Cross Purpose

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘N-no.’ Maggie stiffened. ‘My first time.’

  ‘There’s a first time for everything,’ he leered, his breath hot on her cheek.

  She drew back. ‘I daresay.’ Then, don’t be so standoffish or you’ll never get anywhere. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘What?’

  The music was deafening, the thump-thump of the bass notes pounding her head. ‘A question,’ Maggie leaned into the man’s ear.

  Wrong move. The hand pressed harder into her back.

  ‘You haven’t come across Jimmy Craigmyle?’ she mouthed.

  ‘Who?’ A whiff of bad breath.

  ‘Craigmyle. He works here, I believe.’

  ‘Doing what?’ A pelvis thrust into hers.

  ‘Might be on the door some nights. I’m not really sure.’

  ‘Naw.’ So close were they she could feel bones grate, one against the other. So this was the sort of thing young women had to negotiate nowadays. For once, Maggie was grateful for her hitherto sheltered life.

  ‘I have to go to the bathroom,’ she blurted as she broke free. She fought her way through the sea of bodies until she’d reached the relative safety of the ladies’ loo.

  Maggie sat on the toilet. Not that she needed. Anything to relieve the pain in her feet. She contemplated the graffiti-covered walls: Danny has a massive dong – this complete with graphic illustration – Jason cums on my face; finger my bum hole; suck hot cock. Her mind flew to her daughter down in Dundee. What sort of world had she brought her girl into?

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in there?’ Someone was hammering on the cubicle door.

  She got to her feet and flipped the catch. She was met by hostile stares as two would-be WAGs tumbled past her into the toilet.

  There were three girls at the basins. Well, perhaps ‘girls’ was stretching it. One of them at least was older than herself, a line of silver regrowth defining the parting in her dark hair, a ring of white concealer only serving to exaggerate the dark blue shadows beneath her eyes. The other two could have been twins: same blonde hair, bleached lifeless, same hair extensions, same kohl-rimmed eyes.

  The three eyed Maggie in the mirror.

  ‘Hi,’ she did her best to look friendly.

  Three heads ducked in unison.

  ‘Do you come here often?’ She pressed on, undeterred.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ The older woman looked up.

  ‘Just, you know, I wondered if you girls know any of the staff here?’

  ‘Wouldn’t touch the fuckers with a bargepole,’ one of the women muttered. ‘You never know where they’ve been.’

  ‘Oh.’ In the mirror, Maggie watched the colour rise in her face. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just…I’m trying to get in touch with someone.’

  ‘Aye? Like who?’

  ‘Goes by the name of Craigmyle.’

  ‘What does he do, like?’ The older woman again.

  Maggie shook the drips from her fingers. ‘Security, from what I can gather.’

  ‘A bouncer, like?’

  She kneaded damp hands. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You could ask Jason at the bar. He’s been around a good while.’

  She smiled. ‘Thanks.’

  Maggie threaded her way towards the bar. Around her, drinkers were squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder on buttoned, leather-look banquettes. Above them, a mezzanine floor was bordered by chrome railings. Spectators hung over, watching the goings-on below. The bar was six-deep. Behind it, a bank of optics was backlit in a lurid shade of pink. At least half a dozen barmen in fancy waistcoats were hard at it, twirling glasses, juggling bottles, moving at speed between the optics and the counter.

  Maggie shouldered her way through.

  ‘Fuck off,’ an elbow jabbed her in the ribs.

  ‘Sorry,’ she kept on going.

  Wilma would be proud of me, she thought. Not that Maggie had confided that night’s outing to her neighbour. No, Windmill Brae would have to remain under the radar, at least until she had a result to show.

  ‘What’s it to be?’

  She finally made it to the bar. ‘You wouldn’t be…’ Someone pushed in front of her. ‘Jason?’ Just as roughly, she shoved back in.

  ‘No,’ the barman snapped. ‘Don’t hang about.’

  ‘T-tonic water,’ she stuttered.

  ‘That all?’ The young man didn’t make eye contact.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Two pounds.’ The barman squirted liquid from a hose. Banged a wet glass down on the shiny counter.

  ‘Is Jason here?’ She slid two coins across the bar.

