by Alex Gray
‘Your husband is no doubt used to things like this,’ he said suddenly, staring at Maggie. ‘But it’s not something a teacher expects to come across in their career.’
Maggie nodded, feeling a trifle foolish. What did he want her to say? That she was accustomed to death in all its grisly forms? Bill told her things about his cases, of course he did, but usually he spared her the more lurid details.
‘A pupil’s father being a murderer, you mean, Mr Manson?’ she asked.
Manson nodded his head, his eyes wandering back to all the paraphernalia upon his desk. ‘It was a horrible business. Do you remember it?’
‘Yes, vaguely. Bill wasn’t involved in that case, though.’
‘Sweeney, the victim, was out late at night near a pub when he was set upon by Kerrigan. That’s one story. Kerrigan pleaded self-defence and there was enough to suggest that Sweeney had initiated the fight. Had a knife on him. Kerrigan left him to bleed to death in some alleyway.’ Manson’s voice was bitter. ‘Nobody saw a thing.’
‘There was quite a bit of forensic evidence,’ Maggie murmured.
‘Be that as it may, we have a seven-day wonder on our hands now that the papers have chosen to make a thing of Kerrigan’s release. Must be stuck for real news,’ he growled. ‘Anyway, our job is to ensure that Kyle is kept as free from gossip and speculation as possible. I meant what I said about keeping life normal for him. What I want to ask you is to try to keep the lad as busy as you can. Give him jobs to do, things that will take up his free time, stop him from thinking too much.’ He gave Maggie the famous Manson Gimlet Stare.
‘At least the PE department gives him plenty time for his training,’ Maggie offered.
‘Aye,’ Manson replied. ‘We could go down in history if things work out right for Kyle Kerrigan.’ His expression softened. ‘Boy’s got the makings of a real champion.’
Maggie closed her classroom door and leaned against it. For a couple of days it would be a haven of peace and tranquillity till the kids returned on Thursday. She looked around her room and smiled. This was her private domain, her own wee world. Even after a teacher exchange programme when she’d been away for several months she had returned to the same classroom. She walked across to the window and stared out for a moment looking over the rows of tenement rooftops, their slates slick with rain. To her right there were trees screening the bowling green and cricket pitch, a view she enjoyed during the winter months when the trees were bare and she could sometimes make out the shape of distant hills peeking in between the chimney tops. But not today. After the longest, hottest summer the city had ever known, the rains had finally come and Glasgow was now blanketed in a misty drizzle.
The Detective Chief Inspector’s wife gave herself a shake. There was such a lot still to do before term began, so she’d better get a move on. But first she ought to give some thought to Kyle Kerrigan. Picking up the Fourth Year timetables, she spread them out in a fan until she saw his name. A quick glance showed Kyle’s subject choices; English, French, Physics, Maths, Geography and Chemistry were all slotted into different periods of the week. If Maggie’s predictions were correct he could gain top passes in all of his subjects next session. And then he’d be well placed to sit five Highers; easily enough to take him into Glasgow University. Kyle had spoken to Maggie about wanting to read English Literature, a fact that had secretly delighted her. She had loads of lessons already prepared and was looking forward to taking this top class, with one eye firmly on next year’s Higher exam.
But what would happen now that the boy was back in Drumchapel? Would his father encourage him just as his grandmother had? Somehow Maggie doubted that. The older boys had been so different, she mused. Thomas had left school with no qualifications other than an aptitude for getting out of difficult situations: the eldest Kerrigan boy had been the sort who’d made arrows for other more gullible lads to fire. And James had been the bane of her existence last year: thank the Lord he’d decided not to come back for Sixth Year.
Kyle was so unlike them: a keen sportsman and a lad with lots of academic potential. And was that all to change now with his father’s release from jail? Maggie’s lips tightened in a thin hard line. The boys’ mother had died of cancer shortly before her husband’s conviction. And hadn’t his Defence made plenty of that? she thought cynically, remembering a newspaper article about Kerrigan’s shortened term of imprisonment. The Kerrigan children had become victims, too, she told herself: no mother and a father fresh out of Barlinnie.
