by Owen Mullen
Cecelia McNeil dwelt on the memory.
‘So what happened?’
‘Christopher took up with the wrong crowd. Overnight he became a stranger. His father tried talking to him. I tried too. All we got were tantrums and tears and silence. Out of the blue he announced he didn’t want to go anymore.
‘Stephen was hurt. I put it down to the terrible teens. Christopher’s grades dropped. My boy was always near the top of the class: his teachers were concerned because the slump was so dramatic. One even came to the house to discuss it with us. Other parents told me to wait it out, that it would pass. Par for the course they said. Be thankful I didn’t have a girl.’
‘What age would he be?’
She thought about it.
‘Fifteen.’
‘A tough time.’
‘Though we often had words, his father got the worst of it. Stephen couldn’t do right for doing wrong. It affected him, even more than me. He lost weight and there was a tension in him that hadn’t been there before.’
‘Teenagers like to give parents a hard time.’
‘Through the storm, the door-slamming, the backchat, the lack of respect, Stephen kept his temper. He once told me his greatest fear was of turning out like his father. I never met that man and I’m glad. The crunch came when Christopher stole the car. He just took it. He crashed – of course – into another vehicle.’
‘Was he injured?’
‘He was lucky, there wasn’t much damage but Stephen was angry. If somebody had got the registration it wouldn’t be long until the police arrived. Next day they did. My husband told them he was driving and showed them the marks, scuffed paint mostly. He claimed the other driver was at fault; they didn’t disagree. Problem was, Christopher had left the scene. Fled they called it. That was their main concern. And it threw up another problem. Stephen was a long distance driver. My tuition didn’t bring in enough, our livelihood depended on his license. The police accepted his story, Christopher was in the clear, but they charged Stephen.’
She looked away and back again.
‘I don’t know why I’m telling you this. It isn’t important.’
‘Right now we can’t be sure what’s important and what isn’t. Go on. When was this?’
‘About eighteen months back. In the end it came to a fine and a lecture from the judge. Unfortunately, Christopher forgot the part he played and the risk his father had taken to protect him. The attitude returned, if anything more hostile. Stephen took a firmer line. Maybe too firm. They argued. Every weekend started and ended with a shouting match.’
She trembled. ‘Am I taking too long? There must be lots of people waiting.’
‘They’ll have to wait,’ I said. ‘Go on.’
‘It got bad, really bad. One night they actually fought. Christopher locked himself in his room, Stephen went out to calm down. Our home had become a battlefield.’
She touched the ash on her forehead and returned to the present. ‘I’m talking too much, sorry.’
Cecelia McNeil placed her palms together. ‘Please find Stephen, Mr Cameron, he’s out of his mind with grief. His father failed him. He thinks he failed Christopher. If there’s any hope of getting him back it isn’t the police. We need to heal, together, by ourselves. This morning at St Andrew’s I let God in again. And I was none too easy with him either. I told him straight.’
‘Let’s hope he was listening.’
‘I’m sure he was,’ she said. ‘He sent me to you, didn’t he?’
* * *
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* * *
She answered my questions about her husband and son, let me have her contact details, and pushed a couple of photographs across the desk. Neither was recent. In the first the boy wouldn’t have been more than ten; his father’s arm drew them together. There were fishing rods in the shot, they’d been on the water somewhere. No fish to boast about, just smiles and blood ties. The other was outside a football stadium. The scarves draped round their shoulders told which one. The boy was older, the pose was the same and set together the pictures suggested a bond the man had worked at building.
The snaps were a beginning but a visit to the house would tell me more. Christopher McNeil had taken his looks from his mother: fair hair, the shape of his young face; the tapered fingers gripping the team colours said his father’s genes had lost out. The adult beside him was dark and well-built, swarthy, his jowls overlaid with shadow.
‘Christopher’s like you.’
‘Yes, but in those days he was his daddy’s boy.’
We went downstairs, to the door. Jackie Mallon worked at a table nearby. When we shook hands Cecelia McNeil’s felt soft and fragile.
