Dead Won't Sleep

by Anna Smith

  She felt the tears coming on again. TJ came and knelt beside her.

  ‘It’s okay, Rosie. Just let it go.’ He stroked her hair.

  She went on. The day it all happened, Rosie had walked home from school in her usual slow way, stopping to look in some of the shop windows and sitting for a while on a wooden seat at the bus stop. She liked watching people and wondered what their lives were like.

  She walked up the steps of the tenement to the top flat where they lived. She could hear music coming through the door. She hoped her mother wasn’t drunk, just happy, so they could sit together after dinner and talk. She pushed the door open, and was about to shout hallo to her mum that she was home, when she looked up and saw her. It was her feet. In mid-air. She was swinging from the ceiling. For a second Rosie felt the room sway, and she fell against the wall. There was a rope around her mother’s neck and her face was blue. It had this shocked expression. And bulging eyes. Then the phone rang. It rang and rang. But she couldn’t look away from her mother hanging there, wearing the fur slippers Rosie had bought her for Christmas from the nearly-new stall at the Church jumble sale. She loved the slippers.

  Rosie was crying now.

  ‘The next thing I remember,’ she said through sobs, ‘is Mary McGarvie from next door and her husband Danny coming in through the open door and shouting Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Then there were other neighbours. And the police. The McGarvies took me to their house.’

  She swallowed, composing herself.

  ‘And then . . . and then someone in a blue uniform came into the McGarvies and took me away. They told me my mother was dead now. I was an orphan.’ Rosie’s lip trembled. ‘I used to hear people in the close whisper the word orphan, and I was ashamed because I was one now, with nobody else in the whole world.’

  It was the first time since she was nine years old that Rosie had spoken about that day. For nearly twenty-eight years she had woken up at least twice a month with that memory of her mother’s suicide, and the phone always ringing in her dream.

  ‘You know, TJ,’ Rosie said, ‘there were times in my life when I was mad at my mother for giving up and leaving me like that, all alone. But I suppose I grew to understand how sad her life must have been. How terrible it must be to have no hope. Maybe that’s why I never give up on anything.’

  Rosie told him she’d never got to the funeral because she was in the children’s home, and to this day she had no idea where her mum was buried.

  ‘So there you have it. Or most of it. So you see, TJ, if you thought I was off my head, then you’re absolutely right. Now you know why, or partly why.’ She looked at him. ‘I can’t find peace anywhere in my life. That’s why I got annoyed the other day in the cafe when you said that I fill my life with work so I don’t have to look at myself. You touched a raw nerve.’

  ‘Sorry,’ TJ said, coming over beside her with a big bath towel. ‘I’m sorry, Rosie. I didn’t know things had been this bad for you. I knew there was stuff somewhere, it’s in your eyes. But I had no idea. I’m sorry. Come on.’ He held open the bath towel and Rosie got out of the water. He wrapped the towel around her and dried her body, gently rubbing her back and hair, then her legs, kneeling down, drying her feet. Rosie stood, allowing him to dry her as if she was a child.

  ‘Come on. Let’s go in and relax in front of the fire.’ TJ gave her his bath robe and tied it around her waist.

  Rosie smiled and, putting her arms around him, kissed him on the lips.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The bar was heaving for one of the biggest farewell parties the Post had seen in a long time. Dan Divers, the legendary features writer, had taken a deal and was off to write his memoirs on some little Greek island with his latest girlfriend. An hour earlier, Dan had taken the long walk across the editorial floor for the last time, to the traditional banging-out ceremony reserved for only the most respected newspaper figures. There were misty eyes amid the thunderous applause as he turned and bowed, before walking through the revolving doors.

  Now he was holding court at Blacks, the notorious journo watering hole within spitting distance of the office. It was there that journalistic legends were built up or torn down; it just depended on who was wielding the knife at the time. Everyone who was anyone was there for Divers’ send-off. Journalists, photographers, management, telesales and, of course, the printers, plus the usual collection of lawyers and detectives that you found at any newspaper party.

