Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Michael Meston.’

  Fatboy shrugged. ‘Don’t know anybody called Meston. Now fuck off.’

  Willie scratched his shaven head.

  ‘I said…’ Fatboy curled his hands into fists. The lad jumped back several paces. ‘Fuck off.’

  From his safe distance, Willie stood for a moment, deliberating, then he cocked his head to one side.

  ‘Mad Mike?’ he ventured.

  ‘Mad Mike?’ Fatboy laughed. ‘Why didn’t you fucking say that in the first place?’ The boy laughed too, but uncertainly.

  Fatboy wiped the grin from his face. ‘Where is your da, then? He’s fucking late.’

  ‘That’s what…’

  ‘Come over here, where I can hear you.’ Willie stayed put. ‘I said…come here.’ Fatboy’s arm snaked out. He yanked Willie towards him. ‘Now tell me where your dad is.’

  Willie gulped a breath. ‘He’s in the jail.’

  ‘What jail?’

  ‘Peterhead.’

  ‘Since when?’

  ‘Last week.’

  ‘What for?’ Fatboy’s mouth was set in a grim line. ‘No. Never mind what for.’

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  What the shite was he going to do now? He had a stash of stuff to shift, a load of punters waiting in line, and no effing runner. He clenched his teeth. Fuck Mike Meston, if that really was his name. The knob-head must have known he was about to be banged up. Hadn’t breathed a word. And now the fucker was in jail. Fatboy wondered if you could still do a trade or two with the new HMP Grampian. Just as quickly he dismissed the thought. It was someone with a lot more muscle than him that was sending packages over that particular wall.

  Fatboy folded his arms across his chest. He’d need to have a re-think. And fast. He looked down. The kid was still standing there like a spare prick.

  ‘Well,’ Fatboy eyed Willie, ‘now you’ve done what you came for, you can bugger off.’

  The boy didn’t budge.

  ‘I said,’ there was menace now in Fatboy’s voice, ‘fuck off.’

  ‘Ma da says…’

  ‘I don’t want to hear what your dad says,’ Fatboy hissed. ‘That’s me and him finished, d’you hear? The next time you speak to him…’ a smirk creased his face, ‘whenever that’s likely to be, you can tell him that from me.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘And when he gets out of Peterhead, he’d better not come looking – you can tell him that, too. Otherwise that’ll be another face your mammy won’t recognise.’

  Willie half-turned. He looked back over his shoulder. ‘Ma da telt me…’

  Fatboy started forward. ‘Fuck off, ya wee bastard.’

  ‘You again?’ The voice came out of nowhere. ‘Did ah no tell ye no tae show yer face here?’

  ‘I was just…’ Fatboy eyed the man sideways. Didn’t dare meet his gaze.

  ‘Or ye mebbe fancy yer chances?’

  ‘N-n-n-no,’ Fatboy stuttered. Wildly, he cast around. The charity shop facades looked hostile, all of a sudden. On the cobbled expanse of the Castlegate there was hardly a soul to be seen.

  ‘Well?’ The man came up close, thrust a scarred face into Fatboy’s own. ‘What are ye sayin?’

  ‘I was just…meeting my…’ his brain churned, ‘wee brother.’

  ‘Wee brother, is it?’ the man leered.

  ‘Y-yes.’ Fatboy swallowed a mouthful of air. ‘Willie?’ he shouted at the receding figure. And again, ‘Willie?’

  Willie turned.

  The man backed off a fraction.

  Fatboy made a run for it. He grasped the boy by the sleeve. ‘You wouldn’t like to do a few wee jobs for me?’

  ‘What kind of jobs?’

  ‘Oh,’ Fatboy improvised, ‘bit of this, bit of that.’

  ‘No way,’ Willie shook himself free. ‘End up in Peterhead like ma da?’ He swivelled on his heel. Marched off down Justice Street.

  ‘Hang on,’ Fatboy kept pace. ‘It’s nothing heavy. Honest.’

  Willie shrugged. ‘Forget it.’

  ‘You’d be covering your dad’s back.’

  For a moment, the boy hesitated.

