The Hanging Shed

by Gordon, Ferris,

  I was suddenly aware of a shadow. I turned and saw a man framed against the sun.

  ‘Would you be Mr Douglas Brodie, by any chance?’ His voice had the hard nasal lilt of Northern Ireland.

  I stood up and saw his dog collar. He wore a blue shirt underneath and a black jacket. Thin blond hair was clamped tight to his skull by Brylcreem. He looked too young for the job and vulnerable behind thick specs.

  He went on, ‘There aren’t so many visitors here just now and I was watching for the bus. Father Connor O’Brien, Mr Brodie.’ He held out his hand.

  ‘Just Brodie is fine. Thanks for meeting me,’ I said, stretching out my hand.

  ‘And I’m Connor. I was told yesterday you’d be in later. But I had another call this morning from Father Cassidy.’

  ‘We’re in a hurry. You’ll know why?’

  He nodded. ‘Shall we sit here? It’s a rare day, so it is.’

  We sat and he took a cigarette. He was maybe my age, but already losing his hair quite badly. The hair cream kept the strands carefully in place, maximising their coverage. The glasses made him look even more scholarly but there was a surprising toughness in his voice – and it wasn’t just the hard brogue – that suggested a certain underlying steel.

  ‘How did you wash up on these shores, Connor?’

  ‘I grew up in Belfast and wanted a change, somewhere quieter. They sent me here.’ He smiled.

  ‘Too quiet?’

  ‘Too small. Funny, with all this space’ – his wave took in the huge sky and the dancing sea – ‘it’s just a wee bit…’

  ‘… claustrophobic?’

  He nodded. I knew what he was saying about the closeness, the nosiness of a small community. I’d seen it in Kilmarnock. It was part of its strength but it was certainly its downside too. Put a hand on a girl’s breast in a darkened close and you could hear the mass intake of breath from scandalised neighbours.

  ‘And you, Brodie. What’s your excuse for being here?’

  He wasn’t asking what my mission was. In the simplest terms he knew that. He was asking a bigger question. I could have side-stepped it, saying I hadn’t the time or pretended I’d misunderstood, but there was something in his manner that I felt I could trust. Like meeting a stranger in a pub and swapping life stories over a few pints, knowing you’d never meet them again. I told him where I was born, pointing out across the water to the mainland and the beaches I’d played on as a wee boy. I told him of my army days, and how, to shore up my dwindling demob pay, I’d started on the journalistic path I should have taken after university, instead of the police. And how my plans had been scuppered when I’d been summoned to help Hugh try to escape his date with the hangman.

  He was leaning forward gazing out to sea, elbows on knees, and nodding as I talked. ‘I see, I see…’

  ‘… so it’s a long shot, but we have to try everything.’ I finished by describing my search for Hugh’s erstwhile neighbours.

  ‘Well, Brodie, it’s not been easy getting to this point in your life, has it? But at least I can make the next wee step a simple one. The family that we’re talking about call themselves Kennedy. I’ve no way of telling if that’s their real name. But they arrived here about at the start of the year. From Glasgow, clearly, by their accent. Not of my own flock, but as I was saying, this is a small place and new folk stand out. Get themselves talked about in the post office.’

  ‘A mother and four kids?’

  He nodded. ‘Rented a wee house round the back of Lamlash on the Ross Road. Paid the first six months’ rent in advance. That got them talked about, I can tell you. Kept themselves to themselves but the children were enrolled at school and in bible class at the kirk. She says – Mrs Kennedy, that is – that she lost her husband in the war. But of course the local gossips put a different tale on her.’

  ‘I think you’ll find her real name is Reid. If so, she might know something that will stop a hanging.’

  TWENTY

  We walked along the seafront and took the turn-off on the Ross Road that led to Sliddery, a village on the west side of the island. We were nearly running out of houses when we stopped and Connor O’Brien pointed across the narrow street at a little house set in from the road. A puff of smoke drifted from the chimney.

