Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘How can I? That’s what I’m asking myself.’

  ‘What’s stopping you? If it’s the money, I could…’

  ‘It’s not the money. I’ve a wee bit saved.’

  ‘What, then?’

  ‘It’s…Maggie Laird’s that well-educated, compared to me,’ Wilma groaned. ‘Makes me feel ignorant, the things she knows.’

  ‘Well, look at you, the experience you’ve had.’

  ‘Is that what you’d call it? Slopping out behind a bar, cleaning other folk’s houses, emptying bedpans at Foresterhill?’

  Ian laid a hand on her arm. ‘It’s all grist to the mill, Wilma. Look at the people you’ve had to deal with.’

  She hooted. ‘Drunks?’

  ‘Not just drunks. You’d have to have social skills to manage all those patients in the hospital.’

  ‘Dirty old men, d’you mean, flashing their willies at the old dears?’

  ‘No. I mean people who are seriously ill, terminal, even. Their families, too. They all need delicate handling. And you’re so caring, pet. Big-hearted. You can’t deny that.’

  ‘I guess.’ Grudging voice.

  ‘And the stuff you know: weights and measures, stocktaking, all those numbers…’

  Wilma knitted her brow. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Plus you have loads of drive. Self-confidence. You couldn’t say you were exactly…’ Ian chose his words with care, ‘backwards in coming forwards.’

  Wilma chuckled. ‘That’s true.’

  ‘You’ll be able to put all that to good use, you know, if you make a go of this detective thing.’

  She bristled. ‘What d’you mean thing?’

  ‘Och, Wilma…’ Ian was exasperated now. ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’ He yawned again. ‘Can I go back to sleep now?’

  ‘No.’ Petulant voice.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘What was that again?’ Puzzled look.

  ‘Do you think I’m fat?’

  He sighed. ‘No, of course I don’t think you’re fat. I think you’re beautiful.’

  ‘Beautiful?’ Wilma’s voice was filled with disbelief. ‘You don’t think I need to lose weight?’

  ‘Don’t you dare. A fella needs a bit of flesh to hang onto.’

  She hoiked up her nightie. ‘Not this much.’

  ‘Listen…’ Ian leaned over her. ‘I love you, ya daft quine.’ And he buried his face in the folds of her belly.

  Playing Hooky

  ‘Where have you been?’ Maggie whirled from the sink when she heard the sound of the back door.

  ‘Nowhere.’ Colin slunk in sideways, his back to her.

  ‘What d’you mean “nowhere”?’ Her voice rose. ‘Have you any idea what time it is? I’ve been worried sick.’

  There was a muttered response.

  ‘And turn round so I can hear what you’re saying to me.’

  The boy shifted from one foot to the other. Dropped one shoulder. Swivelled slightly, chin on chest.

  ‘What’s that on your face?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Maggie grabbed hold of her son’s chin and yanked his face round towards her. She let out an involuntary gasp. A bloodied gash ran from Colin’s left eyebrow up into his hairline. ‘Oh, Col,’ she reached up to gently brush the hair from his eyes. ‘What on earth have you been up to?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The boy looked away.

  She gazed into his young face. ‘It can’t have been nothing to leave you with an eye like that.’

  Her son’s mouth set in a stubborn line. Colin looked so like his father when he made that face.

  Maggie took a deep breath. ‘I want to know where you got that cut on your head.’

  Colin shuffled his feet. ‘Can’t tell you.’

  ‘You listen to me, Colin Laird, you’ll tell me if we have to stand here all night.’

  He studied the fingernails of one hand. Picked at a cuticle.

  ‘Well? I asked you a question.’

  Her son lifted his chin. ‘Seaton Park.’

  ‘But that’s miles from school. What on earth were you doing down that end of town?’

  ‘Hanging out.’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Other schoolkids. Students too. Didn’t want to get caught uptown playing hooky.’

  ‘And how often have you been “playing hooky”, tell me?’

  ‘Once or twice.’

  ‘Right. So if I go to your guidance teacher and ask to see your attendance record…’

  ‘A few times.’ A flush crept up her son’s neck.

  ‘If that’s the case, why hasn’t the school been in touch?’