  ‘Keeping his bed warm, so to speak. I might even…’ Fatboy played for time, ‘reconsider my position. If you agree, that is.’

  ‘Ye mean take him back on?’ Willie’s eyes were out on his sunken cheeks.

  Fatboy almost felt sorry for him. A whore in all likelihood for a mother, and that wee runt of a father banged up in jail. ‘What are you saying, then?’

  ‘When would ah be needin tae…’

  ‘We can talk about that later. Got a mobile on you?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Give me your number.’ Willie pulled a phone from his pocket, flashed it at Fatboy.

  Fatboy thumbed his own. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Willie legged it down the street.

  Fatboy watched as he vanished round a corner.

  He grinned. Maybe his morning wouldn’t be wasted after all.

  Something to Tell You

  Kirsty lay stretched out on the settee. ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Maggie was curled up in George’s big chair. She turned her head away. Burrowed her nose in the soft fabric, trying to summon some sense of him.

  ‘Have you seen him? Dad, I mean?’

  Maggie turned back. ‘This morning. In the mortuary.’

  ‘Couldn’t you have waited? I’d have come with you.’

  ‘Thanks, pet,’ Maggie summoned a smile, ‘but the police needed me there first thing.’

  Stricken face. ‘You didn’t go there on your own, did you?’

  ‘No. I begged a lift off Wilma next door.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘What d’you mean “her”?’

  ‘Well, she’s not exactly…’

  ‘Don’t be so quick to judge. You hardly know the woman.’

  Kirsty’s lip jutted. ‘Neither do you.’

  From beneath lowered lids, Maggie gazed across at her daughter. Kirsty looked a bit peaky, she thought. There were violet shadows under the girl’s eyes, a scatter of pimples on her cheeks. I wonder if she’s eating well enough, was Maggie’s first thought.

  Kirsty sat up. ‘Where’s the car, anyway?’

  ‘In the garage.’ Maggie made a face. ‘Failed its MOT.’

  ‘And Colin, where’s he?’

  ‘Round at a friend’s house. They’re going to feed him and drop him back after tea.’

  ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘In shock, I suppose. A bit like me.’

  ‘Me too. I couldn’t take it in when they told me. It happened at Dad’s office, did you say?’

  ‘That’s right. A heart attack, they reckon.’

  ‘But that doesn’t have to kill you, Mum, not these days. A girl in my class at school, her dad got one of those pacemakers and…’

  ‘I haven’t got the details, pet, but I gather there was nobody around and it sounds like the ambulance crew weren’t in time.’

  ‘But, Mum,’ Kirsty protested, ‘that’s so unfair.

  ‘I know, pet. All we can be thankful for is that your dad didn’t suffer.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Kirsty was sobbing now. ‘He was all alone in that office. Without anybody to help. Hold his hand, even.’

  Maggie crossed to comfort her daughter. ‘It’s hard, but life can turn in an instant. Your dad saw that in his job. It’s just…you never think it will happen to you.’ She could scarcely believe that the God she’d put her trust in all her life had struck her husband down with such casual cruelty.

  The two sat for some moments in a close embrace, then Kirsty broke free.

  ‘What
about the funeral? Do you know when that’s going to be?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ll have to ring the undertaker. Make an appointment. A solicitor, too.’ Maggie ran a distracted hand through her hair. ‘Just as well your dad made a will when we took out the mortgage. Then there’s his savings plan. That will ease things a bit.’

  Kirsty scrubbed the tears from her face. ‘Maybe I could help with some of that?’

  ‘Will you, pet? That would be a Godsend. Tell you what would help – why don’t you fish the deed box out of the sideboard and we can sort through the papers together? Give us something to occupy our minds till your brother gets back.’

  x

  ‘Hi.’ Colin came in the back door, slunk through the kitchen, headed down the hall.

  ‘Colin?’ Maggie’s head whipped round. She and Kirsty were sitting at the dining table, a couple of empty mugs and a sprawl of papers between them.

  He turned. ‘What?’

  ‘Are you alright?’

  Small shrug.

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Can I get you anything? Cup of tea? Glass of milk?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ His back receded down the hallway.

