No Sorrow To Die

by Gillian Galbraith

  ‘Do you know someone called Gavin Brodie?’ she began.

  ‘No. The dead man, you mean? I don’t know any dead people. You can’t, can you?’ he said, earnestly, his tongue protruding from the side of his mouth.

  ‘How did you know he was dead?’

  ‘Indeed, how did I know that he was dead?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes. How did you know he was dead?’ Was he deaf as well as schizophrenic, perhaps?

  ‘I read it in the Evening News, “Accountant Found Murdered”,’ he answered, his tongue protruding once more from the side of his mouth.

  ‘Did you know him – when he was alive, I mean?’

  ‘You know what? I am parched, really parched. Dry as a bone,’ he said, ignoring her question and, unexpectedly, rising to his feet and offering to make them both a cup of tea too.

  Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into his kitchenette, murmuring that it would do them good. Within minutes, a tray with three stained floral teacups and a plate of biscuits was placed in front of them and, as if they had accepted his offer, he proceeded to pour out tea and milk for them both, handing it over with a polite nod. When Alice took it and put it to her mouth, he smiled at her as if in encouragement or, perhaps, in recognition of some small victory, a wide grin dimpling his fat cheeks.

  Carstairs, he said, sipping daintily from his own cup, had changed him completely, com-plete-ely.

  When Alice enquired in what respect, he replied, ‘Fish fingers. I enjoy them now, I didn’t used to, you see. Oh, and I prefer a shower nowadays. I used to like baths, you see.’

  ‘Anything else of any importance?’ DC Littlewood chipped in sarcastically.

  ‘I’m alright now, in technical, medical terms, I mean. Like everyone else. Indeed, right as rain. Don’t hear voices in my head any more. Of course, I used to have to take medication for my condition when I was in the Big House, but not now. I stopped them myself a little while ago. I don’t need any pills to keep me right nowadays.’

  ‘Glad to be out of Carstairs, I expect, on your own again,’ Alice said.

  ‘Glad to be free of luncheon meat,’ he said vehemently, puckering his lips. ‘Glad to be able to get my teeth into something else. I had so much of that stuff it was coming right out of my ears. But that’s what happens when you lose your human rights, of course. No Coca-Cola either… just Pepsi.’

  ‘So, did you know Gavin Brodie… in life?’

  ‘No… in life, no… the after-life? Well, I’m not there yet, heaven or…’

  ‘Where were you on Saturday night from 5 o’ clock onwards?’ she interrupted him, determined to take hold of their rambling exchange.

  Crunching a custard cream, he leant towards her and said excitedly that on that very night, the night she was interested in, the Saturday, he had undergone a life-changing experience. He had gone with a pal from the centre to an evening service in the nearby church, but the minister celebrating it had been a woman, and a fairly young one at that.

  ‘Imagine that,’ he said brightly to DC Littlewood, smacking his lips. ‘A young woman!’

  She had been attractive, too, with long blonde hair and a complexion like Queen Elizabeth’s, all peaches and cream. Oh, she could minister to him anytime, he purred. In fact, the sooner the better. Perhaps, if she heard that he was ‘sick’, he’d get a home visit from her! And he’d been told often enough that he was sick… sick in the head, he giggled, pointing at his temple.

  Then, seeing that his visitors were not laughing, he ostentatiously swept his hand from his forehead to his chin, transforming his expression into a deadly serious one as it passed over his face. He muttered out of the side of his mouth to the policeman, ‘Bit of a killjoy, isn’t she?’

  ‘After the service, where did you go?’ Alice continued.

  ‘Home Sweet Home. Here.’

  ‘And you were here throughout the whole of Saturday night?’

  ‘Indeed no, sweetie. At about eight I went to my brother’s flat. It’s on the ground floor of this building, you see.’

  ‘So, were you with him for the rest of the night, or did you come back here, or what?’

  ‘Aha. I was with him.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘All night?’ he repeated, extending his tongue again and adding, ‘Aha. I was with him.’

  ‘That,’ Alice said, ‘would be your brother Robert, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Robert. My, you may be no fun but you’ve fairly done your homework, haven’t you?’ he replied, taking a final swig from his cup.

  ‘The same Robert who was prepared to give you an alibi at your trial for the night the old lady was killed by you?’ DC Littlewood interjected.

