by Alex Gray
Glasgow Kiss
( Lorimer and Brightman - 6 )
Alex Gray
Alex Gray
Glasgow Kiss
The Lord is my light and my salvation;
whom shall I fear?
The Lord is the stronghold of my life;
of whom shall I be afraid?
Psalm 27 verse 1
PROLOGUE
Her lips were still warm when he kissed them, petal-soft, unyielding. It was like kissing a child’s lips at bed time: he could remember that sensation, recalling vividly how the drowsy breath exhaled in a tiny shudder.
But the girl made no response even when he let his finger run across her cheek, down to the corner of her mouth. He could still see traces of pink gloss smeared over the tiny ridges that crossed her parted lips, smell her familiar scent; hands cupped across his nostrils, he breathed in the sweetness mingling with his own sweat. The sun filtered through the leaves, warming his back, filling him with a deep sense of peace as if the world understood his longings and had colluded to bring about this ultimate satisfaction. A kiss, just one kiss: that was all he’d ever wanted, all he’d ever desired.
When he finally looked into her eyes, wide with horror, he had to look away. He turned, hand on his mouth to stop the sound coming out, shaking his head in disbelief. Looking at these eyes spoiled everything.
Now he was angry with her again. She would have to be punished for what she was doing to him.
A dog barking in the distance made him stand up, alert, knowing there was little time to lose. With a final glance at the shallow grave, sunlight-dappled under a canopy of trees, he wiped his hands on a tussock of grass, smoothed down the creases on his jeans and walked further into the woods, his footfall silent on the soft earth.
CHAPTER 1
They were walking a little apart now. Her face was in profile, half shaded by the overhanging trees so that he could not make out her expression, though from time to time he would sneak a glance to see if she was looking his way. Her long pale-golden hair was twisted into plaits, leaving the cheekbones naked and exposed. It should have made her seem like a child but instead she looked older, more remote, and Kyle wished she’d left it loose as she usually did, burnished and glimmering in the afternoon sunshine.
It hadn’t always been like this. They’d walked through Dawsholm Park loads of times, sometimes hand in hand, dawdling by the grass verges, snatching the chance to have a quick kiss. But now, Kyle thought gloomily, these halcyon days were over. Halcyon had been Kyle’s favourite word last term. His English teacher, Mrs Lorimer, had explained that it derived from a Greek story about a mythical bird that in the middle of winter made its nest floating upon the Aegean seas. The bird had magical powers to make the waters calm and the winds drop. Kyle loved that story and had used the word in his own mind to describe his relationship with Julie. He’d even dreamed of them once — floating together like that bird, side by side, waves lapping gently against their boat.
Something made him shiver suddenly and the girl turned to him, a question in her eyes.
Kyle shook his head, too full to speak. She was still watching him and must have seen the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed back the tears.
‘All right?’ Her voice was full of concern, but not for what was happening between them. Not for that.
‘Aye, fine,’ he replied but failed to stifle the sigh escaping from his chest. Would she stick with him out of pity after seeing his battered face? Part of him wanted to have Julie around, her warmth and loveliness blotting out the misery of the last two days. But deep down he knew he’d lost her long before his father’s release from prison.
‘Kyle?’
‘What?’
‘D’you want to talk about it?’ She had stopped walking now and was looking at him, frowning. ‘It might help. .’ Her voice trailed off in an unspoken apology.
Kyle shrugged. He hadn’t talked about it to anyone though he’d done a fair amount of listening. His gran’s house had been full of talk: recriminations, wild accusations and shouting. But that was because women did that sort of thing. And because Kyle was Gran’s favourite, the youngest of her three grandsons. His brothers and his gran: they all had something to say about what Tam Kerrigan had done, and not just to him. That was one reason why he was here, with Julie, to escape from all of the talk. But also he’d been interested in the bit about the murder victim, in spite of everything.
