by Heleen Kist
My insides screamed for me to leave. I hoped the flush of nerves wasn’t visible on my face as the woman held her false-lashed eyes on me. Christ, didn’t she have work to do? I swallowed hard as I felt a burning drop of stomach acid raise to my throat.
After a minute or two, a young man wearing a shiny track suit approached from the rear of the store. A classic Scottish ‘ned’, pasty white, with a skeletal body belying a diet of bacon rolls and Irn Bru. He strolled through the middle aisle, playing with his keys and kicking aside loose pieces of cardboard along the way.
‘Alright?’ he asked the cashier.
‘Aye, love.’
The boy-man moved in and stood too close. He jutted out his chin, like a pit bull ready to pounce. ‘Alright, hen?’ The scars on his cheek underscored a capacity for violence. I took a breath and feigned nonchalance.
‘Aye.’
He grabbed my elbow. ‘Let’s go.’
The young chap nudged me to the rear, up the metal stairs and along a narrow corridor with open doors on either side. As we neared the end, I could hear raised voices. Judging by the lack of reaction from the workers we passed, this seemed to be nothing new.
He stopped a few yards short of a room whose entrance was being blocked in its entirety by a leather-clad body. ‘Boss?’
The biker type stepped aside, which revealed his pock-marked face, sweat pouring from his temples, presumably as a result of their heated exchange. He sneered and peeked back inside the room. ‘Now what?’
Behind him, the boss lifted himself up from behind the large antique-style mahogany desk facing the door. As I strained to see past the perspirer, I could make out the green tartan carpet and burgundy-striped wallpaper that completed the heritage look. I thought it a curious choice of decor for an otherwise modern structure and noted one of his gold-framed oil paintings hung askew.
‘So now you go and tell that shyster I won’t put up with his underhanded dealings and he’d better come clean about the lorries. Tell him to come in an hour. In the meantime, I’ll need to deal with this bloody distraction,’ the boss said, pointing at me.
Not sure whether to be grateful or offended, I chose to wait for their exchange to finish; my chaperone having resumed his box-kicking and key-jiggling. The boss spat out some more instructions as the biker pounded along the hall. I snapped flat to the wall and raised the box so that he could squeeze past. His body odour stirred my lowlying nausea.
I was summoned inside. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ The owner readjusted his green velvet waistcoat, retreated to his desk, and indicated for me to sit down. I slid into an empty seat, holding the box, while he clasped his hands in expectation.
‘My name is Grace McBride. I believe you know my sister Glory.’
‘Yes, I’m very sorry to hear about her passing. What a waste.’
‘Yes, well, thank you.’
‘Marius tells me you’ve taken over the café. I guess you’re here on business?’
‘I guess I am. For starters, I’d like to understand what this is about?’ I opened the box.
He stared at the contents. ‘Well that is the price of a lot of cups of coffee you are going to ring through your register. I’m told it’s very nice coffee, too.’ A grin spread across his smug face.
‘And so by paying you a big fat invoice for goods I did not receive, I’ve effectively laundered money for you?’
‘Bingo. Glad to see we’re dealing with a pro.’
‘I don’t think you understand, Mr whatever your name is.’
‘You can call me Mike.’
‘Fine. Mike. I want no involvement in this. I came to return the cash. I would appreciate receiving a correct invoice which I shall pay forth-with.’
‘Pay it forth-with, will you? Want a receipt, too? A nice handwritten one, perhaps?’ The sarcasm wasn’t lost on me, but I persevered, despite feeling out of my depth.
‘Look. I don’t know what kind of arrangement you had with my sister or why she was consorting with you. But I am telling you, it stops now.’ I raised my voice at ‘now’ to regain some credibility.
‘Oo, consorting. Nice word. Listen, my dear, I don’t think you know what or who you are dealing with. Or should that be ‘whom’? I bet you know. I don’t care if you want to play ball or not. I’m running a business here, and you’ll do as I say.’