Life wasn’t fair. Surely she should have learned that by now.
CHAPTER 3
The Argo Centre was really an acronym for The Saint Andrews Recreation and Games Organisation, a fact that almost everybody in Drumchapel had long forgotten since its construction back in the seventies. Glasgow humour being what it was, it was referred to affectionately as the Aggro Centre.
Drumchapel itself had started out as an escape for slum-dwelling families to a newer, fresher life outside the city. The post-war years had been a time of high ideals and lofty aspirations. Close to the leafier suburbs of Bearsden and Knightswood, the City Fathers had hoped to create a social housing programme that would lift its citizens up to emulate their more affluent neighbours. The planners who had shared this vision were ultimately disappointed to see parts of it develop into the sorts of ghettos from which its original residents had tried to escape. Now its population had one of the highest levels of unemployment in Glasgow and drug dealing was rife within its streets.
The Argo had been built to try to relieve some of the social problems of Drumchapel’s youth, namely giving them somewhere to go and something to do. And it had been successful to varying degrees. Wee girls in pigtails and leotards regularly tapped their way from the baby class right through to senior level, some even going on to the famous dance school at Knightswood Academy. But it was their boxing club that had gained most prestige over the years. Several Scottish champions had learned their skills at the Argo under the fierce eye of Dave Savage, himself a former gold medallist.
Kyle Kerrigan aimed a series of jabs at the punchbag suspended from the ceiling. Around him the lads were sweating, some doing star-jumps, others press-ups, a few like him were battering their demons out against the solid leather bags.
‘Change!’ Dave yelled out and the boys moved around the hall, star-jumpers taking their turn at the bags, others stifling a groan of relief as they stood upright. The smell of sweat lingered in the air as Kyle ignored Dave’s command and kept his eye focused on the bag. Jab. Jab-jab. Jab-jab-jab. His hands flew out in a rhythm, his eyes narrowing as if the dark blue bag was indeed an opponent to be watched and feared. At fifteen, Kyle was one of the older boys in the boxing club. Most of the lads were twelve or thirteen, wiry wee fellows and whippet-thin. Kyle had been just like them, devoted to the sport and ambitious as hell, not understanding why so many of the big boys who were really, really good had drifted away from the twice-weekly training.
‘Girls!’ he’d heard Dave snort in disgust when some of the dads had been talking. He supposed it could be, though he’d never let his friendship with Julie affect his sport. Some of the older lads were winching right enough, but it was more than that. James and Tam, his older brothers, had mocked his loyalty to the boxing club.
‘Away an’ rin roon that hall. Much good it’ll dae ye!’ Tam had spat at him earlier that evening. ‘Cannae say I ever needed tae learn tae fight,’ he’d added with a grin that had made James laugh.
‘Tam could pit the heid in tae onybody roon here. Nae fancy footwork fur him, eh, Tam?’
Kyle had picked up his gym bag and left, their taunts ringing in his ears. Maybe that’s why some of the older lads had given up; it wasn’t cool any more to go down the Argo when your nights could be filled with the sorts of stuff Tam and James got up to. Tam Kerrigan was number one dealer round their bit and James looked set to follow in their older brother’s footsteps. Not that James wasn’t clever. He’d managed to find an apprenti
ceship with his pal’s father who was a master joiner, and that was a good sort of trade to follow. Joiners were dead well paid, James had boasted when he’d told them he was leaving school. But money didn’t last long in Jamesey’s pockets and Tam’s preferred trade was much more lucrative.
Kyle aimed his punches at the bag. One for James. One for Tam.
‘Change!’ Dave commanded and he glanced over his shoulder at a star-jumper eyeing up his punchbag. Reluctantly Kyle let his arms fall to his sides and he moved away to let the boy have his turn.
Standing against the cream-painted brick wall, Kyle Kerrigan watched the boys go through their paces. Most of them wore jogging pants and T-shirts, some revealing their affiliation to a particular football club, something that could give away their religious upbringing. But such things were ignored inside the Argo. Sectarianism had no place here. You were a boxer first and left any of that stuff outside. Saint Columba’s boys mixed happily with the Proddy boys on Mondays and Thursdays; what their teams did the rest of the week was immaterial. Besides, these lads were all keen on the boxing. Footie wasn’t their first love.