What happened to a dead person at a post-mortem examination? He’d looked up stuff on the net, reading in a detached way about incisions and bodily fluids, not really making a link with the dead man his father had killed. Even the illustrations on the Internet site hadn’t put him off. It was like selecting bits of vacuum-packed butcher meat from the supermarket shelves and not seeing the animal they’d come from. Not like in the school trip to France where you were in no doubt about the origin of your dinner. One of the lassies had nearly thrown up that time someone had served up a chicken with everything still attached, the yellow claws curled over the platter and the head all to one side; you could imagine its squawk as the neck had been wrung.
‘Kyle?’ Julie’s voice broke into his thoughts and he looked up, seeing her staring at him, a tiny crease between her eyes.
‘Och, I’m okay,’ he told her, then dropped his gaze, unable to bear the kindness in her face. ‘The bruises’ll be gone in a day or so. Probably by the time we go back to school,’ he added.
‘Are you going back right away?’
Kyle shrugged again. ‘Why not? Can’t see what good it’ll do me to hang around the house.’ He paused to let the unspoken words sink in. Keeping out of the house meant keeping away from his father.
They walked on again in silence but this time Julie reached out for his hand and he took it, feeling its warmth, glad to have her there. It would be okay. There might be folk staring at him, curious to know the truth behind what the papers said about Tam Kerrigan, but if Julie was there, even as a friend, he’d manage all right. All summer they’d talked about the advantages of being in Fourth Year, both excited, dropping the pretence of being too cool to show it. His mouth twisted at the memory. That had been another person, a young carefree creature whose whole life had stretched before him like an open road. Now that person was dead and gone, his boyhood behind him for ever.
CHAPTER 2
Maggie Lorimer groaned as she picked up the enormous pile of folders and staggered along the corridor to her classroom. In-service days had their uses but sometimes they simply consisted of a different sort of housekeeping. Take these Standard Grade folios, for example. She’d spent hours collating them all and working out what else the kids would need to complete their course. This was a pretty average group, Maggie thought, seeing the first name on the top folder: Julie Donaldson. Aye, the lassie worked hard right enough but she spent more time staring out of the window than concentrating on her work. Maggie shook her head. A lot of them expected grades far beyond their capabilities but she did her best for them anyway.
‘Staff meeting downstairs. Right now. Manson wants to see everybody.’ Maggie whirled around to see her friend, Sandie. The Business Studies teacher was making a face as she spoke. ‘Must be about the Kerrigan thing.’
Maggie nodded distractedly, dumped the folders on the nearest desk, grabbed her handbag and followed Sandie along the corridor that joined the Department of English at one end with Business Studies at the other. When Maggie had first come to teach at Muirpark, her classroom had been right at one end of their department, next door to Sandie’s. Their proximity had developed into a friendship and now Maggie Lorimer couldn’t imagine a working day without Sandie Carmichael’s ready wit bemoaning the amount of administration that they had to endure.
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‘Is James Kerrigan coming back to school for Sixth Year?’
‘Don’t know yet. Anyway, look at you! You’d think you’d been in the Bahamas all summer instead of. . where was it? Skye?’
‘No.’ Maggie shook her head, making the dark curls fall across her face. ‘We were in Mull. In this fabulous wee cottage. Had a brilliant time. Then spent the rest of the holiday out in the garden. Oh, and we’ve got a cat-’
But Maggie Lorimer’s eager flow of chatter stopped abruptly as both women turned the corner and came face to face with a tall man striding towards them.
Eric Chalmers possessed the sort of physical attributes that would make any woman stop in her tracks; his blonde hair was swept forward into a boyish quiff and his smile revealed a pair of dimples that could disarm the most hardened members of staff, and often did.
It was Sandie who spoke first. ‘Manson wants us all downstairs. Meeting. Now,’ she said, catching her breath as if she had been running.
Eric raised his eyebrows. ‘Any special reason?’
‘The Kerrigan kids. Has to be.’
