In Servitude

by Heleen Kist

  ‘Is there nothing they can do?’

  ‘No. They’ve arranged for some home help. She can only come twice a day and isn’t much use for her...personal care.’ He winced.

  It was clearly awkward for him to discuss intimate matters with me. She had been such a proud woman, always immaculately presented. The thought she now needed help with bathing and the toilet filled me with sadness. For her, and for him.

  ‘I could come up more often, to take the pressure off you.’

  ‘Thanks, darling, but she needs more than that. I’m looking at homes.’

  That bombshell dwarfed the one I had come armed with, and it floored me. As I recovered from the knock-down, I wondered if I had it in me to let off another blast.

  We sat in silence, holding hands, and watched Mum doze. I suggested a cup of tea and re-joined my father on the sofa, where we sat, hands wound around our cups, huddled like campers by a fire. My rehearsed speech ready for action, I found myself mute, stalling for a better moment; one I knew wouldn’t come.

  ‘I love you, Dad,’ I said, as the silence became unbearable.

  ‘I love you too, Grace.’ He patted my knee.

  Growing up, our parents had always insisted on honesty. No matter what we’d done, they would rather hear about it from us. Glory and I managed to keep some secrets despite being terrible liars. But as the rules demanded that the punishment for lying be greater than the punishment for the act, we quickly learnt it was better to be open. Strict yet forgiving, our parents would send us to confession and, after some extra chores and the occasional slap, the matter would not be brought up again.

  Hoping the rules still stood, I chose to speak. ‘I have a story to tell you that you won’t like.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s about Glory.’

  He slid further down the sofa and turned to me with a bewildered expression. ‘Is this really necessary?’ he asked, in a tone reminding me that one should not speak ill of the dead.

  ‘I’m afraid it is. Please hear me out.’

  Over the course of twenty minutes he listened to my tale. He listened with gasps; he listened clutching his grey hair; he listened punching his leg; he listened while pacing and covering his face with his hands. But he listened. When I was done explaining about the money laundering and the beastly nature of the men we were dealing with, I dealt the final blow. ‘And he threatened me and the boys.’

  His face ashen, he informed me he needed a walk and promptly left the house, abandoning me. I knew better than to ask him how long he would be.

  Mum stirred a few times in her sleep while he was out. I stroked her cheek, not so much to elicit a response—though I ached to search her eyes for signs of herself—but in the hope that she would feel my presence. I whispered, ‘I’m the only one you’ve got now.’ But there was no response.

  When Dad burst through the kitchen door two hours later, he looked rebuilt, invigorated by fresh air that seemed to have inflated him back up to his usual heft. His eyes projected a steady resolve as he plonked next to me at the table I’d freshly cleaned.

  ‘Okay. Let me have a look at these accounts.’ He put on his reading glasses, reminding me of the hours he would spend inspecting the books of their own shop, when I was little.

  If he had been shocked or angry or disappointed—most likely all three—his walk had given him an opportunity to digest his emotions to focus on the task of helping the daughter he had left.

  Alastair’s envelope emptied, he perused the paperwork, circling a few numbers across different pages, while I kept quiet to not interrupt his train of thought. I was dying to understand how he felt, what he thought we should do next. What held me back was the worry that by questioning him, I might break the spell that currently had him on my side.

  ‘And you’ve not spoken to the police at all? Because you think they’ll treat you as an accessory?’

  ‘Yes. And I have no real proof other than a box of cash and a dodgy invoice. And there would be a whole investigation involving everyone. What if the guy’s got the cops in his pocket, like he says?’

  ‘And Stephen isn’t aware of any of this?’

  ‘No. As far as he’s concerned, Glory’s café was going well enough to pay her a small salary and not much more. I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He’s coping with enough.’ I wished I could take back that comment straight away. Why protect Stephen over my father who was also struggling? ‘I mean, this isn’t just about Glory’s crime, it’s about hiding money from him…You said she was thinking of leaving him…What good would it do for him to find out?’ I tried to rationalise it as best I could, but deep down I had a sense that the scorned husband, notwithstanding his own dirty part in getting the café up and running, would not hesitate to let me sink with the ship. At least my father would want to protect me.