  ‘Do you think I should go up?’ Maggie fretted.

  ‘No, Mum. Leave him. The last thing Col needs right now is to be fussed over.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘And tomorrow, if I can get the lazy sod out of his bed, we’ll both be able to give you a hand.’

  ‘Thanks, pet,’ Maggie smothered a yawn. She rose from the table. ‘I’m worn out. You must be too. Why don’t you get changed into your jammies? I’ll make you a snack before you turn in.’

  Kirsty got to her feet. ‘I couldn’t eat anything. You head for bed. I’ll nip up and check on Colin.’

  ‘Would you? That will put my mind at rest.’

  x

  Maggie turned the key in the back door. She thought at once of George. Her husband was such a stickler for safety. She crossed the hall to the ground-floor bedroom they’d shared. As the door closed behind her, George’s dressing gown swung on its hook, silent and empty. She fingered the soft towelling, then leaned to bury her face in its depths. The robe smelled of spice: aftershave, deodorant, some sort of man smell. Swiftly she let go, stripped off her clothes, pulled her nightie over her head.

  She walked through to the bathroom and bent to the basin to splash her face. As she straightened, Maggie caught her reflection in the bathroom cabinet. A spectre stared back at her, the halo of red curls only serving to accentuate her pallor, green eyes huge in a drawn face. And that left pupil, floating in the outside corner of her eye socket. It did that sometimes when she was stressed. The impediment had bugged her since her early teens. Skelly, the kids called her at school. A lazy eye, the GP pronounced. Be content with what God gave you, she could hear her mother’s voice, even now. Meeting Maggie for the first time, folk didn’t know where to look. Would zero in on one eye, then the other, then quickly glance away. Hadn’t she encountered it that very day: the split second’s hesitation on Chisolm’s face? The fellow had covered it well, but she’d caught it, that quizzical look.

  She opened the cabinet and reached for the toothpaste. George’s razor, his toothbrush and dental floss stood in an orderly row. And a bottle of Grecian 2000. She’d bought it before he went for that last interview. Maggie slammed the cabinet shut.

  Back in the bedroom, the double bed they’d shared looked vast, all of a sudden. She turned back the covers and crept underneath. The sheets were cold, colder than ever she remembered. George’s pillow, where his dark head should have nestled, sat plump and unyielding. In that moment Maggie saw once again the mortuary gurney; felt once more her husband’s body, cold and unyielding beneath her own.

  She screwed her eyes shut and turned away, saying a silent prayer that sleep would swallow her. But sleep wouldn’t come. Restless, she rolled over onto her back. Adjusted her limbs this way and that. Flexed her fingers, wiggled her toes, willing herself to drift from consciousness. Then, still wide awake, she replayed in her head the night her orderly life started to fall apart.

  George had just got into bed, when,

  I’ve something to tell you, Maggie. You know that big drugs case I was telling you about?

  What of it?

  Well, the Procurator Fiscal reckoned we had it sewn up, but that wee runt Brannigan has got himself some smart-ass defence counsel from Glasgow. He’s already insinuating Jimmy offered inducements to the informant.

  But, George, don’t you think you’d be the first person to know if your partner was up to something?

  That’s what I thought. But since Louis Valentine started on him, I don’t know what to think. That guy could make anyone believe their old granny was Gina bloody Lollobrigida. And you know our Jimmy. Sails close to the wind.

  That’s as may be, but everybody knows you’re straight as a die.

  They did, but that was before that devious little bastard Valentine got on the Aberdeen train. I’m worried that if he manages to take Jimmy down, he’ll drag me into it.

  And that was just the beginning. Her mind churned with conflicting images: the trial, the fallout, the agonising wait. Then the formal letter of suspension. And afterwards, the sleepless nights, the violent rows, George’s ultimate resignation.