  Divers was one of the last great characters who could tell stories of a golden era when journalists partied as hard as they worked. Blacks was where they took refuge in hard drinking and black humour. Down the years, many had paid the price, and newspapers were littered with alcoholic casualties. But Divers lived to tell the tale. Here he was in sparkling form, a Guinness in his hand and a growing line of whiskies on the bar. He would deal with all of them before the night was through.

  In mid-sentence, he stopped and winked when he saw Rosie squeezing through the crowd.

  ‘Ah the beautiful Rosie,’ he said with a theatrical flurry. ‘The delightful Rose among so many hairy-arsed thorns. Come here, sweetheart, till I kiss you full on the bare lips.’ He planted a wet kiss as promised, almost hugging the life out of her.

  ‘You know something?’ He turned to the half dozen people around him. ‘I love this woman so much there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. If only she’d have me.’ He kissed Rosie again and everyone laughed.

  ‘I don’t know why she wouldn’t have you, Div,’ somebody shouted. ‘Sure everyone else has.’

  ‘This woman . . .’ Divers was already half drunk, but Rosie knew he would still be the last man standing by the end of the night. ‘This woman is the best journalist I’ve ever known. Bar none. And you know what? I taught her everything she knows.’

  Rosie laughed. He ordered her a gin and tonic and they clinked glasses.

  ‘All the very best, Div.’ Rosie kissed his cheek. ‘I’ll miss you more than you’ll ever know. Nobody did more for me than you.’

  Divers had a special place in her heart. When she had started out at the Post, it was Divers who took her under his wing as she punched above her weight to survive as a young female reporter among so many macho personalities. It was Divers who was there when her heart was broken. And it was he who had pushed her career by using his considerable clout among the editors to suggest she be allowed to prove herself. Now and again, they would have a boozy lunch together and Rosie would sit spellbound listening to Divers’ stories.

  Now he leaned towards his protégée and whispered in her ear.

  ‘It’s time to get out, Rosie. I can see it in your eyes, darling. You’re burning out and none of these fuckers is worth it. Nothing is.’

  Rosie looked at him and didn’t answer.

  ‘I know you’re on a big one just now.’ He studied her face. ‘I know it’s a secret, and I don’t even want to know what it is, but who’s going to give a shite about it two days later? Time to go and lead your own life.’

  Rosie sighed. She didn’t want to have this conversation. Not tonight. She gave him a look that brushed it away.

  ‘Just don’t leave it too late,’ Divers whispered. Then he put his arm around her and pulled her close. ‘And something else, Rosie, sweetheart. This story you’re on? Watch that bastard Reynolds. He’s sneaking about like the polecat he is, trying to find out what you’re doing, so I’d guess it must be something that will upset his Freemason pals at the polis. Luckily, he can’t find his arse in the dark, but just watch your back, darlin’.’

  Rosie said nothing. Much as she loved Divers, she was glad when someone else threw their arms around him and dragged him away from her.

  She looked around the bar. The younger reporters were grouped in the corner, and looked as though they were already coked up. They nipped in and out of the toilet, coming out like they could conquer the world. Cocaine was everywhere these days, from the editorial floors to the boardroom, and no self-respecting dinner par
ty was complete without the host bringing out the Peruvian marching powder with the after-dinner mints. It wasn’t Rosie’s bag at all. She had tried it, once with a trusted journalist friend then, just to make sure, she tried it again. She decided that anything that made you feel that good had to end in tears, and should be avoided like the plague.

  The hacks waved her over. She waved back, but she had no intention of joining them. Annie Dawson was among them, giggling and happy. Too happy, Rosie thought. She hoped Annie hadn’t slipped into the coke habit and made a mental note to watch for telltale signs.

  She turned and joined a group of feature writers and advertising girls who were already three sheets to the wind. Jimmy Kavanagh, the oily show business reporter, was running true to form, talking about sex. It was all he ever did. But he talked about his conquests so much that people stopped believing him, and he was becoming a figure of fun.

  ‘I’m telling you,’ he said to the group. ‘These pills I got from this guy. Not Viagra, but something like it. They’re unbelievable. I’m at it four times a day. I’m shagged out.’