  ‘I think the solution is to pay off the wholesaler—Mike,’ I said. ‘I reckon it would take about thirty thousand pounds. Do you agree?’

  He reviewed his notes and nodded. ‘It will all depend on the interest he’s been charging. Thirty will be in the right ballpark.’ He shook his head. ‘If we do that, we will never nail him for what he made Glory do. It’s like he would be rewarded.’

  His frustration was palpable, and I was relieved I had decided not to share my hypothesis that Glory was murdered. Through all my ruminations, there had been no scenario in which this information would be helpful. I’d settled on it being best to let others mourn her senseless death than to be perpetually angry, like me, because the killer couldn’t be caught.

  ‘I know he gets out of this unpunished. It makes me want to scream. But what else can we do?’

  ‘You could continue.’ His tone was bone dry.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The way I see it, there is no guarantee that he will leave you alone even if you give him money. And the threat of retaliation will always be there. Like you said, it’s only for six months. Maybe we can take the time to build a better case, to rejig the shares so that you’re not implicated. Maybe in due course we can find a fraud squad from outside Glasgow. Or it just ends.’

  I heard what he was saying, but my brain couldn’t process it. The words were garbled, muddled, as though in a different language. I tried to decipher it, but I was too stunned. Was my church-going, law-abiding father telling me to keep colluding with gangsters? To become a criminal? I couldn’t understand it at all.

  ‘In the meantime, we can use the extra cash to pay for better care for your mother. We owe her that,’ he said. And my jaw fell.

  Chapter Thirty

  Not long thereafter, I found myself on the hard shoulder of the M80, scrambling out of the van just in time to cross the low metal barrier and spew into the grass. The valiant battle against nausea that began in the ‘royal burgh’ was lost at Bannockburn. It was almost poetic, until I looked at my splattered shoes. It was also a renewed habit I could really do without. That and the raging flashes of anger, triggered over nothing. The volatility was nothing new, but why was I not able to control it like before? Before the fear and the confusion. Before nothing made sense anymore and I felt so…so…what was it? Betrayed.

  My instinct had been to run to Alice after my father’s shocking demand. I’d stopped on her street corner, idling like a workman on a break, watching her unpack umpteen pieces of sports equipment from her SUV and usher her high-spirited, red-cheeked kids into the house. There would be enough hot chocolate to go around and, even unexpected, I would always be welcome.

  But my conscience had told me to leave. Do not ruin her happy Sunday. Do not drag her into this mess.

  Though I was desperate to tap into her professional expertise, how would I begin to explain why I was asking about possible stress-induced personality changes, without revealing the whole miserable story?

  No.

  Move on.

  Go home.

  Relieved to discover a roll of paper towels in the glove box,
I wiped my feet, climbed onto the elevated chair and merged into traffic.

  Snippets of Dad’s many excuses swirled through my mind on the journey back to Glasgow.

  ‘I can’t do this alone.’

  ‘We didn’t plan for care when we sold the shop.’

  ‘The council expects us to pay anyway, even in a council home.’

  In the final moments of our conversation, he’d tried to play down the risks as a last-ditch attempt to persuade me to give in.

  ‘It’s only six months.’

  ‘No-one will know.’

  ‘God will forgive us.’

  Will he? I hadn’t thought of God in years, having long chucked my faith in the face of inexplicable famines, AIDS, sectarianism, clerical abuse, you name it. So I didn’t give a shit about God. But it mattered to Dad.

  He’d invoked their vows made before the Almighty—‘in sickness and in health.’ Did he really think it would be an acceptable justification, come judgement day, for urging one’s daughter into a life of crime?

