In Servitude

by Heleen Kist

  ‘A scorned lover?’ he joked, as he always did to take the sting out of the eventual price tag.

  ‘Not this time, Andy. I’ve been good. How have you been?’

  ‘No scorned lovers for me either, dear, unfortunately.’ He winked. I’d learnt little about his personal life, having only needed his services a handful of times, but he had the air of a widower and I’d never dared to ask.

  A quick inspection followed and after darting inside to consult his papers, he returned.

  ‘The good news is I can fix this in an hour. The bad news is that hour will be Monday because I don’t have the window in stock.’

  He stuck a scribbled note into my hand, like a grandparent giving a secret fiver. I waited politely until he had walked away to look. He didn’t like the money side, and this was reflected in his pricing, which had been stuck somewhere at mid-1990s level.

  ‘That’s fine, thanks Andy,’ I reassured him, stuffing the quote into my pocket.

  ‘Good thing it wasn’t your sister’s vintage Bug. I would struggle to find a spare for that again.’

  A great sob escaped me and caught us both by surprise. He stood frozen, eyes darting from side to side as if looking for instruction on what to do. The sight of this kindly old man wondering what he’d done wrong amplified my sadness, and tears rolled out onto my cheeks.

  ‘Sorry. Don’t mind me,’ I said. ‘You weren’t to know. Glory died three weeks ago. In the Beetle.’ He approached, fishing out a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, holding it out for when I was ready. ‘Well at least you won’t need to worry about parts for that car anymore,’ I said trying to bring us back to more typical banter.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Her car fell into the bank off Stockiemuir Road and hit a tree.’

  He grimaced and shook his head, recognising the dangerous part of the A809 North of Bearsden.

  ‘Come with me.’ He guided me towards the garage, his hand on my shoulder. I was made to sit in the tiny office at the side of the workshop, as narrow as a telephone box and only long enough to fit a chair and a desk built from a stack of crates. He grabbed the kettle and rushed to fill it from an outside tap, leaving me to gaze at the old calendars, invoices and crumpled notes on the wall through my waterlogged eyes.

  Like a man who had been around his fair share of death, he seemed to guess what I needed. He handed me a cup of tea and stood far enough away to give me my dignity but placed his hand on my shoulder for comfort.

  ‘There,’ was all he said while he stood watch over me, neglecting all his duties.

  After a while, when the tea was drunk, and the hankie had absorbed all it could, I took a deep breath and thanked him. He smiled and squeezed my shoulder, his hand strong from a lifetime of manual labour. He crouched to meet my eyes and his gaze changed from gentle old-timer to native Glaswegian hard man.

  ‘Grace? Are you in trouble?’

  ‘What gave it away?’ I quipped, waving towards my car’s glassless frame. But his frown made it clear he was in no mood for humour.

  ‘Who bashed your screen in?’

  ‘I was parked by Festival Gardens. I never saw them.’

  ‘What were you doing there?’ The emphasis on ‘there’ confirming that general area was already no place for a woman like me. ‘Who were you seeing?’

  ‘Nobody.’ I avoided his gaze.

  ‘Look, you don’t need to tell me anything, dear, but please hear me. Stop whatever you’re doing. I’ve been around enough wreckage from so-called accidents to know what the wrong’uns are capable of. And it usually starts with a warning like this.’ He nodded towards my Panda.

  Promising to be good, I asked him to call me a cab. I needed space to think. His talk of deliberate wreckage awakened an underlying discomfort I’d felt for the last two days: a suspicion that maybe Glory’s accident hadn’t been an accident. I had pushed it aside because the thought that my sister might have been murdered also gave rise to the improbable, yet unbearable, possibility that, facing an inescapable plight, she might have veered off the road on purpose.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The taxi drove through Dumbreck as murmurs from the Top Ten spilt from the driver’s cabin, together with a stale smell of cigarettes revealing a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ attitude to his the ban on smoking the sticker on the door imposed. Resting my head against the window frame, I was treated to a parade of pink blossoms and wondered who, many moons ago, convinced every homeowner on this stretch of road to invest in the same cherry tree, choreographing this annual pageantry for generations to come.

