The Health of Strangers

by Lesley Kelly

  ‘It wasn’t a bother.’ She finally gave up on her coffee, and put it back on the tray. ‘If there is anything else I can do . . .I’d hate any other mother to go through what I did.’

  Carole stood up to leave but Aileen grabbed her hand.

  ‘Why were you in the Sanctuary? Were you following me?’

  ‘No. My son, Michael, my eldest, is recovering from the Virus. He’s upstairs in the Young Adults’ Virus ward.’

  Aileen stared at her, unsure if she was lying or not.

  ‘For real.’ She pulled back her sleeve to show her the wristband that allowed her to enter Michael’s ward.

  The mother stared at it. ‘Will he be all right?’

  ‘They think so.’

  ‘You’re lucky. So lucky.’ She started to cry.

  Carole sat down and put her arms round the weeping woman. Bernard wondered whether he should leave. His colleague looked up, and with a silent movement of her eyes managed to convey the message that he should go. The shameful feeling of relief flooded back, and he stood up, nodding Carole a silent goodbye.

  6

  Mona looked at her watch, shielding it from the sun so she could read the time. It was twenty minutes since she’d rung Paterson and asked for his help to identify where on the defunct railway system tonight’s rave might be taking place. He’d been sceptical on the phone, but she was sure he’d call if he wasn’t coming. It was more likely he was lost. She wandered back down the cycle track and out on to Trinity Road and found herself face-to-face with her boss.‘How did you manage to talk me into this, Mona?’

  She passed him a leaflet showing the outline of the former railway route. The brochure was designed for the cyclists and runners who now used the pathways, but it would do for her purposes.

  ‘I mean, this idea came from Bernard which means we really should be treating it with extreme caution.’

  She started walking back up the track. ‘I think he might be right this time, though.’

  Paterson grunted, but followed her. ‘Remind me what the purpose of this wild goose chase is.’

  ‘Thanks for the positive frame of mind, Guv.’ She stifled a smile. ‘We’re looking for any indication that an illegal meet-up might have taken place, you know, bottles, fag butts, etc.’

  ‘I get the picture. Where are the others?’

  ‘Maitland’s at Granton, Marcus from IT is helping us out covering the Portobello end, and the man himself, Bernard, is at Restalrig.’

  They quickened their pace, with Paterson covering the left side of the path, and Mona the right.

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Be discreet though; we don’t want anyone clocking us and deciding to call tonight off.’

  ‘Thanks for the advice, Mona. I have done this kind of thing before.’

  They walked in silence for a minute or two, while Mona summoned the nerve to ask the question they were both waiting for. ‘Guv? What did Cameron Stuttle say?’

  Her boss stopped. ‘I think the best that can be said for it is that I still have a job. For the moment.’ He started walking again. ‘Let’s just find this railway place.’

  In the last century Edinburgh had boasted a thriving train system, linking all corners of the city. The Beeching Axe fell heavily on the city, though, and all that remained of its suburban lines were the odd place name, an occasional footbridge, and the network of old lines that were now a car-free route for cyclists and walkers.

  A Labrador bounded up to the Guv, and sniffed at his ankles.

  ‘Good boy.’ Paterson bent down and gave the animal a pat. The dog’s owner nodded to them as he walked past. The Guv gave the mutt a last pat and moved on. ‘Off you go now, shoo.’

  The dog shot a mournful glance after him, then ran on to catch up with his master.

  ‘Think you’ve got a fan there, Guv.’

  ‘Well, that’s one, anyway.’

  A cyclist sped past without a glance, manoeuvring seamlessly to one side in order to avoid them. Occasionally Mona could hear the sound of children in the gardens that backed onto the path, but mostly it was so silent you could forget that you were in the heart of a city.

  The old station from the days when these were active train lines was now a house. It struck Mona as a spooky place to live; she wondered if, when the occupants were lying in bed at night, they heard phantom trains rushing past their windows. Or, more likely, gangs of neds wandering past up to no good.

  This reminded her of her mission, and she started to focus on the task in hand. She drifted to the side of the cycle path and began to check the embankments for discarded cans and bottles. Nothing caught her eye, so she sauntered on until they came to the first tunnel. After a quick check to make sure no-one was about, they stopped at the entrance and had a good look at it.