At this point, I’d had enough of being patronised by this gentleman-wannabe lording it over me in his faux-Victorian parlour inside a shitty industrial park. I stood from my seat, ready to leave, and gave him one last chance to end this well. ‘I’m here to give you back your dirty money. If you don’t want it, I’ll take it to the police.’
‘What is it with you law-abiding people and the police?’ He threw up his arms. ‘Do you really think they care? That they’re on your side? My dear, half of them are on the take.’
Was he bluffing? He had to be. It was my only way out.
‘Tell me, then…’ I paused, trying to re-order my thoughts. ‘Why did Glory get involved with this?’
‘That I cannot tell you. Brian Scott sent her to clear a debt he owed. Need to know more? Go see him. He runs his business from the Prince William. All I know is your sister and I made a deal to get her out of a pickle and I expect you to honour it.’
‘And what if I don’t?’
‘Well then I wouldn’t be very happy, would I? I might need to come see you…maybe when you’re watching those sweet little boys.’ He squeezed his eyes into menacing slits. I stood nailed to the ground. I’d never been on the receiving end of a real-life-actual-credible threat before, and I couldn’t breathe.
‘Got you scared, have I?’ His snarl relaxed into a look of pity when I didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. ‘Listen. Be a good girl and don’t do anything stupid. Do this for another…let’s see…six months and I’ll let you go, okay? I’ll even keep your commission as it is.’
Chapter Nineteen
‘Come on,’ I pleaded as the vomit remained ingrained in the fabric of the passenger seat. The bowl of soapy water dribbled with each energetic rub and I was getting hot, which made the experience even more unpleasant.
I’d made it out of the wholesalers’, through the car park and into my parked car in one piece, but fell apart as soggy chunks exploded from my lips and I purged myself of the last encounter—and breakfast. Desperate to get out of there, I’d rushed back to Pollokshields, the puke-infused air a sour reminder of my contemptible weakness.
My hair snagged on the rear-view mirror and the tug, together with the smell, brought up a vivid memory of Glory holding my hair as I retched.
I must have been thirteen. She’d walked into the bathroom on hearing noises.
‘Oh. Again?’ she’d said. ‘Here, let me hold your hair. You’ll get sick on it.’
I mumbled thanks and tipped my head over the toilet bowl. After, I wiped my face and rinsed the awful taste away with a glass of water.
‘Why are you anxious? Is it the exams?’ she asked.
‘I lost my notebook for history. I can’t find it anywhere and the exam is tomorrow. And I’m going to fail and then—’
‘Relax. You’ll be fine. You’re good at history. Come, I’ll lend you my notes.’
‘It’s not the same. I have colour coding. Your writing is a mess. I’ve mapped it all out. I know where everything is and—’
‘Hey. Hey. There’s no need to get worked up.’ She stroked my hair. ‘Relax. Breathe…’
My mother’s voice sounded from across the hall. ‘What’s going on?’ I threw her a warning look.
‘Why don’t you want to tell her?’
‘Because last time I threw up she said it was all in my mind. That I had to just snap out of it.’
‘So?’
‘I don’t want her thinking I’m weak.’
‘You’re not weak, silly. You’re one of the strongest people I know, Gi. But you care too much, sometimes. Life is fu
n. Stop expecting the worst to happen. Let go a little.’
I felt a cold tickle as the cleaning liquid seeped over the rim of my yellow rubber gloves, the stained car seat coming back into focus.
Well look at me now. After all those years learning to control my anxiety, it’s got the better of me again. But I’ll push through it.
You need me.
Blue escaped the house and sniffed around, trying to squeeze through the door frame to nuzzle the oh-so-enticing wet patch and my mystery box. ‘Shoo.’ I pushed him aside and cursed Glory’s unreliable rear door. Although I was late for his walk, he would have to wait until I’d wiped away every memory of that awful man.
I wondered if he’d threatened Glory too. I couldn’t stomach the idea of him laying a hand on her. And I hated that I would have to meet him again. But I’d first arm myself with more information. If I could only find out how much she’d owed, maybe I would be able to buy my way out. He ran a business after all. Not that I had any kind of money. And I still didn’t know where she’d been keeping the profits.