  The flowers usually lifted my spirits. I’d envision walking through rows of brimming branches, my cheeks caressed by the blooms’ soft silky leaves, lustrous flashes of sunlight shooting through the gaps. But not this time. My imagination corrupted by recent events, I could only visualise my face being lacerated by twig after twig as the canopy grew so dark I lost my way.

  A distant buzzing caught my attention and it took a while to recognise it as my phone. Once retrieved from my pocket and unlocked, it displayed a message from Dave. ‘How are you? Call me. XOX.’

  It was funny how people never phoned anymore. Only snippets of ever-reducing texts sent between handsets of ever-increasing complexity. But it suited me: putting the thing on mute every time I was with a client was too much of a faff. A missed call notification flashed in the corner of the screen. It was from two hours before. I dialled voice mail to listen to the message.

  ‘Hello Grace, it’s Alastair here. I hope you are well. I’ll be heading home soon and I thought it easiest for me to drop the accounts at the café for you to collect. Saves you a trip into the city centre and I can then pick up any new post.’

  How kind.

  Since discovering that Glory pulled the wool over his eyes about my involvement with the shop and the itinerant dividends, he was insistent I became properly acquainted with the business and matters of money. He’d offered to compile the latest accounts and monthly statements, with a personal summary of critical information. I had also instructed Sascha to set aside any incoming mail that looked even remotely financial for Alastair to handle—at least until I gained a firmer grasp.

  It would not be long before Stephen would want to wrap up this giant loose end, but he’d been too preoccupied with work and the challenges of his new life to bother with the administrivia of running the café. He’d asked me to deal with it and alert him if his input was needed. As far as I was concerned his input had never been needed, even when Glory was alive.

  ‘Sorry. I’m going elsewhere now. Could you take me to Pollokshaws Road, please?’

  This was met by a grunt from the front and a sharp left turn that threw me off balance. Along Nithsdale Road, the grand Victorian villas were interspersed with unattractive rectangular apartment blocks that made you wonder what the planners had been smoking in the sixties. Once past the Muslim primary school that catered to the large Pakistani community in this area, the housing turned to tenements hosting a range of independent shops and restaurants at street level, none of which seemed to have the volume of trade as Pollokshaws, ahead.

  Knowing it wasn’t far now, I searched for my purse and made a mental note to get more cash out of the machine. My reserves were dwindling and my Gumtree ad hadn’t yielded any new clients yet.

  The driver cranked the handbrake. ‘Thirteen fifty, please.’

  He had stopped too close to the parked cars, meaning I needed to exit on the street side, where passing cars weaved in and out of idling double-parkers to avoid oncoming traffic. I hunched down and felt a strain in my lower back as I opened the door. The suspension on Hackney cabs was always set too tight.

  I looked left, right and left again, my body flat against the black carriage. I thought I had a chance to go until a small van stopped abruptly three spaces down, causing the number 38 bus to jerk to a halt in front of me, with an admonishing toot for the offender. After four
cars had passed in the other direction, the bus moved on and I was able to swivel around, the cab’s exhaust scorching my calf.

  On reaching the curb, I was perplexed to see a small crowd gathered inside Veg&Might—after closing time. Sascha was the first to look up when the door creaked open, and gave me an enthusiastic wave.

  There were seven others, their chairs displaced to face the wall in an attempted semi-circle, thwarted by the tables fixed to the floor. A long brown-haired woman in a red floral wrap dress stood in front of three flip charts that had been tucked over the framed artworks so as not to damage the wall.

  ‘Let’s take a little break, shall we?’ Sascha said to the group, no doubt inspired by my puzzled expression. ‘There’s cucumber water on the table over there.’

  ‘Hi Grace. How are you?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘It’s our monthly charity night. I guess I’ve not talked to you about this. I hope it’s okay. Glory didn’t mind.’