  ‘Yes. Good old Bob,’ Clerk answered, unconcerned, rising from his chair and waiting behind it for them to do the same.

  ‘One last thing, Mr Clerk. Did the voice, the one in your head, did it tell you to take the stuff from the old lady’s flat – the TV and the little clock?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Well,’ he said, opening the door for her and stroking his chin in thought, ‘it did, you know. But no one’s ever asked me about that before. The voice said, “Take the TV, Norman. Go on, take the telly.” I heard it ordering me, as clear as a bell. Indeed I did. The clock, too. It was very taken with the clock for some reason or other, even though I said “it’s not particularly valuable”. I argued with it and argued with it, but it won – it always does, you see.’

  ‘Your brother’s flat. Where is it?’

  ‘I told you,’ he answered, ‘on the ground floor. Number 3, if you must know. But I’m afraid you can’t speak to him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ he replied, gesturing for them to leave, ‘for one thing, he’s still away at the Day Centre in Raeburn Place. He goes there every day. Well, every day since he got out of the hospital.’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He doesn’t talk much any more,’ Norman Clerk answered. ‘In fact, since he had his stroke he’s hardly uttered a single thing, in Queen’s English, anyway. He’s paralysed on the right side too. That’s why I go along and look after him – help feed him, undress him, keep him company. Spend the night in his spare room. Mum used to do it, but, well, she’s way past that now. He’s got a carer, too, but she can’t be there all the time, can she?’

  Once they were back out on the street, Alice asked ‘So, what’s the verdict, Tom?’

  ‘In technical, medical terms?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘A mad tosspot of the first order.’

  The Raeburn Day Centre was housed in a converted church on the main thoroughfare through Stockbridge, an unending stream of traffic passing close to its doors, deepening the black of its soot-stained masonry and making the very walls vibrate.

  Inside, one of the swing-doors leading into the main hall was jammed open with a bucket. Alice peered self-consciously into the hall, her eyes eventually homing in on the only male in a wheelchair in the room. People sat in little groups about the place, some asleep, some knitting, a few talking in low voices to themselves or others.

  Occupying the middle of the floor was a ring of office chairs, each with a bored old lady sitting in it. In the centre of the circle, like the bulls-eye, was a gargantuan man, his flesh seeping over the sides of his wheelchair. His partially-shaved head lolled to one side, but when prompted by a member of staff, he threw a tennis ball in the approximate direction of one of the circle, laughing loudly as it missed its target and bounced off the back of someone’s chair.

  A female cleaner, clad in a denim jacket and jeans and carrying a mop, attempted delicately to squeeze past Alice, stepping over the bucket into the hall. Moving out of the way, the Sergeant apologised and then asked, ‘Is the man in the middle Robert Clerk?’

  ‘Aye – he’s like a big bairn,’ the woman replied, rinsing her mop in the bucket and beginning to swab the lino closest to the door, adding as an afterthought, ‘he’s wan o’ ma favourites.’
>
  ‘Does he speak at all? Can he speak any more?’

  ‘A wee bit, but I dinnae think he understan’s a word said tae him. But he’s aye in guid spirits, laughin’, the life an’ soul o’ the party, like…’

  Once the game was finished, a helper wheeled the man to the side of the hall, where he sat, smiling to himself, looking round at the others brightly and flexing one bandaged hand in and out to some internal rhythm.

  When Alice approached him, bending down beside his wheelchair, he appeared not to notice her until she said, ‘Excuse me, but are you Robert Clerk?’

  Still looking straight ahead, he nodded his head up and down vigorously. A woman with childish features and the distinctive eye-folds of Down’s syndrome ambled over and put her arm around the man’s broad shoulders, tickling the back of his neck affectionately with her fingers. Her head was level with his, and when their eyes met the man chuckled delightedly.

  ‘You want a biscuit, Bob?’ she asked him. Once more he nodded, and when she asked whether he wanted a digestive or a bourbon or a piece of shortbread he assented to each suggestion in the same way.

  ‘He likes them all? Every type?’ Alice said conversationally to the small figure.

  ‘No,’ she said, looking fondly at him, ‘he doesn’t, but it’s good manners, eh? To ask him. He only likes jammy dodgers really, don’t you, Bob?’