  The tunnel was about a hundred feet long and straight, allowing you to see from one end to the other. At its highest point it was about thirty feet high, made out of single bricks stacked one on the other in a gently curving arch. A miracle of Victorian technology.

  She took a couple of steps into the tunnel, and felt the temperature immediately drop. It was darker, even allowing for the light from the ends and the electric lighting on the walls. The air smelled damp, and Mona felt the atmosphere cling oppressively to her clothes. There was the usual smattering of graffiti tags, and anti-Virus slogans, although it was hard to tell if the vandalism was new or historic. Mona wandered over and touched one of the walls; as she had suspected it was wet to the touch. She rubbed her hand on her coat. If this was where young people wanted to party, they were welcome to it.

  She wandered over to her boss. ‘Once we get through this tunnel the road forks – you take the left and I’ll take the right.’

  ‘Nope,’ said Paterson, shaking his head.

  Two older women on bikes came into view. They stepped to one side to let them pass, and the women smiled their thanks.

  ‘No? You’ve got a better plan?’

  ‘No, I think we’ve found it. This is it. This is the place.’

  She wondered if he was winding her up. ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘Mona,’ he sighed theatrically, ‘after all these years of working for the Police, I think I can trust my gut instinct. Oh yeah, and that.’ He pointed to the roof of the tunnel.

  ‘Welcome to the Railway Tavern’ was written in white paint.

  7

  ‘So, tonight . . .’ Paterson eyed his team. ‘Tonight we need someone down there checking out what’s happening.’

  ‘Got to be me, really, Guv, hasn’t it?’ said Mona. She felt an energy in her bones she hadn’t felt since she joined the HET. This was proper Police work.

  Maitland snorted. ‘It’s a rave. You’d stick out a mile, Grandma.’

  ‘Grandma?’ Mona glared at her colleague. ‘I’ve got all of two years on you.’

  ‘Four years, actually, and you are an entire generation older when it comes to dress sense. See these?’ Maitland balanced his foot on the desk. ‘Two hundred quid’s worth of Adidas’s finest. State of the art.’

  ‘So?’ She wasn’t sure what Maitland was getting at.

  ‘So – check out your feet.’

  Everyone looked at her shoes. She drew her feet under her chair.

  ‘They’re Clarks.’ She shrugged. ‘They’re comfortable.’

  ‘Yeah, well, they might be useful when Bernard pukes on them . . .’

  Bernard’s head snapped up from the copy of The Plague he was surreptitiously reading under the desk. ‘I did not puke!’

  ‘ . . . but you’re not going to pass for twenty dressed like that.’

  ‘Enough!’ Paterson slapped his hand on the desk. ‘This conversation proves to me that you are actually insane, Maitland. I’ve never spent more than thirty quid on shoes in my life, including the pair my wife insisted I buy for our wedding.’ Paterson cast a scornful glance at Maitland’s footwear. ‘Anyway, you’re both going.’ He looked at her. ‘Althou
gh maybe, Mona, you do need to take a look at your wardrobe for tonight.’

  ‘Eh . . .’

  Mona turned to see that Bernard had his hand half in the air as always, as if this was a Higher English class rather than a team meeting.

  Paterson closed his eyes. ‘Bernard, you’ve done great work so far, but trust me, this isn’t where your talents lie.’

  ‘I don’t want to go, but I was thinking, shouldn’t we turn this over to the Police? I mean we think there’s going to be serious drug dealing . . .’ He tailed off as his three colleagues glared at him. ‘I’m just saying.’

  Mona thought for a moment Paterson was about to explode.

  ‘Bernard . . .’

  The Guv’s tone was struggling to remain within the boundaries of reasonableness. She wondered how long he could keep it up.

  ‘It is currently ten past five. If the rave begins at, say, twelve midnight, that leaves us less than seven hours to find someone in the higher ranks of the Police Force who is willing to round up a herd of non-immune PCs and send them into a bunch of hot and sweaty young people, containing, we think, at least one Health Check Defaulter.’