  However outraged I was at my role as sacrificial lamb, I was somewhat comforted by the rationale. It wasn’t about wanting to safeguard their savings or not wanting to bathe her himself; it was about providing the best care for Mum.

  ‘She deserves her dignity,’ he’d said.

  It was hard to argue with that.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  On Monday morning I was on the school run and Blue-walking duties again. It was nearing the end of term and it seemed the teachers were already winding down for summer. They kept the children occupied with music recitals, art exhibitions and bake sales, all of which requiring parental involvement, which Stephen made heroic efforts to supply. Except the cakes; they were Tesco’s.

  While packing his bag, Noah enthused about the three-mile hike his dad had taken them on at the weekend, which had been followed by a treasure hunt at the Riverside Museum. I chortled as he described the pricey building designed by a famous architect to house the city’s transport collection as ‘fun and pointy’ and resembling ‘a squiggly line, like when they test your brain in films.’ He jabbered on about the steam engines and the circular overhead bicycle installation, and I spurred him on with appreciative noises. Until he mentioned the ambulance.

  ‘Did you know there are more than three hundred pieces of medical equipment inside an ambulance?’ Caught up in his quest for trivia, as if it was the most normal thing in the world, he added, ‘how many do you think they used on Mummy?’

  The question landed like a left hook. Images of my sister’s burnt-out car sparked across my mind: a blackened carcass of mangled orange metal smouldering in the grassy field. Panic grew inside me as I flashed back to the horrible moment the boys had been told the truth about their mother.

  Breathe.

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him she was dead when they found her. ‘I’m sure they used all the ones they had to,’ I said.

  This didn’t seem to satisfy the little fact-seeker, who theatrically turned his smile upside down and sighed. I would need to do better. He had me torn between answering a potentially unsatisfactory ‘all of them’ and offering a random but precise ‘five,’ with the risk that he would want to know which five. Instead, I promised to call the ambulance service while he was at school and made a mental note to research a plausible number later.

  ‘Where is your brother?’ I wanted to bring the attention elsewhere. I’d been getting good at changing the subject when things became awkward, remembering Glory’s tips for dealing with tantrums. And it was true: little boys really do have the attention span of a gnat.

  ‘He’s still upstairs.’

  A glance at my watch revealed we were at risk of being late, and I bounded up the stairs to find him. The door to the eldest’s room was closed and as I opened it, without knocking, he leapt up and hid his hands behind him. He reversed two steps to his bed in a discreet attempt to shove whatever he was holding under his pillow.

  ‘What have you got there, Adam?’

  His shoulders sagged. ‘The phone.’

  ‘What phone?’

  He shrunk into a little ball, wincing, as if waiting to be castigated. ‘Mum’s phone.’

  My heart quickened.

  Could it be?

  As if approaching a wounded bird, I drew close, my hand only partially outstretched, my voice reassuring. ‘It’s okay, sweetheart, you’ve done nothing wrong. Can you give the phone to me?’

  He passed it over, the fear of a strong reprimand visibly receding as he stepped forward.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I muttered, when I saw what was on the screen. It was a game. And a game meant that the phone was unlocked. I nearly jumped for joy. ‘How did you unlock this?’

  ‘I know the swipe code. Mum showed it to me once when we were at the dentist and had to wait a long time.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  He lifted his shoulders. ‘You never asked.’

  Afraid the gleaming display would extinguish again, I asked him to show me, and he drew a rectangle across the nine-dotted security feature. Stephen and I had given up hope of getting into Glory’s electronic stuff, having tried multiple avenues. And yet, it now seemed so obvious. I shook my head in disbelief. Why had it never occurred to us to ask the kids?

  Adam and Noah were due at school. After dropping them off, I warned Blue: ‘This will only be a quick one, buddy.’ The phone was burning a hole in my pocket and I hoped that Glory’s emails, texts or call records might provide me with more insight. Most of the bank accounts had been found, but not those in the boys’ names. I also longed to see who she had been in touch with, and how she’d communicated with her criminal contacts.