  ‘I’ll leave you to it, Brodie. Good luck, now.’ He turned and walked away and I crossed over. A curtain flicked. I knocked on the door. I knocked again and finally I heard steps. It opened. A big woman stood there in her pinny, pretending to be in the middle of housework. Strands of grey hair escaped from her headscarf. She clutched a worn duster to her heavy bosom like a bridal bouquet. Her eyes were wide and her nostrils were flared as though she’d encountered a snake in her coal bucket.

  ‘Whit is it?’ she managed, from a tight throat.

  I took my hat off. ‘Mrs Kennedy, is it?’

  She blinked and said, ‘Yes. Yes it’s me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Kennedy, have I come at a bad time?’ I wondered from her pallor and agitation if there was someone behind her with a gun pointed at her head. She twisted the duster as though killing a chicken.

  ‘No. No, I’m fine, so I am. What do you want? Who are you?’ she gushed.

  ‘Am I right in saying you used to live in Glasgow? In Florence Street? House number seven? Your neighbour at number eight was Hugh Donovan.’

  I thought she would collapse as I lined up the facts and fired them at her. She was shaking her head and her mouth was opening and closing like a goldfish. Her hand crept to the door as though she was about to slam it in my face. I stuck my foot over the threshold. She saw I wasn’t going anywhere until I got some straight answers. A look of resignation came over her face.

  ‘Aye. We used to live there. But I hardly knew him.’

  ‘I thought the name in Glasgow was Reid?’

  She blushed. ‘Kennedy was my maiden name.’

  ‘Which would you prefer?’

  ‘I’m a married woman still and all. It’s Mrs Reid. My man Alex Reid died four years ago. Accident at John Brown’s.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Can I come in a minute, Mrs Reid? It might be easier inside.’ I glanced meaningfully around at the net curtains of her neighbours. She glanced at my foot in her doorway.

  She opened the door and let me inside. I was straight into a small room with a tiny fire flickering in the grate. It made the room too snug for today’s fine weather. There was a door leading into the kitchen and a staircase that I guessed led up to the bedrooms. The room was bare with nothing to suggest who lived here. No photos or ornaments, just a threadbare couch and a sagging armchair and a smell of cigarette smoke.

  ‘My name’s Douglas Brodie. I’m an old friend of Hugh’s, and I had a couple of questions for you.’

  ‘I’ll make some tea.’ She scuttled into the scullery and crashed around for a bit until reappearing with two cups and saucers and a teapot. She took the armchair and I perched on the couch.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, rattling her cup as she sipped at her too-hot tea.

  ‘You’ll have heard about the terrible happenings. The trial and everything?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I’m working with his lawyer to see if there’s some grounds for an appeal. And to put it simply, we wondered if you could tell us what happened that night?’

  ‘What night would that be, Mr Brodie?’

  ‘The police came for Hugh in the morning. That’s when they found all the evidence in the house. We want to know if you might have heard or seen anything the night before.’ There, it was that simple.

  And just as simply she said, ‘No. Nothing.’ She reached beside her chair and pulled up a handbag. She took out a cigarette pack and lit one. Her hands were trembling and then were stilled as she inhaled deeply and let the smoke trickle out in a slow cloud. Stupid, stupid. I was going too fast. I tried a different tack.

  ‘Did you know Hugh had a wee problem, Mrs Reid? That he took drugs for the pain?’

  ‘Aye, I kent fine. He w
as in an awfu’ bad way, pair man.’

  ‘And sometimes Hugh would come home late and maybe the worse for wear? As though he was fu’?’

  ‘I heard him sometimes.’

  ‘But not that night?’

  ‘Well, maybe. You know, you don’t always notice. And you don’t like to stick your nose in, do you?’ she said pointedly.

  ‘In the couple of weeks before they took him away, did you hear or notice anything strange, anything unusual?’

  ‘Whit like?’

  ‘Like a child greeting or shouting. In Hugh’s house. Anything at all?’

  ‘No, nothing. Just normal.’

  ‘Why did you leave, Mrs Reid?’

  She got up and flung her fag end on the fire, then stirred the sorry pile of slag to coax a flame out of it. She turned, poker in hand. ‘We just wanted a change, so we did. Is there anything wrong in that?’ Her voice was louder, more on edge, as though she was running out of patience.