  ‘We have a charity night?’

  ‘Well, I guess I should call it my charity night. You see, I’ve made a load of friends in the charitable sector and they all seem to face the same challenges in their work. So Oliver, over there…’ She pointed at the taut behind of a swimmer’s body standing with one foot on a chair. ‘He and I decided to set up a little club, so we could all share ideas. I’m involved with SAFR, Scottish Action for Refugees. You’ve heard of it, no?’ The name drew a blank but didn’t want to discourage her from continuing the explanation, so I nodded. ‘We meet here every second Friday of the month and one of us talks to the others about something that has gone particularly well for them or particularly badly.’

  The group mingled, not minding the unscheduled break, while Sascha brought me up to speed on today’s speaker. ‘That’s Julie. She’s our star, really. She’s from the Citizen’s Advice Bureau in Parkloan and won the Fundraising Excellence Award last year—can you believe she’s raised thirteen million pounds in her career?’

  ‘Very impressive.’ Out of politeness, I made sure to display the requisite admiration for this forty-something woman who, judging by the scribbles on the wall, had been discussing something called ‘Practical Donor-Centricity’. I had no interest in getting sucked into the event. ‘I’m only here for Alastair’s papers. He was going to drop them round. You guys continue.’

  ‘You don’t mind? We only help ourselves to one cup of tea each.’

  ‘No, that’s fine.’ I walked towards the counter. As I passed Oliver, I nudged his knee to force his foot off the chair. ‘Please don’t do that,’ I said.

  I looked into the startled face of a semi-bearded man with arresting blue eyes. Sascha became flustered, apologised on his behalf and, in her affable eagerness to please, decided the best way to overcome the awkwardness was to introduce us.

  ‘Oliver, this is Grace, Glory’s sister.’

  His already embarrassed expression contorted further as he offered his condolences. ‘I’m so sorry about your sister. I only found out today. I don’t know what to say. Glory was a wonderful woman.’

  ‘Oliver works at Invisible,’ Sascha said, ‘they deal with human trafficking and modern-day slavery. Let me also introduce you to Rachel. She’s at Save the Children.’ She grabbed my elbow and ushered me through Jill with the stained pink shirt, Damien with the giant gap between his teeth, and Felicity who wore a kaftan and had something to do with mental health. They were all uniformly sorry for my loss and complimentary of my sister.

  ‘How come they all know Glory?’ I asked Sascha as I picked up the thick envelope addressed to me.

  ‘She was a real supporter. Sometimes she would invite her friends to sit in on our meetings, so they would get exposed to new charities and hear first-hand how hard our work can be. And then, bless her, she’d say her charity night wasn’t about free coffee, to get them to make donations. All these guys have spent time with her one way or another.’

  Through my clients I’d witnessed the charity one-upmanship that exists between the well-heeled ladies of the Southside, but I nevertheless felt a warm glow of pride spread across my chest.

  You did good, Gi.

  Speaker Julie was summoned to pick up where she’d left off and I bade my goodbyes to the merry band of Samaritans.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  As I stepped outside, an unexpected gust of wind blew the package from my hands. It skeltered down the pavement for a good three yards before I intercepted it with my right foot. When I crouched down to retrieve the paperwork, my hair flew up and, squinting against the cold air, I noticed the double-parked red van that had caused the earlier jam start its engine. A stirring in my subconscious suggested this timing was not a coincidence. I had an eerie sensation I’d seen this vehicle around more than once.

  Was I being watched? I looked in all directions, searching for a plan. The one-way road facing me would lead to Moray Place, a narrow lane with a picturesque Alisted terrace on one side and a wall flanking the railway on the other. I figured if somebody was following me, this would be the place to find out. You wouldn’t get there without being seen.

  I darted through traffic to cross and began my test. I increased my pace, looking behind me from time to time even though the van would not have been able to enter—they’d have to come from the other side. Many of the houses here had basement level gardens, and I toyed with the idea of hiding out for a while, but preferred to soldier on, to know for sure.