  The young man jerked his head. ‘Down there.’

  She followed his eyes. At the far end of the bar, one figure appeared slightly older than the others: plump, bald, shiny pate gleaming, diamond stud twinkling in each ear.

  Maggie wormed her way down the length of the bar. ‘Jason, is it?’ After several fruitless attempts, she finally drew level.

  ‘What if it is?’ Jason cocked his head coquettishly. He made eye contact. Right. Left. Right again in quick-fire succession.

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘If you make it quick.’

  ‘Do you know a man called Craigmyle?’

  ‘Jimmy? Aye.’

  Maggie felt positively light-headed, ‘Is he here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But he does work here?’

  Jason homed in on Maggie’s right eye. ‘Didn’t I say you’d to be quick?’ The barman contemplated the outstretched hands all around.

  ‘Does he, though?’ she persisted.

  ‘Aye. But he’s off tonight.’

  ‘Can you give me his phone number?’

  ‘We don’t give out confidential information.’

  Keep talking. ‘But, I’m a-a friend of his.’

  ‘Then how come you haven’t got his number?’

  Maggie’s mind worked overtime. ‘He must have changed it.’

  ‘That’s your bad luck.’

  ‘Jason,’ she wheedled, ‘I’m desperate.’

  The man sniggered. ‘He’s no interested in sex.’

  ‘It’s not…’

  His lip curled. ‘They all say that.’

  Maggie was being jostled back and forth, the drink in her hand slopping onto Kirsty’s frock. ‘Can you give him a message?’

  Suspicious look. ‘What sort of message?’

  ‘Just…’

  Jason made to turn away.

  ‘Hang on,’ her voice was pleading, ‘have you got a pen?’

  The barman rolled his eyes. Sighed theatrically. ‘If you must,’ he extracted a streamlined silver Sheaffer from an inside pocket.

  ‘Thanks.’

  Maggie scribbled her name and mobile number on a paper napkin. Pushed it with the pen across the counter.

  ‘Please,’ she produced her very best smile, ‘will you give him this?’

  Baby Steps My Arse

  The curtains were closed. Other than that it looked like any other house on the street: a six-in-the-block council flat, grey harled walls, slate roof, tidy enough garden out front. She climbed the steps. There would be nobody home. The wife was long gone, the bairns with her. And hadn’t Wilma just left the fucker sitting bug-eyed in the sprawling estate’s solitary pub?

  She delved into her capacious handbag, a fake snake Gucci knock-off with tassels on the pockets and a plethora of shiny brass studs. She’d bought it at the Wednesday market on her honeymoon to Tenerife the previous winter. Her lips curled into a lascivious smile. They’d a rare time, she and Ian: no meals to cook, no dishes to wash, a good bevvy every evening, some lunchtimes too, no work to get up for in the morning. And night-time. Well… Wilma had another wee smile to herself. For a few moments she ru
mmaged in its depths, fingers finding a well-used hairbrush, various items of makeup and – shite – a squashed cardboard Tampax tube. She groaned. Dirty bitch! Finally, she fished out an empty plastic milk container, its cap missing, most of its upper half cut away. Wilma eyed it approvingly. When she’d first hooked up with Maggie Laird on this wee venture of theirs, Wilma had gone online, invested in a range of gadgets to speed their investigations. Never mind she’d had to dip into her nest egg. Or that her meagre savings were meant for emergencies. Maggie Laird’s situation was desperate, if ever anything was. And it would all pay off in the end, of that Wilma was convinced. She’d already employed a set of comb picks on the padlock of a lock-up out the back. But forget your jigglers and plastic cards, for a straightforward Yale Wilma found this cunning adaptation the most effective by far. Carefully she inserted the cut edge of the plastic bottle into the door jamb, worked it back and forth. She took a steadying breath. It had been a good while since she’d done this particular trick. Unlike when she was with that fuckwit Darren. The locks were aye getting changed on their rentals, he was that often falling behind.

  The Yale slipped with a click. Wilma dug into her coat pocket, drew out a pair of hospital-issue blue Latex gloves. She eased them on. Baby steps my arse, she muttered under her breath. Casting a furtive glance over her shoulder, she slipped inside.