‘Stephen lived for his boy, Mr Cameron. It made me so sad to watch him going to the game by himself. It had been such a great thing to share. A father and son, supporting their team. My husband kept telling Christopher what he was missing, encouraging him along. He wouldn’t join in.’
‘Why did his father still take two tickets? Football isn’t cheap.’
‘I suppose he hoped Christopher would change his mind.’
‘He never did?’
‘No, he said he wasn’t interested. Stephen paid a lot of money for those seats.’
‘What did your son do instead?’
‘I’m ashamed to say I’m not sure. What kind of parent does that make me?’
‘The normal kind. Young people like their secrets; it’s how they cope with experiences their folks would rather they didn’t have. They aren’t good at criticism.’
‘There was his music, of course.’ She laughed. ‘His father’s a rock ‘n’ roll man, Christopher played classical.’
‘What did he play?’
‘Piano. Like me.’
‘Did you teach him?’
‘Oh, when he was a wee boy I helped him find his way round the keyboard. After that he went to lessons. When we met, Stephen was a huge Hendrix fan but Georg Frideric Handel was my superstar. His Messiah is a masterpiece. They lived next door to each other in London, did you know that? A couple of hundred years apart mind, but still.’
Cecelia McNeil was easy to like. Behind the old fashioned religious intensity was a nice lady.
‘Find my husband, Mr Cameron, he isn’t well. Tell me where he is so I can go to him. I take my vows seriously. In sickness and in health aren’t just words to me. They’re a sacred promise.’
‘I understand. I’ll do my best.’
‘God will be with you.’
I smiled. ‘Then it’s a done deal.’
Three
The city of Glasgow is well served by hospitals. I tried six. No one matching Stephen McNeil’s description had been admitted in the previous weeks. He wasn’t in jail either. If he’d gone to Central Station and jumped the Euston train, London would swallow him. I went downstairs to NYB and ordered a latte. Andrew Geddes was in his seat by the window, suit stretched tight against his stocky frame. That style would come back again someday.
Andrew was a DS in Police Scotland CID and my mate, a moody guy with an unshakeable concept of right and wrong; divorce had given him a singular view of the world. Now and then he helped me so I regularly paid his tab. It never altered, no matter what shift he was working; sweet black coffee and a bagel, used in a fascinating ritual that wasn’t pretty to watch.
He buttered the bagel and dipped it in the cup. With wet pastry floating on the surface, he bent forward, slurping and snaffling like a truffle hound. People stared, he didn’t mind. I waited for him to resurface and wipe flakes of cooked dough from his mouth.
‘This is how it’s done in the Big Apple,’ he said.
‘I’ll take your word for it, Andrew.’
I’d had that explanation a hundred times.
‘I’m looking for somebody.’
‘Who isn’t?’ He stopped mid-dunk. ‘Couldn’t you take a boring old surveillance job, or snap some dirty pictures for a divorce lawyer for a change?’
‘This on
e isn’t missing exactly, more like AWOL. The hospitals don’t have him, he isn’t in the cells.’
‘Could be in the Big House on remand. Or the morgue.’
The Big House was Barlinnie. The Bar-L.
‘I don’t think he’s dead.’
‘Try the morgue anyway. I start in twenty minutes. I’ll call them. See what they’ve got.’
An hour later my phone rang. ‘Unidentified male washed ashore four days ago at Luss. Two canoeists found the body. Worth a look. I’ll tell them you’re coming.’
On my way out, Pat Logue gave me an empty glass salute. His father had lost to cancer the previous week; his mother was already dead. He was still wearing a black tie although the funeral had been on Friday. It clashed with the polo shirt.
‘Charlie! Want to buy an orphan a drink?’
He slid off the barstool and fell into step. ‘Where’re we going?’
‘We’re not going.’
‘No harm in a wee walk.’
The gaunt guy on the corner let us pass without offering the magazine. His eyes were heavy, lowered so he didn’t have to look at me. When we passed he shouted after us.
“‘The rank is but the guinea’s stamp, the man’s the gowd for a’ that!’”