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just… unusual, that’s all. And why did you come here?’

  ‘We fancied it. The sea air and that. For the weans.’

  ‘Where are the weans?’

  ‘Oot playin’

  ‘And how are the weans, Mrs Reid?’

  She raised the poker like an epee and pointed it at my chest. Her sallow skin was glowing with a fierce anxiety. ‘An’ whit’s it to you? Whit are you askin’ about my weans for?’

  ‘It must be quite a change for them. I was just wondering how they’re getting on?’

  For a moment she stood there, a fat dowdy tigress ready to belt me with a poker for even thinking about her kids. Then her shoulders slumped, she put the poker down and lit up again.

  ‘They’re fine, just fine…’ Her face slowly settled and turned from anger to what I can only call despair. I hated myself but I had to push.

  ‘Mrs Reid, there’s a man in Barlinnie Prison. Your neighbour. A war hero. They’re going to hang him in a few weeks for something he might not have done. If you have anything to tell me that could help us find the truth, then… Well, that would be good of you.’

  Slowly her eyes filled up and tears started running down her creased face. Her chest heaved and I wondered if she was going to have a heart attack. Finally the sobs began and she sat hunched and wheezing in her chair.

  ‘I cannae tell you. I just cannae.’

  ‘Was there someone else there that night? Did you hear someone else?’

  Her chest settled and she looked at me through red puffed eyes. She nodded.

  ‘Do you know who it was?’

  She hesitated and then nodded.

  ‘What happened? Just tell me in your own words.’

  Her eyes pleaded with me not to ask this of her. I held her gaze.

  ‘It was late. Well past bedtime. It woke the weans. I heard feet, two pair. Yin of them no’ so steady. Then voices. Wan was shooshing the other. Then his door opened and they went inside.’

  ‘Who did, Mrs Reid? Who went in?’

  ‘Yin was Donovan. His voice was slurred, but I kent it fine.’

  ‘And the other?’

  ‘Yon priest.’

  My blood stopped. ‘Father Cassidy?’

  ‘Aye, him.’

  TWENTY-ONE

  I took the bus back to Brodick and caught the late-afternoon ferry to the mainland. I was in luck. The Glen Sannox was laid up for few days with engine problems. The sleek paddle steamer Jeanie Deans had been diverted from its usual runs up Loch Long to Arrochar. It would dock at Craigendoran instead of Ardrossan but the rail link along the north bank of the Clyde into Glasgow was quicker. Its twin red, white and black banded funnels belched long trails of steam as we set off for the mainland. I stood on the deck hanging over the rail, watching the white water churn past. The sea was as calm as it got out here between the island and the mainland; waves rolling past rather than flinging themselves at the bow. The big paddle wheel slapped rhythmically round and round; my brain seemed to be connected to it. It made no sense. Why in – literally – God’s name was Patrick Cassidy, man of the cloth, hiding this information? And why had he arranged for me to uncover it?

  I was so lost in my reveries that I didn’t notice the two men who joined me at the rail, one on either side. They weren’t just taking the air. Their shoulders were touching mine. Their hats were pulled down over their faces. The one on my left turned to me.

  ‘A’ right there, Brodie?’

  I made to stand back and found they had pinioned my arms. For a moment I thought they were police, until the one who’d spoken nodded to his pal. They bent swiftly and expertly and grabbed me behind the knees. Suddenly I was in the air, my hips rammed against the wooden railing. My hat went first. I watched it sail away and tried frantically to cling to the rail. But they’d got right under me and my weight was now beyond the point of return. A further heave and I went over the rail in a very bad piece of gymnastics.

  My body sailed right over, but my hands still clung desperately to the wood. I crashed against the side, winding myself. In sheer desperation, I flung myself round and grabbed the bar below the rail with my right hand. I now clung with my face against the railing and my legs flailing on the side of the boat. I looked up into two grinning faces. One of them I recognised from my barney in the gents the other day.