  The heat hit her first, closely followed by the smell. Clasping a hand over her nose, Wilma followed the sweet, cloying aroma down the hall. The first door she opened revealed a grubby living room. The second, a kitchen so skanky she didn’t linger. Ditto the third: a bathroom where the seat of the toilet pan was up, the bowl crusted with excrement. In the bedroom next door, the filthy unmade bed and strewn carpet further testified to a single lifestyle.

  Wilma eyed the last door in the narrow corridor. Gingerly, she turned the handle, her Latex-clad fingers slipping on a film of moisture. The door inched open, meeting resistance from what she recognised as a wall of Polythene sheeting. With her free hand, Wilma hooked it aside and peered into the room. Behind its pink cotton curtains, the window was sealed with a second Polythene sheet. Against the primly patterned wallpaper, more plastic shrouded the walls. Two fans stood in opposite corners, their blades whirring softly. The atmosphere was humid, almost tropical, the smell sickly. Gagging, she reeled back, covering her nose with cupped hands. The plants stood in rows, their roots swaddled in heavy-duty black bin bags. Wilma eyed the distinctive pointed leaves. Christ, she marvelled, Duthie Park meets Mastrick, for the scene before her was Aberdeen’s Winter Gardens in microcosm. Her lip curled. Give me a feckin Benson & Hedges any day.

  It had been a bummer, this case. A fruitless slog trying to find evidence of another sort: the stash of contraband cigarettes she’d heard on the grapevine the fucker had been peddling whilst claiming Income Support. She groped for her camera. This little lot might serve the purpose instead. But how to explain? Just as quickly, her spirits sank. Maggie wouldn’t take kindly to another breach of PI protocol. And there was no question of employing an anonymous tip-off. In Wilma’s world, you didn’t willingly engage with the police.

  Grim-faced, she fired off a few shots. Just for insurance, she told herself, as she stowed the camera away. Carefully, she closed the door, retreated down the hall. Ah weel… She stood for a moment, checking neighbouring flats for nosey parkers. It’s back to the lock-ups, then.

  Hotlips

  268 Summer Street was a single-fronted shop. From the blacked-out window, a flashing pink neon mouth formed a perfect moue. Within its confines, fat lower-case lettering spelled “hotlips”.

  Maggie’s heart raced as she pushed through the door. The interior was womb-like: red painted walls, deep Polyester shag-pile carpet, scarlet velvet chaise that had seen better days. To one side of the mirrored reception desk, a heavily padded doorway led to who knows what.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr Imlay,’ she addressed the black-clad bruiser behind the desk.

  ‘Who?’ The shaven head barely stirred from his red top.

  ‘Your boss.’

  No reaction.

  Maggie approached the desk. ‘Am I correct in saying Mr Imlay does own this operation?’

  Flicks over a page. ‘Might do.’

  ‘Well, then…’ She leaned over, thrust her face in his. ‘Let’s just say he does, when am I most likely to catch him?’

  Shrugs. ‘Dunno.’

  ‘Doesn’t he open up?’

  ‘That’s my job.’

  ‘What about closing time?’

  ‘We don’t keep regular hours.’ The man lumbered to his feet. ‘What’s it to you, anyhow?’

  Maggie sized him up. He was a hulk, no doubt about it, but she was getting better at this. Knew the biggest guys often weren’t the fastest on their feet.

  She drew a breath. Keep it vague, remember. ‘There’s a business matter I need to discuss with him.’

  ‘Well, he’s no here.’

  Chip away at it. ‘He must come past sometime,’ she insisted. ‘Pick up the takings. After all, this place must rake in a fair bit, what with the…range I’ve heard you offer.’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Personal services?’

  ‘All we do is what it says on the door,’ the man parroted a line she suspected was well-rehearsed. ‘Plus, we’ve only got three girls. It’s hard to get staff to work…’ He smirked, ‘unsocial hours.’

  Don’t over-elaborate, you silly man. Maggie realised by now it paid to keep your lies simple.

  ‘Not unless they’re illegals,’ she shot back.

  A flicker of recognition. He walked around the desk. Loomed over her.