My shoulders were sore from the tension and the scrubbing. I reversed out of the vehicle to stretch on the pavement.
There was little traffic along this street and I didn’t care what the learner drivers and small red van might think as I bent over, head between my legs, hands clamped behind me, bum sticking out.
Inside the house, I rinsed the sponge under the kitchen tap, picking at two stubborn oat flakes. The morning’s plates had been left to steep in the sink again. Stephen had arranged for a housekeeper twice a week and it seemed the three males had relinquished any responsibility.
I placed the dishes in the machine and uncluttered the counter, helping myself to leftovers.
Wanting to leave a note, I searched for pen and paper. A pile of partially opened post lay on a side table and I snatched an envelope to write on. I found a ballpoint and scribbled my message: ‘Dear Adam and Noah, there is no such thing as a dish fairy. Pull your finger out. Kisses, Auntie Grace.’
My movements had disturbed the jumble of letters and they cascaded to the floor. As I collected the strewn sheets from the ground, my eyes were drawn to the golden logo of the Highland Arms, the spa hotel Glory had been due to attend. They’d sent a credit card receipt showing a refund. How typical of him to care about the money.
Poor Gi, you never got to go. And it had been such a special treat.
The ratio of processed to closed envelopes suggested Stephen was making slow progress in the painful administrative tasks that followed death. My lungs constricted as I realised he would soon show interest in the café. After all, as her husband, he would expect to inherit everything.
What the hell would I tell him?
I knew I had to deal with the crime issue before he reached that point. If I succeeded in getting out of the money laundering, I could probably reverse the ownership issue and present the children’s accounts as a clever tax ruse by Glory.
‘We can explain all of it away, then, can’t we buddy? And nobody will be any the wiser,’ I said to Blue who, eyeing the peg housing his leash, didn’t seem to appreciate the complexity of the situation.
Our outing took us along St Andrews Drive and into Pollok Park. Rhododendron Walk was in full bloom and a colourful array of flowers danced in procession. I breathed in the freshness, exhaling through my mouth to blow out any remnant fumes from my earlier sickness.
‘After this, Blue, I get to meet another gangster,’ I said with a false enthusiasm that was lost on him.
I crouched down and cupped his face, holding it close to mine and shook his head to make his ears flop.
‘No? You think it’s a bad idea?’
Pouting, I scratched his cheeks and grabbed his jaw to make him nod.
‘Yes, I think it’s a terrible idea, too, but I’ve not got much choice. Have I?’ I pushed on one knee to get back up and lengthened my spine. ‘In fact, Auntie Grace is going to have to put on her big girl pants for this one.’
Chapter Twenty
I didn’t need to look up the location of the Prince William. As its red, white and blue frontage proclaimed, it was the most famous pub in Scotland. Well, maybe in Glasgow. A sacred institution for many: the one true home of loyalist Ranger fans. These were ‘The People’. And judging by the fully obscured, barred windows, the people disliked other people knowing their business.
These were the people whose Union Jack and Red Lion-decorated facade left no ambiguity as to their politics—the Orange Lodge nearby being no coincidence. These were the people who, I suspected, had graffiti-ed ‘Go Home’ on the red brick office building across the street, in front of which a dozen migrants queued for assistance on housing and benefits. These were the people whose antics had no doubt signalled to the founders of the freshly opened prosthetic clinic around the corner that Govan was the place to be. These were the people who would choke on their pints if a Catholic woman stepped inside their hallowed hall.
‘Right. Here we go,’ I said to myself, but my limbs were paralysed in position, my hands gripping the steering wheel. I flexed my biceps several times as if this pumping would somehow propel me out of the car like an untied balloon. With my propensity for sports and physical endurance, I’d always thought of myself as the tough one; but it seemed my delicate sister had fewer qualms dealing with Glasgow’s underworld than I did.
Had she flirted her way out of danger? I bet it helped.
Twenty minutes of procrastination later, I stepped through the door to face a nearly deserted room. Two patrons were perched at the bar facing a wall packed with gold-framed photographs of their footballing heroes. The TV showed the day’s news on mute.