  Colin tugged at the ragged cuticle until he drew blood. ‘I put in sick notes,’ he muttered.

  ‘You have to be kidding me, Col,’ Maggie cast her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘This is an important year for you, I thought you understood that. And your school fees…’ Swiftly, she checked herself.

  The boy’s eyes welled up. Fat tears spilled over and began to course down his cheeks.

  Maggie spread her arms wide. ‘There…’ She clasped him to her breast. ‘There.’

  Her son was sobbing now. Maggie’s heart ached. Colin might be a man, almost. She could feel the breadth of his shoulders, the muscles in his upper arms. But his forearms still bore a soft coating of down. She hugged him close, sensing the shudders run through his upper body, smelling the sharp tang of aftershave, feeling the brush of his soft hair on her neck and chin. With a sharp stab of nostalgia, she recalled the many times since Colin had been a tiny baby that she’d comforted him this way.

  It was a good five minutes before his sobs subsided. Tenderly, Maggie wiped her son’s tear-stained cheeks. ‘I’m not angry with you, Col,’ she began. ‘I’m more concerned, really. If you’ve been skipping school for days on end, there must be a reason. A serious reason. And you didn’t get that crack on the head just wandering around Seaton Park, now, did you?’

  He turned away.

  ‘You can tell your mum, you know,’ she pressed on. ‘We’ve all been young. Got ourselves in a bit of bother.’

  He wheeled to face her, his eyes bright with anger. ‘Is that what you’d call it, the shit we’re in?’

  ‘I don’t want to hear you use that sort of language, Colin Laird.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ his shoulders slumped. ‘I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.’

  ‘Then take a deep breath and tell me. Right from the beginning.’

  ‘It’s about Dad. Ever since they ran those stories in the P & J – the ones about the drugs bust – I’ve been getting into fights at school.’

  Maggie gave her son’s hand a squeeze, ‘But, Colin, that was all over months ago.’

  ‘I know. Except there’s this bunch of neds. Only they don’t want to be there. They’re just putting in time till they can leave. I’ve been getting a bit of aggro.’

  ‘And that’s why you’ve been missing school?’

  He nodded.

  She closed her eyes. Kirsty had looked so vulnerable when she set off back to Dundee. Maggie could still picture the ugly line of weals up and down her daughter’s arms. And now this with Colin. She experienced a rush of guilt. She’d been concentrating her energies on George. Looking back, Maggie saw she hadn’t involved her children enough, hadn’t allowed them to share in the family’s dilemma. And now…the reality of the situation hit her with brutal force: not only was her husband dead, her family – the family she’d nurtured and cherished – was shattered.

  She blinked her eyes open. ‘Isn’t there someone you could speak to? Your guidance teacher, perhaps?’

  ‘No,’ her son’s voice was vehement. ‘I couldn’t clipe, Mum. That
would only make it worse.’

  ‘What about your pals – don’t they stick up for you?’

  Colin shrugged. ‘They do their best, but they can’t be around the whole time.’

  ‘Why don’t I run you to school for the next week or two, see if that makes a difference?’ Maggie regretted now her decision to send Colin back so soon after his father’s death.

  ‘No way, Mum,’ Colin’s face was aghast.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t want to look like a sissy, that’s why.’

  ‘A sissy? The size of you? Don’t be daft.’

  ‘I’m not being daft.’ That look of George again.

  ‘Fair enough,’ she allowed. ‘But make no mistake, I’m going to sort this nonsense out.’

  Get Creative

  ‘You’re down again,’ Fatboy riffled through the roll of notes.

  Willie fixed his eyes on the wet pavement.

  Fatboy yanked up the boy’s chin. ‘Look at me when I’m speaking to you.’

  The lad looked up, but didn’t meet his eyes.

  ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself?’

  Silence.

  ‘I said…’ Fatboy squeezed.

  Willie’s eyes rolled round in his head. ‘It’s no ma fault.’

  ‘Whose fault is it, then?’ Fatboy squeezed harder.

  Willie wriggled free. ‘Fuckin filth.’

  Fatboy deliberated for a few moments, then, ‘It’s all down to the filth now, is it?’