He watched as Dave put on a head guard that matched his dark red boxing gloves and beckoned one of the smaller boys into the ring. The lad had the same determined expression on his face as they all had when facing an opponent: tight, screwed-up brow, mouth firmly shut, teeth clamped against a gum shield. (Dave was always going on about keeping your mouth shut so your jaw didn’t get broken.) Kyle saw the boy’s feet drag one way and the other as Dave put him through his paces, correcting his footwork, making him jab, keeping him coming at the big man who put himself up as a human punchbag for all these aspiring boxers.
Kyle’s eyes wandered across to Gordon Simpson. At seventeen, Gordie was the oldest boy in the club and had had the most fights. A tall, thin lad with a buzz cut above his pale face, Gordie always looked as if he’d come out of the Bar-L, as Barlinnie was affectionately known to Glaswegians. But it was no prison pallor; Gordon suffered from a funny kind of skin disorder and couldn’t stay in the sun without masses of special cream on. This past summer must’ve been a nightmare for him, Kyle thought; day after day of scorching hot sun. He’d gone up the park with his pals, laid on the grass, mucked about with a football, his own skin turning a continental shade of brown. He’d felt funny when some of the lassies he recognised from his class at school had shouted out insults at him that were really compliments in disguise.
‘Right. Kyle. Gordon.’ Dave waved his gloved hands in the air and someone set the clock back to zero.
Gordie gave a weak grin as he faced the younger boy. He might be older and taller but everyone knew that Kyle Kerrigan was the one with the makings of a true champion.
As Kyle approached, fists bunched, eyes straight ahead, he could sense the other lads and their fathers gathered around to watch as if it was something a bit special. Balancing on the balls of his feet, Kyle threw the first punch and saw Gordie’s head jerk to the side, but not before his glove made contact. He would not hurt him but he’d make sure that his jabs went home, keeping his own guard and not letting Gordie near him.
The three-minute bell sounded and the boys tapped each other’s gloves then ducked under the ropes.
Kyle nodded to the coach who gave him a grin of approval. Dave wasn’t given to praising his lads, but you knew when he was pleased. The boys moved out of the way so the older men could dismantle the ring and put it away till the next training night.
Outside, the dusk was growing and Kyle was grateful for the slight cool on his skin as he turned out of Halgreen Road towards his own bit. School began tomorrow. He shrugged. It wasn’t so bad and he’d see his mates again. Muirpark was somewhere to pass the time till he could be back here. Kyle cast a backward glance at the Argo, its door scabbed where generations of wee neds had kicked it. Tucked in amongst the rows of houses, it looked shabby and run down but each time Kyle Kerrigan arrived at that familiar entrance it was like he was coming home.
CHAPTER 4
T he squeezing sensation in his head came back stronger this time and he slumped into the armchair, feeling its metal frame bite through the thin cotton covering. He shifted a bit until his back moulded against the seat cushion. If he just sat still for a minute, took a few deep breaths, it would pass. It usually did. Eyes closed, he let himself drift, let the feeling overwhelm him. Morphing into gossamer, he floated: insubstantial, light and bright. .
Outside the buzz-saw sound of garden machinery cut through the pale threads that kept him dangling up above the chair, and brought him crashing down again. He opened his eyes, head thumping now, examining his surroundings. The room he was in should have been so familiar. The furniture hadn’t changed since he’d left; it was the same mismatch of rubbish that he’d known all his life. A flicker in his brain made him see how things had been the day she had moved in. That had been a summer’s day too, sunshine spilling into the room making everything seem bright and gaudy. Even the tired brown armchairs could have been described as russet, he supposed. The wallpaper was still the same brown-and-cream pattern of overlapping loops (whose repetitions he’d counted over and over again), the dingy white lampshade still hanging at a rakish angle. He’d never bothered trying to fix it. She had seen the place as a temporary stopping-off point, nothing more.