  She tried to think straight. How would they manage for money? Maggie ran through the long list of outgoings: mortgage payments, energy bills, insurances, school fees, uniform, books, Kirsty’s uni accommodation. There were scant few assets: the joint bank account she’d held with George, her own savings account, with what was left from her last salary cheque. And the house. It was safe, surely. After that month’s mortgage payment, the residual funds should tide them over for a few weeks. Except…there would be a funeral to pay for. Clammy beads of sweat prickled her brow. She’d no idea how much that was going to cost. She resolved to write to their mortgage provider, try to buy herself some time.

  For a long time Maggie lay, too exhausted for sleep, too drained to contemplate anything but the void inside her. In desperation, she threw back the bed covers and swung her feet onto the floor. She crossed to the linen basket that sat in a corner by the window, stooped to fish out one of George’s soiled shirts and held it to her face. For some minutes she stood, savouring – still – some sense of him. Then she shrugged into the sleeves, wrapped the shirt tight around her and slipped back into bed.

  A Miscarriage of Justice

  ‘I’m glad you rang, Maggie,’ Brian Burnett shifted in his seat. They were in her front room, a tray with a china teapot, two rose-sprigged cups and saucers and a plate of shortbread on the coffee table between them. ‘I’d have called round sooner, only I’ve been away on a course.’

  ‘For nine months?’ she shot back.

  ‘No,’ a flush rose in Brian’s face. ‘I…’

  ‘Forget it.’

  ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t have been there when…’

  She cut him short. ‘I phoned Alec Gourlay the minute I heard. He came in. It was your new DI did the honours – met me at Force Reception, took me downstairs, saw to my statement. Chisolm wanted to take me upstairs afterwards for a chat. But I was having none of it.’ Her lip curled. ‘He’d have been briefed on the background. Thought he was dealing with a bent copper. No way was I going anywhere near those bastards on the fifth floor.’

  ‘Wouldn’t blame you.’

  ‘What I don’t understand is why you haven’t been in touch. All these months and not a word, not a phone call.’

  ‘It wasn’t on my part,’ Brian looked at his feet. ‘It was George. After that stuff blew up, he wouldn’t answer my calls.’ He raised his head. ‘To tell the truth, Maggie, he’s been avoiding me for months.’

  Her face flushed. ‘That comes as a surprise. I thought it was you had back
ed off. You’ll know the trial collapsed.’

  ‘Of course.’ Brian had first-hand experience of the repercussions. Weren’t the shockwaves still reverberating round Force HQ?

  Maggie grimaced. ‘Forgot you had a front-row seat.’

  ‘Never got the whole story, mind you. Queen Street was awash with rumours, most of them manufactured. What I do know is the defence shot holes in our case.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why. The informant was a guy called Bobby Brannigan. Lied his head off in the witness box. Alleged both George and Jimmy offered inducements. Then Valentine demanded more papers. There was an interview and, according to George, the recording was stopped halfway through. Brannigan admitted his guilt shortly after.’

  ‘Who stopped the tape?’

  She brushed the tears away. ‘George wouldn’t say.’

  ‘So it could have been either of them.’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘But surely George would have said if it wasn’t him?’

  ‘I doubt it. Loyal to the last,’ Maggie gave a hopeless shrug. ‘Anyhow, I don’t know the facts. And now,’ her chin wobbled. ‘I never will.’

  ‘Well, Jimmy Craigmyle might have sailed close to the wind, but George was as sound a guy as I’ve ever known.’

  ‘Didn’t help him, did it?’ she spat. ‘After the trial collapsed, the powers that be decided to disband the entire unit.’ A clean sweep…necessary to restore public confidence in the police service. The words rankled still.

  ‘Bloody politics. Wouldn’t have happened if the press hadn’t got their teeth into it.’

  ‘What I never understood,’ her brow creased into a frown, ‘is why Craigmyle and George were singled out when the rest of them got away with a transfer?’

  Brian wondered how much to let on. There had been a major miscarriage of justice, no two ways about it: a knee-jerk reaction from the fifth floor in the face of a barrage of bad press.

  ‘That’s the way it works,’ he responded. ‘The case rested on their evidence. They were partners, the pair of them.’

  ‘I guess. Anyhow, you’ll know the rest.’

  ‘What I don’t get,’ he mused, ‘is why George didn’t appeal? That’s not like him. He was a stubborn git.’