  ‘But there may be drugs involved . . .’

  ‘Even with forty-eight hours’ notice we’d struggle to find a Chief Super who’d OK a raid on a bunch of students who may, and I stress may, be swapping the contents of their granny’s pill cupboard.’

  ‘With all due respect, Mr Paterson, it’s more serious than that. We’re talking the importation of drugs into the country for resale to vulnerable young people.’

  ‘Prescription drugs. Anything short of a boatload of heroin landing at Leith Docks is not going to get the Police Head Honcho risking the health of his men. Back me up here, Mona.’

  ‘Totally.’

  Mona winked at Paterson, who smiled. She suspected that, as correct as his arguments were, his main consideration was his desire not to give the case over to Police Scotland. Like herself, he felt the need for a half-decent collar.

  Bernard raised his hand again. ‘But . . .’

  ‘Bernard, shut up.’ Paterson walked into his office and picked up his jacket. ‘Time for some team building.’

  8

  Paterson returned from the bar with a tray containing two pints of lager, two lemonades and six packets of crisps.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bernard, staring at his unasked-for pint. He looked nervously around the pub. It was a fairly basic model of hostelry, with no carpet, music, or women (with the notable exception of Mona). He caught the eye of an elderly patron in a checked cap, who glared at him over the top of his pint of stout, and flicked him the finger. He swivelled hurriedly back to his colleagues. Paterson’s idea of a ‘good place for a quick drink’ wasn’t the same as his. But then he had a horrible feeling this wasn’t going to be a quick drink. He looked discreetly at his watch, wondering if he could at least nip outside and phone Carrie.

  ‘It’s amazing this place is still in business,’ he said. ‘Considering the number of pubs that have closed since the Virus began.’

  ‘It’s all down to the devil-may-care attitude of the regulars,’ said Paterson, unloading the drinks. ‘They were more upset by the smoking ban.’

  ‘Where’s mine?’ said Maitland, eyeing the lemonades with disgust.

  ‘We’re working tonight, remember?’ said Mona. ‘Have a crisp.’

  Paterson took a long drink of his Tennent’s. ‘So, Bernard, that was a cracking bit of detective work back there.’

  Bernard nearly choked on his lager at the unaccustomed praise.

  He tried not to flinch when Paterson put a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘No, really, Bern, don’t think we’d have got there without you.’

  ‘To Bernard.’ Mona raised her glass in a toast.

  ‘So, Bernie, I hear you’re really into sport,’ said Maitland through a mouthful of Cheese and Onion.

  ‘I played for Scotland, actually.’

  Drinks were lowered all round, and his colleagues stared at him. ‘Really?’ said Paterson. ‘What sport?’

  ‘Badminton.’

  Maitland and Paterson looked at each other then burst out laughing.

  ‘Badminton?’ said Paterson. ‘That’s not a sport! That’s what kids play on the beach, or old ladies play on a Tuesday morning to keep fit.’

  Bernard felt a small volcano of irritation erupt somewhere inside him. ‘I accept that it’s not a game of brutality like football or rugby. It’s a game of strategy and intelligence. And you need to be hyper-fit.’

  ‘Let yourself go a bit now have you, Bernard?’ asked Maitland.

  He placed his pint carefully back on the table. ‘I could kick your arse any day in a fitness competition.’

  Mona laughed and punched his arm. ‘Go, Bernard!’

  Much as he would have liked to defend his chosen sport further, Bernard’s conscience was getting the better of him, so he decided to risk his boss’s wrath and phone home. ‘Back in a minute.’

  He dialled his landline, and got the answer machine, then his wife’s mobile, which went straight to voicemail. A tiny frisson of fear knotted his stomach muscles; he resolved to say his goodbyes and get home.

  When he returned to the table Paterson was checking his phone single-handed, still holding on to his pint. ‘The missus checking if I’ll be back before the kids go to bed.’

  Bernard’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You’ve got young kids?’

  ‘Why are you surprised?’ Paterson gave him a hard stare. ‘Are you saying I’m too old?’ He grinned as he opened a packet of Salt and Vinegar. ‘Second wife. Are you married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take my advice. Stick with her. A current wife, an ex-wife and two sets of kids is an expensive business.’

