial Joint Consultations in both Glasgow and here in Edinburgh, parties have reached Heads of Agreement and have substantially narrowed the ground between us on several subordinate issues.’
The Lord Justice General hadn’t written anything down yet and was twirling his red pencil in his fingers - an old practice technique from his pipe playing days - when he interrupted:
‘Ah yes. You may not know this Mr McLane, but from the side window of my Chambers, I can see the back of 142. I saw the caterers leaving after a couple of hours and took that as a good sign. It seems I was right. Am I not?’