  Willie nodded.

  ‘One day it’s Paypoint,’ Fatboy’s voice dropped to a growl, ‘the next it’s something else.’

  Willie shrugged. ‘Canna help it.’

  ‘Then how come you’ve never been down till now?’

  The boy shrugged again. ‘Dunno.’

  Fatboy’s eyes narrowed. ‘You wouldn’t be up to anything, would you, Willie?’

  ‘Of course ah’m no up tae onythin.’ Willie Meston’s eyes were like saucers. ‘Cross ma heart an hope tae die.’

  ‘Talking of which, I wouldn’t like to think what could happen to you, Willie, a wee lad like you.’

  ‘Ye widna.’

  Fatboy grinned. ‘Of course not. We’re pals, aren’t we? But accidents will happen. You don’t want to end up in ARI, do you?’

  Willie grabbed hold of the bigger boy’s sleeve. ‘It wis the pigs. Honest. They wis sittin ootside Northview Towers the whole mornin.’

  Fatboy shook him off. ‘So what?’

  ‘So…naebody’s gaun tae come lookin fur skunk wi a squad car sittin up their backside.’

  ‘There are other places.’

  ‘No in Seaton.’

  ‘You’re not looking hard enough, Willie. If we’re to stay ahead of the filth, we’ll just have to get more…’ he struggled to find the right word, ‘creative.’

  ‘Ah telt ye, there’s naewhere else.’

  ‘There must be. Either you’ll have to find somewhere else to do your deals or I’ll have to find another runner.’

  Willie’s eyes brimmed. ‘But, if ye got yersel a new runner, whit aboot ma da?’

  ‘What about him? It was him left me in the lurch, remember?’

  Willie scratched his No.2. ‘It would need tae be aff the street.’

  ‘Off the street?’ Fatboy scoffed. ‘Like where? You’re already banned from most of the shops, and you’re too young to go into a pub.’

  ‘Ah’m no. Ma da sends me roon the pubs pickin up stuff.’

  Fatboy smirked. ‘Well, you’ll not be doing that for a while. Besides, you’d be a kent face. And we can’t have that, can we? Not in our line of business.’

  Willie grinned. ‘Richt enough.’ He started on another fingernail. ‘The high rises, mebbe?’

  ‘Good idea,’ Fatboy fingered his re-growth. There must be a dozen of those, he reckoned, within a quarter-mile radius. ‘But how would you get in? Don’t they have secure entry?’

  ‘Aye, but ye can get in the hallway. Easy.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be out of sight. Not entirely.’

  ‘Naw. But a hale lot better than staunin in the friggin rain.’

  ‘And out of range of the filth.’

  ‘Aye. Bastards.’

  ‘But what if someone spotted you and called it in?’

  Willie sniggered. ‘One o’ they immigrants? No fuckin likely.’

  ‘Not an immigrant. Some old biddy, more like.’

  ‘Then ah’d jist move on tae the next block.’

  ‘Good thinking. But,’ Fatboy deliberated, ‘inside one of the flats would be better. Keep you right off the radar.’ He gave the boy a nudge. ‘I don’t suppose you could cadge a favour off your mum, could you, Willie?’

  The wee boy reeled back in alarm. ‘Nae chance.’

  ‘Just taking the piss. You couldn’t wangle your way in anywhere else, could you?’

  Willie stuck his pinkie in his nose. Wiggled it around for a few moments. Took it out again.

  He inspected the glistening bogey on the end. Gave it a sook.

  ‘Gie me a couple o’ days.’ He grinned. ‘Ah’ll think on it.’

  Cold Call

  ‘Mrs Laird?’

  There were two of them. The taller of the two had a chubby, pale face, fair hair, blue eyes. Like Tim Robbins on a bad day. The other was shorter, stockily built, dark hair slicked back with some sort of gel, brown eyes that were boring into her right now.

  ‘Yes?’ Maggie drew her dressing gown tighter around her.

  ‘Can we come in?’ The eyes were fixed on her forehead, the voice so low it was almost a growl.

  ‘Are you police?’

  A look flashed between the two. ‘You could say that.’