  And in response to the further question he nodded excitedly, his eyes never leaving his friend’s figure as she set off for the tea-trolley on his behalf.

  On impulse, Alice asked the man, ‘Are you… Gordon Brown?’ and as before, the man’s head bobbed up and down, communicating that he was, indeed, the Prime Minister.

  Alice’s phone went, and she took it from her pocket.

  ‘Alice, where are you?’ It was DCI Bell, and she sounded rattled.

  ‘I’m at the Day Centre on Raeburn Place, checking up on Clerk’s alibi for the Saturday night. Tom’s on his way back to the station.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And… it’s not up to much. He says he was with his brother, but the brother’s had a stro…’ Her voice became inaudible as loud cha-cha music started up, a few elderly people taking to the floor. She moved towards the entrance.

  ‘Jammy Dodger?’ the little Down’s syndrome woman asked, offering her one from a plateful.

  She shook her head, speaking into the phone again. ‘The man’s had a stroke, so he can’t tell us whether his brother was with him on the Saturday night or not. There’s a mother, I was going to go and…’

  ‘Never mind that now. Clerk’s a long shot. I need you to meet Eric at the bank by Saughtonhall Drive. The Fraud Squad’s just tipped us the wink that someone’s used Brodie’s card at an ATM machine on the Corstorphine Road. The CCTV footage reveals that it’s Ally Livingstone.’

  ‘I thought he was still inside.’

  ‘Well, he isn’t. So speak to the manager, then go pick him up and bring him straight here.’

  Usually, having his wife’s fingertips resting on the handle of the supermarket trolley, restraining it, blatantly attempting to control it, maddened him. But this morning Ally Livingstone did not mind, he even allowed himself to be cajoled into traipsing up and down all the aisles, including the pet food one, although they owned neither dog nor cat. Seeing his heavily pregnant wife helping herself from the shelves, unconcerned about the cost and indulging in needless extravagances, pleased him, and on the only occasion on which she hesitated, he nodded at her indulgently, signalling for her to add the item to their load, just as a rich man would.

  At the till he stood, legs crossed and arms folded, watching as the women packed the carrier bags, Frankie talking to the check-out girl as if they were old friends and surreptitiously adding some last-minute purchases, a couple of packets of chewing gum for each of them. Juicy Fruit for him and Wrigley’s Spearmint for her. Only at the kiosk did he lose his temper, after waiting for seven other people to be served before them and then being told that they had no Lambert and Butler left.

  Back in the car, the three measures of whisky that he had downed in O’Riordan’s Bar earlier that day warmed him still, making him feel good-humoured once more, content with the world and all its works. As they approached the traffic lights on Gorgie Road, he had a sudden idea, a truly inspired one. He had bought loads of stuff for Frankie and the wee man, so now it was his turn!

  ‘Stop the car a minute, hen,’ he commanded, and obediently she flicked on the indicator and drew slowly to the pavement, coming to a halt on the double yellow lines opposite the pet shop.

  ‘Dinnae go an’ get another o’ them fish now, Ally,’ she said wearily, looking over at the pet store as he let himself out of the Nissan. She added, ‘The pump’s no’ workin’, an’ all they cherry barbs ’n’ tiger barbs are deid, mind.’

  ‘Aha,’ he said, slamming the car door and lumbering eagerly along the pavement, heading straight for ‘Furry Friends’, his mouth curving into a wide smile in his glee. In his absence his wife watched the endless stream of pedestrians dawdling along, heads sunk into their shoulders and their carrier bags half-empty, wondering why only old people were out and about at this time of day. The Credit Crunch maybe?

  When she inadvertently caught the eye of a prowling traffic warden, she smiled meekly at him, dropping her eyes to her distended belly, drawing his attention to it by way of excuse for parking illegally. Frowning, he nodded back at her, ostentatiously returning his notebook into his unbuttoned front pocket. Thanks, ye wee Hitler, she mouthed, eyelashes fluttering at him.