  ‘Nice day for a swim, ya fucker!’ cried Fergie, pulling out a bike chain which he’d kept tucked up over his shoulder under his jacket. He lashed down at me and caught me on my head and shoulders with the sharpened links. Then he and his pal chose a hand each and stamped on it. I tried to hang on but it was useless. Before the next swing of the chain ripped my face open I pulled myself up, got one foot on the edge of the deck and swung a punch at Fergie. He stepped back and swept the chain at my head. It caught me on my left cheek, wrapped itself around my head and tore the skin off my jaw. As I jerked away I glimpsed his pal pull out a bayonet and plunge it towards my chest.

  I did the only thing I could. I jumped.

  I was a long time in the air, and I could see their grinning faces watching me every foot of the way. I hit the water and went under. Deep, deep into the green. The cold stopped my heart. The salt tore at my open wounds. I was blind in the mill race of the churning wake. My one piece of luck had been to stand downstream from the paddles. Otherwise I would have been fish bait by now. As it was, I was only drowning.

  I kicked and struggled upwards and blasted into the air spewing salt water like a sounding whale. I lay flapping and coughing in the chopped furrows of the ferry. White spume kept slapping my face and forcing water down my every orifice. I felt my coat dragging me back under and struggled out of it. The shoes went next and then my jacket. Already my energy was fast dissolving as the adrenalin levels dropped. With a final push I struck away at right angles from the wake and splashed and swam till I found myself in calmer waters.

  I rolled on to my back and lay gasping and spluttering like a harpooned seal. I concentrated on calming down and conserving my energy. When my body had relaxed a little and I could float without too much kicking, I turned and looked round for the boat. It was a fast disappearing hulk on my horizon. No one except my deadly pals had seen me fall. No sign of a crewman calling ‘man overboard’ and a nice red lifebelt floating my way. There were still waves rolling me up and down but it was the normal swell that ran down the Clyde all the way to America.

  ‘You bastards!’ I screamed, and slapped the waves in impotent fury. The thought of dying at the hands of these scum was too much to bear. I vowed to wring their dirty necks next time we met. If…

  The cold water began to cool my ire. I took stock. Fergie had timed it nicely. The distance between Brodick and the mainland was about fourteen miles. I was roughly halfway between. There was no sign of any other boat and I was aware of being pulled along by a steady current towards the next bit of mainland: either Northern Ireland or Newfoundland. Such information was only going to be relevant to my bloated corpse.

  On
the plus side, even at this time of year, the water wasn’t cold enough to kill me outright. The blessed Gulf Stream kept the waters lapping Ayrshire and the west coast at a temperature that was survivable. For a while. Not quite the Murmansk run. Or not immediately. I could last for, well, hours, until the cool Atlantic slowly sapped my strength and my body shut down bit by bit.

  Though I could swim well enough, I’d never swum seven miles in my life, far less in the open sea. My trousers were tugging at me and I slipped them off as well as my shirt and socks. They weren’t keeping me warm and were only making me struggle against their sodden weight. I would look like I’d gone for a dip in my vest and pants, and got carried away by the currents. Apart from the chain marks across my face.

  Big Bill, my old Geography teacher, was always telling me to pay more attention, that knowing how the natural world worked was essential knowledge in a man. I wish he’d told me it could be a matter of life or death. I had no idea what the tides and currents did in the Firth of Clyde. I didn’t know their direction or whether they changed depending on the phases of the moon. All I recall was that the currents were supposed to be treacherous.

  At least the seas were calm, just a shallow swell and steady ripple of waves that lifted me up and down like a soggy cork. I turned on my face and, for want of a better idea, started swimming, a steady crawl towards the mainland. I gave it up after a couple minutes with no sense that I’d made any impact whatsoever on the distance. I tried backstroke, as it was more like floating, but that got me nowhere either as far as I could see. All I was doing was using up energy and therefore body heat.

  I wasn’t entirely alone: the odd seagull squawked and hovered over me until it decided I wasn’t yet ripe for nibbling. It would keep coming back until I was. There was other debris in the water, junk from ships and from the mainland. A nice big log would do me fine, or a stray rowing boat. Flotsam and jetsam. I tried to recall the difference; I think I was technically jetsam.