  She straightened, ‘Then show me your warrant cards.’

  Tim Robbins reached into his raincoat. Drew out a wallet. Waved it under her nose. She caught a glimpse of a blurred photograph, a badge, print that she’d be hard-pressed to decipher. The wallet snapped shut again.

  She hesitated. The ID didn’t look familiar. But it was Police Scotland now. She’d read about the new strap-line: Semper Vigilo, Police Scotland, Keeping People Safe. A sour thought crossed Maggie’s mind. Who’d keep her safe now? She didn’t recognise these men either. But then she wouldn’t, would she? She hadn’t been over the doorstep of Force HQ for a long time. Except for the day she’d climbed onto that gurney. In her thin housecoat, she shivered. George hadn’t wanted her anywhere near when that bad business was blowing up in his face, and he’d said himself there had been many changes.

  The dark man smiled at Maggie. The smile didn’t reach his eyes. He took a step forward. Hugging the collar of her dressing gown under her chin, she stepped backwards into the porch. And they were on her, both of them, crowding her in the small space. So close she could smell their aftershave and an undercurrent of sweat.

  ‘In here, is it?’ The taller of the men jerked his head towards the door of the sitting room.

  Maggie felt his breath on her face. ‘If you like.’ All she wanted was to put distance between them. For the pair of them to get on with it, whatever they’d come for, and get out of her house. She sank down onto a corner of the sofa, smoothing her dressing gown carefully over her knees.

  The dark guy stood with his back to the window. The fair one folded himself into the big chair.

  That’s my husband’s chair, Maggie wanted to scream. She felt wrong-footed, sitting in her nightclothes in her own front room, two complete strangers in possession. Decisively, she pulled herself together. ‘Now, are you going to tell me what you’ve come for?’

  ‘It’s a small matter, Mrs Laird,’ the short man flashed his mirthless smile again.

  ‘Small, but important,’ Tim Robbins chipped in.

  ‘Well?�
� Maggie could feel her blood pressure rising.

  ‘It’s a matter of rent arrears,’ the short man again. ‘You’ll have had our invoice.’

  ‘Rent?’ she exploded. ‘I don’t owe rent.’

  ‘Not you, Mrs Laird,’ the blond man’s voice was curiously soothing, ‘so much as your husband.’

  ‘George, isn’t it?’ the dark chap added.

  ‘Was,’ Maggie spat. ‘My husband is dead.’

  ‘Yes. We know. Boss sends his condolences.’

  ‘And who might he be?’

  The blond man again. A Mr Gilruth. Not,’ he added, ‘that it will make any difference.’

  She jumped up from the settee. ‘So you’re not policemen at all?’

  ‘Didn’t say we were,’ the short chap smirked. ‘But that doesn’t take away from the fact that there’s rent owing.’

  ‘I don’t owe anything. I’ve never owed anything in my life,’ Maggie’s voice trailed away. She knew that wasn’t true. Not any more.

  ‘Fact is…’ Tim Robbins hoisted himself from the armchair. His huge frame blocked half the bay window, ‘your husband owes us, and marital assets and all, it’s you that has to pay.’

  ‘Fact is,’ she came straight back at him, ‘I don’t have any assets.’

  The blond man ran his eyes round the room. ‘You’ve got this house, haven’t you?’

  ‘With a whacking great mortgage on it. So where does this rent come in, tell me that?’

  ‘Oh, didn’t we say?’ The stocky chap’s voice was silken. ‘It’s for your husband’s serviced office accommodation on King Street.’

  ‘And what sort of “services” were provided, tell me? None that I ever heard of.’

  ‘Utilities, that sort of thing.’

  Maggie’s blood boiled. ‘You’ve got a damn cheek, the pair of you, coming in here demanding money with menaces when my husband’s hardly cold in his grave.’

  ‘Menaces?’ Tim Robbins again. ‘We haven’t made any threats.’ Another look passed between the two. ‘And anyhow,’ his voice softened a smidgeon, ‘we’re only following instructions.’

  ‘Well, I’ve never had sight of any invoice, and you can tell your boss from me that my husband paid upfront for his “serviced office”. He told me so himself.’