‘The Kerrigans? Why? What’s happened?’
‘Eric! Surely you must be the only person in the country who doesn’t know about this.’ Maggie tut-tutted. ‘Kyle and James’s father’s been released from Barlinnie. Don’t you remember? It was a verdict of manslaughter at the time so he’s only served eight years.’
‘He murdered some thug in Drumchapel,’ Sandie added darkly. ‘But the victim’s family have been making angry noises about lack of Victim Support and the injustice to them of Kerrigan’s early release. It’s been all over the papers and on the telly. How come you haven’t seen it?’
‘Ah!’ Eric fell into step with the two women. ‘Not been quite in this world the past few days,’ he admitted. Then his face broke into another hundred-watt smile. ‘Ruth had a wee girl!’
‘Aw, congratulations!’ Sandie’s arms were flung around the other teacher’s chest and before he could protest she had landed a kiss on his cheek.
‘That’s lovely news, Eric. How are they both doing?’
‘Fine. We’ve called her Ashleigh. Both sets of grandparents wanted biblical names but we just liked that one,’ he said.
Sandie raised her eyebrows but refrained from making her usual caustic comment about Eric’s father and father-in-law, both Church of Scotland ministers. It was common knowledge among his friends at school that Eric was a grave disappointment to his family for not following his father into the ministry. Instead he had chosen to train as a teacher of Religious Education and his enthusiasm and charisma made him one of the most popular members of staff in Muirpark Secondary. His own name, he had told them once, had been in memory of the famous runner-turned-missionary Eric Liddell. Somehow the kids had got wind of this and it was not uncommon for them to hum the theme tune of Chariots of Fire whenever they passed him in the corridor. Eric, being Eric, just laughed which endeared him to the kids all the more. A surprising number of them turned up for his Scripture Union club on a Thursday after school and he’d taken groups to the SU camps during the Easter and Summer breaks.
They had reached the main hall now and the murmur of voices told them that the meeting had not yet begun.
‘What d’you think?’ Sandie began to whisper to Maggie as they took their seats. But her words were lost in a general clearing of throats that heralded the entrance of Keith Manson, Muirpark’s head teacher. A short, stocky man in his mid-fifties, Manson was nonetheless a figure of authority, his bull neck rising from a frame that was pure muscle. He’d been an amateur boxing champion in his day and still lent a hand at a club in Drumchapel that boasted a steady stream of successful youngsters. One of them had even been picked for the British Olympic team. Never one to smile, Manson’s expression was a customary mixture of belligerence and world-weariness, and his legendary temper kept both staff and pupils wary of him.
‘Right then,’ the man’s voice boomed over the assembled staff. ‘You can guess why we’re here. I’d like to be able to say welcome to you all, hope you had a refreshing break, but frankly those sorts of platitudes will have to wait till a better time. This morning I’ve got more important things to say to you all.’ Manson broke off to stare over his staff. The ripple of talk had died abruptly and the teachers who sat watching and waiting were as quiet as a First Year assembly.
‘Unless you’ve been on a different planet you’ll all know that Kyle Kerrigan’s father has been released from prison.’
Sandie shot a glance at Eric and was rewarded by a sheepish half-grin.
‘It’s a terrible business for a young boy like Kyle. He was only in Primary Two when his father was locked up. Now he has to cope with all of this hoo-hah that’s going on in the papers. Whether the courts were correct to mete out the sentence they did is not for us to decide. Our responsibility is to the pupils in our care and right now that means Kyle.’ There was a pause during which an undercurrent of muttering broke out. ‘And no, before anyone asks, James will not be returning to school.’
Maggie listened to the collective sigh of relief from the teachers around her. James Kerrigan had been trouble with a capital T and his departure from Muirpark Secondary was good news. But the assembled staff quietened again as Manson continued.