Pat Logue clocked it. ‘Hear that? He blanked you. Now he’s givin’ it Rabbie Burns. What’ve you done to him?’
‘Last couple of times I’d no change. Elephants and Big Issue sellers never forget, Patrick.’
‘Probably doolally. Christ knows when he last had something to eat.’
‘Didn’t notice you making a contribution.’
‘Can’t,’ he said. ‘Haven’t a razoo. Where’re we off to?’
‘Pat, I’ll let you know if I need you.’
He got to the point. ‘I’m looking for a sponsor, Charlie. Things aren’t the best with me and Gail. I got a bit out of order after the funeral so she’s given me a red card. Have to stay clear of the house.’
I took out a ten pound note. He eyed it with dismay. ‘What’s that?’
‘A donation.’
‘Noticed the prices in there? A bigger photo of the queen would help, take it off my money. Call it a retainer.’ I gave him a twenty. He said, ‘Keep it in your trousers, Charlie,’ and walked away with a spring in his step.
Where I was going wasn’t far, through Candleriggs towards the Green, to a squat stone box building topped with a band of red brick. The sun came out; it would take more than a splash of warm light to improve the look of the mortuary. Inside a man in a white coat asked my name and showed me to a room on the left, empty except for a few chairs and a television built into the wall. The sign on the door read Visitors Room. It wasn’t a welcoming place – it didn’t need to be – nobody would stay overlong.
‘You won’t see the body,’ the attendant said, ‘just the face.’
The next few moments could break Cecelia McNeil’s already broken heart and make this the shortest case I had ever been on. I wondered if her god had heard, or if the faith of a decent woman would be tested again. I took another look at the photograph of the football supporters. One of them was already dead. The TV picture flickered in black and white, the image grey on grey. A face filled the screen, bloated and waxy, unlined, neutral in death. It wasn’t Stephen McNeil. But it wasn’t a stranger.
I hadn’t seen Ian Selkirk in a long time, not since the night he asked me for money. The night I turned him down.
Got myself into some trouble. Wondered if you could help
He had laughed that nervous laugh of his.
Not a gift, Charlie. Not something for nothing
For Patrick Logue a big photo of the queen was enough. Ian had needed a lot more. And he wouldn’t explain.
It was just another day down on the farm for the mortuary attendant. He wasn’t the right person to speak to but he was the only one there.
‘What did the autopsy show?’
He straightened chairs; the smell of old tobacco followed him around. My question held no interest. ‘Hasn’t been done yet,’ he said. ‘They’re running behind. Be Friday at the earliest. Next week more likely.’
I couldn’t take my eyes from the television. Ian’s water-blown features filled my mind. He had been one of the most alive people I’d ever known. We had been mates. That summer in Thailand, Ian was the one who got the three of us jobs at the diving school in Koh Tao. They hired Fiona and me because they needed him.
I felt cold. I spoke to myself. ‘He couldn’t have drowned. He was a great swimmer. How could he drown? He was too good. Far too good.’
The attendant shepherded me to the street; he’d seen the same reaction scores of times. His priority was to clear the place ready for the next one. In daylight his complexion wasn’t much better than Ian Selkirk’s; he needed to get out more, and not just for a cigarette.
I babbled. ‘He was ace in the water, how could he drown?’
‘What’s your relationship to the deceased?’
‘Friend. A close friend.’
He looked at the sky and the Tron clock at the top of Saltmarket and nodded as if my reply explained something he hadn’t understood. The words escaped from the side of his mouth in a smoky whisper. ‘Off the record. Your pal didn’t drown.’
I took a step back. He shied away from qualifying his statement.
‘He didn’t drown. Believe me.’
The door closed.
I believed him.
Four
I didn’t go back to the office. I went to High Street where my car was parked. Andrew Geddes said the body washed ashore at Luss on Sunday; the scene would still be intact.
Great Western Road took me north, out of the city. Normally the mix of Persian and Greek restaurants, West Indian greengrocers, Pakistani take-aways and Halal butchers appealed to me. I liked the colour and chaos. Today it seemed drab.