  In her mind Maggie ran through Wilma’s strictures on self-defence: be quick, smart, go for the weak spots, then run. For the moment she opted to stand her ground. Big as he was, Maggie doubted the fellow would be looking for trouble.

  For some moments the two squared up, albeit all Maggie could see was the black expanse of a barrel chest.

  Tentatively, she raised her chin.

  ‘Foxy wee thing, aren’t you?’ Two sharp eyes looked down from a great height. ‘Wouldn’t like a job, would you?’ A sly grin crossed his face. ‘Clientele likes them small. More…mobile, shall we say?’

  Maggie could imagine. She didn’t respond.

  ‘It’s a while since we had a redhead,’ he persisted. ‘Natural, is it?’ The eyes travelled lasciviously from Maggie’s head to her groin.

  She shuddered, her cheeks aflame.

  ‘Let me save us both time.’ She struggled to regain her composure. ‘My client is owed a substantial sum of money by your boss, who appears to have gone missing. My remit is to track him down.’

  ‘Can’t help you. He’s out of the country.’

  ‘Where?’

  Pregnant pause, then, ‘Spain.’

  Maggie sighed. If it wasn’t Europe or the USA, it was sodding Pakistan.

  ‘On holiday, is he?’ she fished.

  ‘No, his auntie’s sick.’

  That was another one. The world was full of sick relatives, it seemed.

  ‘Tell Mr Imlay I called,’ she proffered a business card. ‘But I’ll be back,’ she borrowed a line from James Gilruth’s henchmen. ‘As often as it takes,’ she threw over her shoulder as she made for the door.

  Eeny Meeny

  Eeeny meeny.

  Willie loitered at the entrance to Kings Links Court. He eyed the battery of silver buzzers. Picked a name at random. Pressed the buzzer.

  There was a crackle of static, then, ‘Wha is it?’ The woman’s voice was heavy with suspicion.

  Willie leaned into the speaker. ‘Wull ye open the door fur me?’

  More crackling, then, ‘Wha’s that?’

  He ignored the question. ‘The door. Wull ye let me in?’

&
nbsp; ‘Whit fur?’

  ‘Ah forgot ma key.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Ma key. Ah forgot it,’ louder this time.

  ‘Wha is it?’

  ‘A neebour.’

  ‘How dae ah ken ye live here?’

  ‘Ah dae. Trust me.’

  There was a pause, then, ‘Ye canna trust onybody. No these days. There’s aw sorts gingin aboot.’

  ‘Ma ma sent me oot fur messages,’ Willie persisted, ‘an ah canna get back in.’

  Silence.

  He hopped from one foot to the other.

  More silence.

  Ran a hand over his buzz cut. ‘Please?’

  ‘Well, ah’m nae…’

  ‘She’ll gie me the back o’ her hand if ah’m no back soon.’

  On the other end of the intercom, Willie heard a cough, a rustling, then, finally, a grudging ‘OK’.

  The catch on the door clicked loudly. Willie grinned. Worked a treat. Most times, anyway. And the odd occasion you didn’t score, there were dozens more names to choose from. His bright idea of doing trades in the stairwells of the tower blocks was working well. Having gained entry, Willie’s activities were rarely questioned by the residents, but he’d roped Ryan in just in case, to watch his back.

  ‘Same routine?’ Ryan followed him through the entry.

  ‘Aye.’ Willie headed for the stairwell. ‘But gie me five meenits tae get set up.’

  ‘Then ah let the fuckers in.’

  Willie frowned. ‘Aye. But wan at a time, mind.’

  ‘Ye thinkin ye’ll git worked ower?’

  ‘Naw. The big fella gave me a pay-as-you-go. Any bother, ah’ve tae phone upstairs. An besides,’ Willie smirked, ‘there’s aye ma da.’

  ‘Thocht he wis in…’

  Willie ignored this. ‘Ah micht be feart o’ ma faither, bit thon bunch o’ wankers, they’d shit a brick if ma da sae much as clocked em.’

  Ryan nodded vigorously. ‘Richt enough.’

  ‘Aw ye hiv tae dae is let them in an let them oot again. Got it?’

  Ryan nodded again.

  ‘Ye’re the footman,’ Willie grinned.