  After ten minutes she began to feel restive, her swollen belly slightly compressed by the steering wheel and her back beginning to ache. She shifted her position, forcing herself to sit up straight, leaving a few inches between her tummy and the wheel. She was, she decided, looking down at the disappearing curve, nothing more than a monstrous bag of flesh, some kind of childbearing pod. Even her fingers had become fat, so thick that she could feel her pulse throbbing in the one encircled by her new engagement ring. An antique, no less, Ally had boasted that morning as he had wrestled to push it over her knuckle, after first fastening the matching chain of pearls around her neck. Old-fashioned crap, she had thought to herself. A band of white gold with a single diamond had been what she had expected, what she wanted.

  The loud noise made by her husband as he clambered into the back seat, shuffling the bulging Mothercare bags along it with his hip, ended her musing. Glancing in the rear-view mirror she saw on his lap a cardboard box. It had tipped on its side, and his head and shoulders seemed to be disappearing inside it.

  ‘C’mon, back here, ye wee sod…’ he muttered, grasping at air, and then, pushing the box to one side, he bent over to look under the passenger seat, laughing uproariously to himself as he did so.

  ‘What you get?’ she asked idly, heading off into the traffic again and concentrating on her driving. He did not answer her, so she tried again ‘What d’you get? No’ another of they tortoise things?’

  ‘Naw,’ he replied. ‘Em, just a wee…’ he hesitated, breathless from being bent double, ‘em… just a wee… eh, snake.’

  ‘A snake! A snake! Fer fuck’s sake, Ally, tell me there’s no’ a snake loose in ma car?’

  ‘Naw,’ replied Ally. ‘Naw, hen – no’ loose, really. It’s gone an’ trapped itsel’ under the mat.’

  ‘Is it poisonous? A poisonous wan? ’Cause if it is, ah’m oot o’ here.’

  When they got home, she pulled the handbrake on sharply and made to leave the car, but as she was doing so he shouted at her, his hands scrabbling wildly under the passenger’s seat. ‘Keep your bloody door shut, mind, or it’ll be oot an’ a’!’

  ‘Ally,’ she said, close to tears, ‘I’m no’ staying here, getting a snake’s fangs in ma ankle, just because you…’

  ‘Frankie, Frankie, it’s OK, Frankie. Honest, it’s OK,’ he interrupted her. ‘He’ll no’ bite ye, I promise. Armageddon’s a python – squeezes his prey tae deat
h, and he cannae squeeze you tae death yet darlin’. He’s too sma’, he’s less than two foot long. We’ve tae feed him once we get home, then he’ll no’ be looking for prey anyway. He’s tae get his dinner on Mondays.’

  ‘But whit aboot the baby, Ally?’ she demanded, dully.

  ‘Whit aboot him?’ he answered, now fumbling under the driver’s seat.

  ‘Well, she’ll just be wee. Will Armadillo no’ be able to squeeze the life oot o’ her?’

  ‘Em…’ her husband said, playing for time. ‘Em… him, pet, the life oot o’ him. The bairn’s a him. But Armageddon’ll not…’

  Their conversation ended abruptly with a loud knock on the driver’s steamed-up window. Frankie rolled it down slowly, to see herself beckoned out of the car by a couple of uniformed policemen. Standing by them was a young woman, and beside her was a middle-aged man in a beige raincoat, shouting loudly, ordering the constables around.

  Sitting alone at the table in the interview room Ally Livingstone stroked his jaw up and down, up and down, feeling the springy stubble beneath his fingertips and listening to the rasping noise made by his fingers. Seeing a chewed biro at his left hand he picked it up, and absentmindedly put it into his mouth. He sucked on it, thinking things over as he did so. He reckoned he knew why they wanted to speak to him and he told himself he must try to concentrate, prepare himself to answer their questions.

  The money that they had found on him, and any recently spent, could be explained away easily enough by a win on the horses. Frankie had fallen for that one after all, no bother. All he needed to do was multiply his actual stake twenty-fold, and that would account for his record winnings. ‘Whispering Wind’ had, genuinely, won the 2.30 at Doncaster. And if they could be fobbed off with that, then maybe he would be able to use the card again, please God, because the Parks Department paid only peanuts.

  If they were after the card itself then he had an explanation for that, too, although they might not believe him. If he could just get another two hundred pounds or three hundred maybe, then they could buy the cot or the buggy and a couple of corn-snakes, or better yet, a baby African Grey parrot. He could teach it to speak along with the little one, when he arrived. They’d both learn to say, ‘Fuck off ye wee twat’ in unison.