  The dog and I sprinted along Terregles Avenue for a short loop home, with enough park to give a nod to Blue’s insatiable appetite for tree-sniffing. Watching his wagging tail, I wondered if he missed Glory too. He had been easy in adapting to new routines and barked eagerly when he spotted me, as he did with all acquaintances, often circling my legs in anticipation of a brisk walk. Yet, he too must sense the void.

  I recalled an emotional client forcing me to watch a video compilation on YouTube of dogs being reunited with servicemen returning from active duty. It was the sort of stuff designed to make grown men cry: the joy of floppy-eared pups jumping in their masters’ outstretched arms, accentuated by a crescendo of violin strings. As Blue demanded a head-scratch, I apologised that he would never experience such a reunion.

  When we arrived at the house, I began scrolling through the texts while preparing a cup of tea. I’d decided to stay here, keen to start my sleuthing and because it was closer to Govan, where I would collect my car from Andy later. I grabbed an envelope to scribble on from the pile of post on the side table that appeared unchanged from recent days.

  I already knew my sister didn’t use her mobile much, so had been managing my expectations since gaining access to it. The way she’d put it was, ‘If people need to find me, they will. There are only ever two places I’ll be. Home or the café.’ Or, ‘I see enough of my friends not to have to catch up on Facebook.’ Plus, she was notoriously incapable of taking a good selfie so that was reason enough not to use it.

  Casting any privacy scruples aside, I swiped the rectangular shape. The SMS messages revealed little. They consisted for the most part of exchanges between her and Stephen to do with domestic logistics. They didn’t paint a picture of a healthy romance, but then you wouldn’t be expected to write sonnets about running out of toothpaste. Sascha occasionally enquired about Glory’s whereabouts or asked her to pick up an order from Locavore en route to work. Her WhatsApp was inundated with the ramblings of harassed mothers bemoaning lost PE kits and the lack of information about school events.

  While I marched through her calendar, email and other apps systematically, my earlier excitement faded with every swipe. The electronic version of her life was all so mundane. The diary of a housewife and minor
entrepreneur. Nothing indicated any illicit goings-on.

  No unexpected banking App.

  No secret coded messages.

  Nothing.

  I moped around the kitchen feeling robbed. The folder for the business contained only things I’d already seen at the venue or received from Alastair.

  Where’s the money, Gi? Where did you keep track of it all?

  The thought occurred to me that perhaps she hadn’t stored any notes on purpose. Why preserve incriminating evidence? Maybe it wasn’t that hard to monitor the laundering. After all, the payments required for the wholesaler were stated in the false invoices, and any funds left over fell under her control, anyway. She pilfered a bit of her share in cash first to avoid any tax, judging by the stash in her closet, but the rest would be officially recorded in the bookkeeping.

  Deflated, I cast the phone aside. The display flipped onto the lock screen, featuring a close-up of her boys. Those smiling faces drew me back in: I hadn’t checked the pictures! Like any proud mother, the memory card would be full of her kids. But there could also be snaps of her and, at that moment, I wanted nothing more than to be with my sister.

  I opened the Gallery and was greeted by a kaleidoscope of thumbnails. However much I had grown to love the kids, I filtered them out as I scanned the various albums, my eyes fixated on finding a blob of red hair. The stream of youthful faces was interspersed with buildings, landscapes and unfamiliar people. It was only when a grouping of random male adult figures kept popping up that I slowed down to study them in detail. What was this?

  I gasped when I recognised the location of the background. Curious to make out their relevance, I catalogued all the similar-themed photos as a new set. When I was done, there were twenty-two clues for me to process.

  It appeared that in the three weeks preceding her death, Glory had photographed Excelsior’s frontage and the work yards at its side and rear twenty-two times. She’d captured labourers carrying all manner of boxes by hand; their work supervised by the ned I’d met, slurping on an Irn Bru with a menacing brown dog at his feet.