  ‘What does your wife do, Guv?’ Mona looked interested.

  ‘She’s still a student at the moment. She was halfway through her degree when she got pregnant . . .’

  ‘Christ,’ interrupted Bernard. ‘How young is she?’ He clasped a hand over his mouth in horror at what he had just said. He pushed his lager away, reflecting that he really couldn’t handle alcohol, and waited for Paterson to kill him.

  To his surprise, his boss just laughed. ‘She was a mature student, you tosser. Anyway, she’s in the last year of her degree now so hopefully she’ll finally be able to go out and earn some money.’

  Bernard picked up his coat to leave, but as he did so his mobile rang. ‘Actually I should just get this . . .’ He wandered to the far side of the pub, inadvertently straying near to the flat-capped old man he had offended earlier. The man grunted at him and he swiftly relocated.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  There was a strained quality to Carrie’s voice. He glanced round his surroundings and made an informed decision to lie. ‘Still at work.’

  ‘Really?’ There was a pause. ‘Because it sounds like you are in a pub.’

  Bernard made the kind of sound that didn’t quite indicate either yes or no.

  ‘Are you coming home now?’ He hated the whine in his wife’s tone. ‘We need to talk.’

  She was right. There were lots of things that would benefit from them sitting down and hammering out. They could revisit their grief, compare where they were on the ladder of recovery. They could discuss his wife’s declining fertility, the need for both parties to be in agreement on the issue of conception, admit to the obvious injustice that men could take more time about these things than women. But they’d done nothing else but circle round this argument for the past six months. Bernard thought about going home, then looked over at his colleagues. Amazingly, they seemed the more attractive option. ‘The thing is . . .’

  ‘Fine,’ said Carrie and hung up.

  Bernard mooched back to the group. ‘I guess it’s my round.’

  ‘Not for me.’ Mona stood up. ‘I need to go home and find some unsuitable footwear, apparently.’

  ‘Try putting your hair in bun
ches,’ smirked Maitland. ‘And get one of those wee rucksacks in the shape of a teddy bear.’

  Mona ignored him. ‘See you back here at eleven.’ Bernard bent down to pick up his bag.

  ‘Hoi,’ said Paterson. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘But . . .’ Bernard pointed in the direction of his departing colleagues. ‘I thought we were . . .’

  His boss thrust his empty glass toward him. ‘Oh, no. As you so rightly said, it’s your round.’

  The shoes all looked ridiculous. There was nothing in the shop that would allow her to walk comfortably, never mind dance. Mona looked round the shop in disgust. The music was far too loud, and of a banging and beeping nature that she’d never listen to out of choice. She picked up a shoe at random, checked its price tag, and rapidly replaced it on the shelf. The assistants all appeared to be in their teens, and none of them seemed keen to attend to her, confirming again that she was in the wrong place. She was about to head for the door but a vision of Maitland and his overpriced trainers swam into her mind, and she turned around.

  Mona sighed and examined the footwear display again. The one thing all the racks had in common was that they contained items that were nothing like the contents of her shoe tree at home. Much as she hated to admit it, Maitland might be right about her not blending in. Not that she was bothered that she didn’t look like a twenty-year-old clubber – Christ! Who’d want that look anyway? But in the interests of professionalism she wanted to look the part.

  ‘Y’all right?’ A sales assistant with bright pink hair appeared at her side.

  ‘Yes!’ she said. ‘I mean, I’d like to try something on.’ She surveyed the rack again, and picked the least-worst option. ‘These in an eight, please.’

  She sat on a seat with one shoe on and watched the other customers go past. A girl with long dark hair caught her eye. She had on black leggings, and a baggy mesh jumper that had slid off one shoulder. She wouldn’t look out of place at a rave, and more importantly, this was a look that Mona was sure she could recreate from her existing wardrobe. Her eyes slid to the girl’s feet and she realised with a smile that she was wearing the same boots that Mona was waiting to try on. The girl noticed her looking and smiled back at her. Mona blushed and looked away, and was glad when the assistant reappeared.