Anna had wanted a place by the seaside. She’d talked about it as they lay on top of the bed that first afternoon, the dust fairies (her expression) flickering in the still air above them; how they’d get a wee place of their own, how she’d do it up. He’d listened, never saying a word, imagining the sound of waves murmuring on a distant shoreline, sea birds pecking among the pebbles.
But the house had changed and that old, easy familiarity was gone for ever. The bookshelves were empty for a start. Where were the rows of the Reader’s Digest Omnibus and all those ancient discards from the local library? He remembered their faded linen spines and the faint whiff of dust. But now there were just three empty shelves, their original varnish scabby with age. Had he sold them? Thrown them away? A sense of panic began to creep into his thoughts and he had to shake his head to dislodge it. It didn’t help to remember everything.
He looked around, trying to see what else was different. They’d put a peephole into the front door. The man who’d helped him with his stuff had remarked on it. ‘Keeps you safe,’ he’d said. That was the sort of thing they were fond of telling him. Keeps you safe or Concerned for your welfare: these were their favourites. He didn’t care. They were really only anxious to be seen to be following the guidelines that some clown had decided to set in place. They were like wee puppies, tongues lolling out of their mouths, eyes hopeful for a crumb of praise, or even a thank you. Mostly he ignored them but sometimes, just for sheer devilment, he stared them out, then, just as their gaze had dropped, he’d say it. Thank you. Gravely, sonorously, he’d say it, catching the doubt in their eyes as they tried to gauge if he was being sincere or sarcastic.
He was glad when that one had finally left today. It had taken all of his patience not to give the man a good slap as he’d twittered on about how this worked and how that worked. It was his own home, for Christ’s sake! Not some mangy bedsit he’d never clapped eyes on before.
The headache was subsiding now. There was no need to take any medication. There was no need to do anything at all, simply rest and relax, relax, relax, relax. .
CHAPTER 5
Julie Donaldson, her long blonde hair caught by a sudden gust of wind, stood on the pavement, waving and waving until the Range Rover was out of sight, the ubiquitous Jane Norman schoolbag slung across her shoulder. At the end of last term Julie had hung around, waiting for Kyle to appear, but she wouldn’t be doing that any more she told herself, turning to pick out the staffroom windows, wondering if he was there.
Now she could see some of the girls in her own year group and her special pal, Samantha. Julie waved at her, her pace quickening. From the corner of her eye she spotted two young lads
in the reception area staring but she just ignored them. Let them stare, she thought as her friend grabbed her in a hug. She was done flirting with stupid wee schoolboys.
‘See you later.’ Samantha turned to catch her older brother’s eye before linking arms with Julie. A group of other Fourth Years were already bearing down on them, their girlish voices becoming louder as each tried to outdo the other.
‘See you, Tim.’ Julie gave Samantha’s brother a wee smile, gratified to see him blush. It was cool being one of the seniors now. And maybe certain people would take her a bit more seriously.
More pupils streamed through the gates, following the girls and their friends towards the school buildings. Over in the staff car park, doors slammed shut as teachers arrived to begin their working day. Some members of staff did arrive on foot, though, and the kids instinctively moved away from them; engaging in conversation with a teacher was just so uncool. A tall young man, a slim document case under his arm, stopped to ask directions from one of the younger girls. Her face colouring up, the pupil pointed to the main entrance then rejoined her pals amid much sniggering as the man followed her directions. There were always new teachers or students at the start of the autumn term and this one wasn’t at all bad looking, they thought, measuring up his appearance against their favourite pop stars.
‘Don’t we have to wait till Manson gives us the okay?’ Kyle asked. The Fourth Year lads were milling around the PE block, sneaking a look down the corridor that led to the place that everyone had been talking about: their Fourth Year common room. It was evident that the boys were keen to inhabit one of the rooms that were given as a special privilege to senior pupils, but still respectful, in a kind of fearful way, of their head teacher.
‘Aye, I think we have to have assembly first. Let’s go and see if the team lists are up, eh?’ one lad suggested.