Sashaying as best I could in the hoodie and leggings I now regretted choosing for the occasion, I asked the burly bartender for Brian Scott. Without saying a word, he withdrew the tea towel from his shoulders and leaned sideways to peer into a semi-dark room at the rear.
‘Willie,’ he yelled with enough volume to lure out a bald-headed brute, but not so loud as to disturb the room’s inner proceedings. ‘Lassie wants to see Brian.’
‘Thank you.’ I gave him a big, bright-eyed smile. He shrugged and returned to his wiping.
Middle-aged Willie shuffled towards me, carrying the weight of the world. What would his story be? As he reached me, he slapped the wooden bar and took a deep breath, inspecting me as if I were a shipment of meat of unknown origin. I grinned again and struck a pose with my hand on my hip.
‘Please could you take me to Brian? I have some business to discuss involving Veg&Might on Pollokshaws Road.’ A flicker of recognition shot through his eyes and he spun the blue velvet-topped stool in front of him to the right height before dropping his weight onto it.
‘He’s busy. We can sit here.’
‘Well…um…Willie, is it? That’s great. I know I’ll enjoy your company while I wait for Brian.’ I cringed at what was coming out of my mouth. ‘Any chance of a drink?’
He sighed and gestured for his colleague. I ordered a lime soda and found that I was to drink alone. I brought the glass to my lips, but the damp cloth smell on the rim warned me not to sip.
‘Do you think he will be long?’ I asked.
‘Depends.’ It was clear he had a limited appetite for conversation.
‘That’s okay. I’m not in any hurry.’
I twirled my curls while we sat alongside the other silent drinkers watching the soundless screen.
‘Aye, he’ll not soon tire of those tits,’ boomed an amused voice, exiting the rear room. Three men flowed out, each wearing what appeared to be the current fashion for thugs: jeans, T-shirt and a bomber jacket. They joked on as they left, pausing only to check if my breasts were the kind one might tire of. I couldn’t hear what they said once they’d passed, but it sounded complimentary.
Creeps. But it was all I had, so I pulled my hoodie tighter and tossed my hair.
‘I think we’re good to g
o, don’t you?’ I said to Willie.
He led me to a bolt hole that exhibited more gold-framed portraits and an illuminated stained-glass shrine to a player he would be horrified to know I did not recognise. An L-shaped bench skirted the walls facing the entrance and the man I guessed was Brian occupied the middle, his muscular arms and legs extended along its blue velvet frame. That way, any visitor had to place themselves on the wooden chairs opposite, their backs vulnerable to the men minding the door.
‘Hello there. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ He grinned, his teeth showing just that little too much. His brown hair, tamed by lashings of gel, remained immobile as he ran several visual scans over my body.
‘I’m Grace. My sister Glory Paterson died in a car crash on the nineteenth.’
‘I heard. Very sorry for your loss. What a waste.’ He lowered his eyes with the slow shake of the head convention required.
A thrill shot through me. He recognised her name. Maybe I would get my answers now.
I eased forward, expecting an invitation to take a seat, but he appeared to be enjoying the view. His lower half shifted to expose his crotch, this vulgar display of appreciation thankfully blocked by the table between us.
‘She was a beautiful woman. Must run in the family.’ He grinned and sought a new angle from which to leer. This, combined with the beer fumes in the small space, made my stomach turn again. I crossed my arms and kept my eyes on his hairline so as not to encourage his letching, all ideas of using flirtation now abandoned.
‘I’m trying to pick up the pieces, to help her husband, and I understand you had dealings with her?’
‘Yes, you can say that. I’m the landlord. For that café—what’s it called again? Something with vegetables. I don’t know. I own a lot of property in Govanhill and around there.’ He waved his hand in a large circle, an illustrative perimeter to his sizable portfolio. If this was meant to impress, it had the opposite effect. Landlords in that area were notorious exploiters of Eastern European immigrants, piling multiple families into squalid flats. So much so that the newspaper had reported the city council was building a fifty-million-pound war chest to serve compulsory purchase orders on the biggest offenders.