‘Kyle is now back living in Drumchapel with his father and brothers but I have approved a placement request from his grandmother and he will be continuing his education here. I just wanted you all to be aware of the situation and to keep a friendly eye on the boy. He’s never been any trouble to us and has never come into the orbit of Strathclyde’s finest, I’m glad to say. Speaking of which, congratulations are surely in order for a certain Detective Chief Inspector?’ he added as an aside, directing his gaze at Maggie. She felt the colour rise to her cheeks as a few people turned and stared. Her husband, DCI William Lorimer, had been involved in a sensational murder case over the summer months, a case that had also made newspaper headlines.
‘Oh, and would you see me after this meeting, Mrs Lorimer? As Kyle’s year teacher I’d like a word with you.’
Maggie felt her heart sink. She’d expected it but it was still a horrible thing to have to endure. Being Kyle Kerrigan’s year teacher had been a joy for the past three years. He had grown from a shy wee boy into a genuinely nice lad who wasn’t afraid to speak out in class. And the fact that English was his favourite subject had made their relationship all the better. Maggie had been looking forward to being his Standard Grade teacher again this year.
‘The gentlemen of the press will be here later this morning,’ Manson continued, deliberately making the word sound dirty. ‘I must advise all of you to steer clear of them unless I have particularly asked you to give some sort of comment regarding Kyle. They are bound to target some of his pals, so be on the lookout for anyone hanging around the school gates. The janitors have been told to turn them away and a letter is being sent out to parents advising them not to give any interviews.’ Manson scowled as he spoke. ‘We can’t stop them, of course,’ he added, looking around as if to catch any one of his staff who might be thinking of supplementing their salary with an exclusive. ‘But I hope common sense and decency will prevail. I want Kyle Kerrigan treated with respect, not wrapped up in cotton wool.’ There were a few laughs at that statement: Kyle was one of Muirpark’s sporting hopes for the future, his prowess in the boxing ring making him a clear favourite with the head teacher. ‘Let him get on with his schoolwork. A sense of normality is probably the kindest thing you can give him right now.’ He paused again, nodding to them all. ‘That’s all you need to know just now. A staff memo will be circulated as and when any other matters need to be discussed.’
Manson glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll reconvene for this afternoon’s staff meeting as printed on your agenda. Right, that’s all.’ The head teacher’s fists grasped the lectern in front of him and one by one the staff moved out of the school hall.
‘Good luck!’ whispered Sandie as she
left.
Maggie gave her a weak smile and turned to follow Manson, who was already striding out of the hall.
Keith Manson’s office overlooked the main recreational area, its windows facing south. He was known for opening these windows and booming at any latecomers to school, sending them scuttling across the expanse of tarmac. But today the playground was empty and free of the usual crisp packets and sweetie papers that were the bane of Bob-the-Jannie’s existence. Maggie glanced out of the window as she took her seat in front of Manson’s desk. Beyond the perimeters of the school were rows and rows of tenement buildings, their chimney tops fading into the distance. Today was grey and drizzly, the rain clouds blotting out the hills beyond the river Clyde and the low pressure was already giving Maggie a headache. By lunchtime it would likely be a two-Disprin affair, especially if Manson was on his usual booming form. Rumours about his deafness were legendary. Some said he’d been injured in a knock-out, resulting in his hearing being permanently impaired. Whatever the truth of the matter, Keith Manson’s normal speaking voice was several decibels louder than the average person’s, a trait that served to increase his formidable status.
He cleared his throat and shuffled a few papers on his desk — signs, Maggie suddenly realised, that betrayed his nervousness. Curious to see such unexpected body language from their normally stern head teacher, Maggie relaxed back into her armchair, clasping her hands around her knees and watching Manson’s face.
‘I’ve never encountered a situation quite like this before,’ Manson began, his eyes focused on the paperknife he was now fiddling with. ‘Of course we’ve had bereavements, some sudden, but not circumstances. .’ His voice tailed off in a sigh.
Maggie’s eyebrows rose in surprise. Big, bluff Manson lost for words?