  ‘Just think how knackered you’d be if there was somebody with you,’ Rosie said to loud guffaws.

  ‘Aye, very funny, Gilmour,’ Kavanagh said. ‘Hey. What would you say to a wee shag?’ He slid his arm around her waist.

  ‘Hallo, wee shag.’

  He turned to one of the advertising girls. ‘You just ask your pal about me. They all know me, the girls upstairs.’ He winked. ‘Some better than others.’

  The advertising girl sniggered and said, ‘I did. Betty Reilly talks about your manhood all the time.’

  The girl knocked her drink back and slammed the glass on the bar. ‘She said it was like a penis. Only smaller.’ The group erupted in giggles.

  ‘Aw fuck off. You deadbeats are just jealous.’ He walked off and joined another group.

  Rosie was on her third drink and feeling good. The pub was filling up with the night-shift subs and back-bench editors, now that the newspaper had been put to bed. McGuire put in an appearance. He always did at these parties, but never stayed too long. He handed over a wad of notes to the barmaid to give everyone a drink. On the way past Rosie he touched her shoulder and said to join him for a quick drink.

  She reminded herself to have only one more gin. She couldn’t cope with a hangover on top of everything else. She felt someone’s arms go around her from behind.

  ‘Hi, Rosie.’ It was Matt Harper. He was already half drunk. ‘Why don’t you take me home and ride me till the environmental health comes and drags you off.’

  ‘It’s finding the time, Matt,’ Rosie laughed, kissing him on the cheek. ‘I’m just so busy.’ She ran her hand through his curly hair and whispered. ‘Hey, Matt. Thanks for the disc with the pictures. It’ll be some stuff if we can get it to work. I’m up to my eyes with that, and another story as well.’

  ‘I can’t get it out of my mind,’ Matt said. ‘Those wee kids. If we can get these pictures in the paper it will be the most important job I’ve ever done.’ Rosie hoped he wasn’t drunk enough to start running off at the mouth. Reynolds was hovering in the background, along with two guys who looked like coppers out noseying around.

  ‘Listen, Matt. The most important thing just now is to keep your head. All of this might take some time so we’ve got to be patient. Keeping everything really tight is the most important thing. If any of this gets out before the time is right we can just forget it. Okay?’

  ‘You’re the boss, darling.’ Matt gave her the thumbs up and moved on as a young telesales girl put her arms around him.

  Rosie moved to cross the room to speak to the editor, when Reynolds grabbed hold of her arm.

  ‘Rosie, I want you to meet a couple of guys.’

  She went towards the two short-haired guys. They were wearing double-breasted suits, the uniform of every copper who was trying his best not to look like a copper.

  Reynolds introduced her to both men. One was a DS, and the other a DI. They made small talk and chatted about an upcoming court case that both were involved in. Then they were making jokes about how important it was to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth in the witness box.

  ‘I’ve never met a copper yet who could lie straight in his bed.’ Rosie couldn’t resist the dig.

  The cops laughed, but the DI didn’t look happy.

  ‘Of course. You’re the reporter who never gives us guys a minute’s peace.’

  ‘Me? Not at all. As far as I’m concerned, all cops are honest and true upstanding figures. Where would we be without them?’ She looked the DI straight in the face. He glared at her.

  ‘I’ve got to have a word with the editor,’ Rosie said, turning away. ‘Excuse me, gents. Nice meeting you.’ She smiled at the DI. ‘Enjoy yourselves, guys. The disco’s due to start. Reynolds here was the Hucklebuck champion in 1967.’ She could feel Reynolds’s eyes on her back as she walked away.

  McGuire was drinking a pint with one of his assistant editors when Rosie made her way across. He excused himself and took her to one side. He bought her a drink and another for himself.

  ‘So how’s it going? How’re we doing on the cops story?’

  ‘Well, you’ve seen the picture and the suicide note. I’m ready when you are, Mick.’