At Anniesland Cross, a silver Volkswagen Passat pulled in behind me as the sun broke through the clouds. The day was brightening, I was blind to it. Beyond Dumbarton strange names, difficult to pronounce, appeared on road signs. The turn-off for Duck Bay Marina and Cameron House Hotel came and went then, through the trees over on the right, there it was: Loch Lomond. Impressive enough to merit its own song. Flat calm stretching into the distance flanked by Ben Lomond; over three thousand feet high, patched with snow, the most southerly Munro. Out on the loch a speed boat skimmed the surface drawing a foaming line, white against dark blue. Scotland saw too few days like this; opportunities to play with such expensive toys were rare.
My mood was sour. Seeing him, cold and swollen and empty of life had left me unfit to be with people. I hadn’t thought of Ian Selkirk in more than a dozen years, now I could think of nothing else. Memories came in numbers, I didn’t resist them. At a rock gig in the QM it was Fiona who caught my attention; slim and dark and smiling, watching Ian push his way to the bar, apologising when he squeezed into space where there was no space. Jumping the queue of thirsty students. The band was trying to be Talking Heads. I’d given up on them after the third number and taken a strategic position at the bar, an arm’s length from the taps. The place was mobbed, eight deep, everyone harassing the over-worked staff for service. Ian struggled like a salmon against the tide, determined to get where he needed to go. Whenever someone complained about his cheek he grinned and said something I couldn’t hear. It must have been funny because they laughed.
He used that trick more than once, edging closer, until the last row lay between him and his objective. He tried to manoeuvre himself one more time but the serious drinkers held their ground, immune to his jokey asides. Every arm was raised to attract attention. Fingers flicked fivers and tenners and twenties, all claiming to be first. I looked through the crowd to his girlfriend and saw her face. It was a lovely face. That made up my mind. I stretched a hand towards him; he took it and I pulled him home.
He said, ‘Thanks mate. What you having?’
And that was how we met.
I gav
e my spot at the bar to some sweaty guy in an Iron Maiden t-shirt and joined them. We clinked glasses and introduced ourselves. They were at Glasgow Uni. Ian put an arm round his companion, a signal she was taken. Fiona seemed content to let him do most of the talking. He would ask a question and answer it himself. Witty observations collided with fragments of trivia, his eyes dancing with mischief. I thought it was a performance for my benefit. If it was, his girlfriend enjoyed it as much as I did. The bond between them was undeniable. My strongest recollection is of laughing. After a while I fell about every time he opened his mouth, even before he said anything. We all did. By the end I was hoarse and exhausted.
I sneaked a look at the girl. She was very attractive; they both were. One dark, the other fair, with even white teeth and skin that glowed beneath clothes worn with stylish indifference. Her hair was shoulder length, in long black curls. When she spoke she shrugged it back. I thought she was wonderful and ached to kiss her. I envied him. They had something, something I hadn’t come across before. An energy. A synergy. He was a cool guy and I fancied her. When it was time to go our separate ways I was sorry.
Ian clapped my shoulder. ‘Thanks for helping me out,’ he said. ‘I’d still be stuck with the plebs with my tongue hanging out.’
‘No problem, you were doing all right on your own.’
‘We come here most weekends, maybe we’ll see you again.’
They did. I made sure they did. We met often, drank too much lager and talked and talked. Many nights ended at the Moti Mahal, stuffing ourselves with traditional Glasgow fare, Ian’s name for tandoori chicken drumsticks and – if he was really bladdered – lamb vindaloo. The people who owned the Moti were from Kerala: Mr Rani Das; his wife Anjali; sons Salman and Videk, and their daughter Geeta. Everyone worked in the restaurant. They became friends. Mr Rani would sit with us, running a hand through his bushy black hair. If he wasn’t too busy and we weren’t too drunk he’d tell stories about his boyhood in India: exotic tales of train journeys at night across the vast sub-continent. Dawn arrivals with mynahs and parrots circling in the first golden light of a new day, and vendors on the platform shouting “Chai garam, chai garam” [hot tea, hot tea].