  A flurry of questions set alight my synapses, which flashed frightening scenarios in response. Maybe Mike the wholesaler wanted to make sure I didn’t go to the police with the tainted cash. Maybe they were looking to recover it—maybe even by force! Maybe they wanted me gone—though I couldn’t come up with a reason for that. Perhaps I was seeing it all wrong. Perhaps it was Brian’s men. I pictured hefty Willie and the other brute crammed inside the van’s small cabin, on my tail since Govan.

  My heartbeat quickened and sticky lines of sweat slid from under my arms. I grabbed my keys and threaded them between my fingers for a makeshift weapon. My phone was clenched in the other hand for an emergency call. What if they had guns? Hell, I knew they owned guns: I’d caught glimpses of them tucked under their bomber jackets at the Prince William.

  The temperature plunged as the sun hid behind the trees and I was bathed in shade. I now regretted choosing this route, realising its peacefulness also meant no witnesses. I was easy prey. Up ahead, a front bumper turned into the street and the bottom fell out of my stomach. As the car came into view, I saw that it was just a blue Mondeo. No doubt a resident. The crunching of the tyres on some loose asphalt at the corner reassured me that at least I would hear them coming.

  Mondeo-man parked halfway on the curb, like his neighbours, then bounded out with a friendly greeting and apologised for obstructing my path. I frowned at this clown distracting me with unnecessary conversation. Did he not see I was on a mission?

  When I reached the junction, I peered round and all seemed quiet. I progressed into the middle of the lane and inspected both lengths for signs of life. Only a dribble of traffic passed in the distance where it met the main road again. No sign of a red van.

  I hugged a street lamp and pressed my forehead against the cool black metal to steady myself. Had I imagined it? There were probably red vans everywhere. Christ, every postie drove a red van. The more I thought about it, the more I accepted that my mind had run away with itself after today’s chilling encounters. Surely, I could be forgiven for suffering a bout of paranoia under the circumstances.

  Suddenly aware of how ridiculous I looked embracing street furniture like a drunk, I shook my head and resumed my journey home. I speed-dialled Dave.

  ‘Hi Grace. Hold on. I’m driving.’ There was muffled rummaging, followed by a loud thud. ‘Wait Grace,’ came a voice barely audible over the ambient rumbling. ‘I dropped the phone in the foot well. I can’t pick it up right now. Let me call you when I get to my fl
at.’

  ‘Okay,’ I shouted to make sure he heard, and gazed at the handset with a mournful sigh. Of all the times to have to sleep alone.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Exhausted, I’d fallen asleep straight after getting home and slept like a baby. My alarm went off at six and I groaned. Saturday morning. Lots of clients to see; my last weekend lie-in a distant memory since becoming a personal trainer. At least the school run was off and I wouldn’t need to walk Blue. Stephen was home.

  Later, stirring my porridge, I reflected on how my work consisted, for the most part, of assisting people in a Sisyphean task. Every workday they sat on their bums ten hours at the office and three hours in front of another screen at home, then suffered through intensive workouts at weekends only to slide back into their bad habits.

  Still, it keeps me in shoes, I thought as I tied my laces and started a quick on-the-spot jog to get me going. It was a dreich day and there was little light coming through the windows.

  Once my door closed behind me, I had to cling onto the balustrade to make my way down the dark communal staircase. The light bulb must have blown after I got home. My senses kicked up a gear, still on edge after last night’s alarming but ultimately imaginary pursuit. I scanned the road before stepping out.

  No red van.

  I decided to take the bike to help me relax, and pedalled off to my first visit. This one I liked: the gratifying case of an obese woman transforming into a butterfly with my help.

  When I came home a few hours later, I spotted the door to my building standing ajar. Why was it open? My neighbours were usually very good about closing it. I locked the bike onto a streetlight before quietly nudging the door further to enter.