  Rosie hadn’t told him about the men who chased her, or the stabbing. She would keep that one for her memoirs. She looked at McGuire. ‘It’s pretty much up to you now, Mick, I can start writing it up any time you want. There’s a lot of stuff. We could run it over two, maybe three days. The rest of the papers will be into it as well. Especially Prentice’s confession about the guys who got framed – the fit-ups.’

  McGuire beamed. ‘I haven’t even run it past the lawyers yet. I’m not going to until I see the copy. Then, of course, you’ve got to go knocking on Gavin Fox’s door. I’d love to be a fly on the wall for that caper.’

  ‘What about the paedo ring? Lord Dawson and the rest?’ She watched as McGuire’s mood seemed to change.

  ‘That will be the hardest one. Honestly, Rosie.’

  ‘But we’ve got him actually taking pictures of kids from a children’s home.’ Rosie sensed he was beginning to buckle already.

  ‘I know, I know, but we have to be very careful with this one. Ultra careful. This is a High Court judge, and one or two more of the guys in that room may also be top people.’

  ‘So fucking what?’

  ‘Just calm it, Gilmour.’ His voice was soft. ‘We’re not there on that story yet. Okay? We’ve got the pictures, but we need more. I don’t want to be the editor who has to go to Lord Dawson with this unless it’s absolutely one hundred per cent.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t want to go to him with this at all.’ Rosie knew she was pushing it. ‘Tell you what. I’ll be happy to knock at his door, any time at all.’

  McGuire raised his eyebrows. ‘I know, Gilmour. Look – let’s just get this cop story in the bag and we’ll take things one at a time.’

  ‘We have to get the paedo stuff in the paper, Mick. We can’t betray these kids.’

  ‘I know. But just remember one thing, Rosie. We’ll get fucking hammered when they find out how you got this information. How you were acting unlawfully by interviewing minors. You could be the one in the pokey. And me.’

  ‘You just say you didn’t know anything about it,’ Rosie said.

  He laughed. ‘Oh don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll be the one standing in the witness box saying, I know of no Rosie Gilmour, nor what she does.’

  McGuire slapped her on the back and went to the bar to order more drinks. Rosie watched him. Still, deep down, she wondered what would really happen if the chips were down.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  For nearly three hours Rosie and Matt had watched caretaker Paddy Quigley go from pub to pub. They’d sat outside the children’s home since early that evening, waiting for him to finish his shift so they could see where he went. Earlier in the afternoon Rosie and McGuire had
put their heads together and decided their best option to get to the paedophile story was to intimidate the caretaker by telling him they knew enough to incriminate him, and that he would be the one who’d be facing jail for what he’d done. Chances were he would crumble and spill the beans to protect his own skin. It was a risky strategy – if a guy was prepared to take children from a home and offer them to paedophiles, he wasn’t big on integrity. McGuire and Rosie knew that this could blow the whole story out of the water and they could be left with nothing. Rosie told Mick she would go with her gut instinct and make a decision once she’d figured what kind of guy the janitor was.

  Quigley had been in the first bar for a while before Matt went in for a drink in order to eyeball him. The man was at the bar alone, drinking a pint with straight whisky chasers. He had three in twenty minutes. When he came out of the second bar, he was unsteady on his feet. He stopped outside and lit a cigarette, then spat on the pavement and made his way to a small bar on the corner of the street. It was one of the roughest bars in the East End of Glasgow.

  Rosie remembered the bar from her childhood, as the place where her mother sometimes went on a Saturday afternoon for the sing-along. Sometimes Rosie would stand outside with a bag of chips, waiting for her to come out, watching the door in the hope that the next person to leave would be her mother. Even if she was staggering, it wouldn’t matter, just as long as she came home. The smell of stale beer, tobacco and dampness that hit her every time the door swung open, had stayed with Rosie all her life. She could smell it even now, sitting in the car with the windows closed.

  ‘That’s a shithole of a pub,’ she said.

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was a place the likes of yourself would hang out,’ Matt replied.

  ‘No.’ Rosie looked out of out of the side window. ‘But I remember it from years ago. I lived around here a long time ago, Matt. A lifetime ago . . .’ Her voice trailed off.