by Owen Mullen
He was pushing his way to the bar, apologising when he squeezed into space where there was no space. A salmon swimming against the tide, determined to get where he needed to go, grinning and joking his way to the front. I looked through the crowd and saw her face. It was a lovely face. I stretched a hand towards him. ‘Ian! Here!’
He took it and I pulled him home. He said, ‘Thanks mate. What you having?’ and the present melted away.
I paid for their drinks. Fiona threw her arms round me and held on. When she let go he took over. ‘Get in touch with your emotions,’ he said and gave me a hug.
‘How’s Thailand?’
‘Spain now,’ she said. ‘We left not long after you.’
‘Thought you were there for keeps?’
The idea amused her. ‘Keeps is a long time, Charlie.’
She was talking about my proposal. In the semi-darkness I blushed.
‘So what’re you doing here? Rainy old Glasgow pulling you back?’
Ian answered. ‘We’re in real estate. The UK is the primary market. Thousands of Britons own houses there, more are keen to buy. We want to create links with existing agencies and represent them on the ground. It’s Fiona’s idea.’
He didn’t sound like the crazy loon I’d known. Ian said, ‘What about you?’
‘Nothing much. Working my way through what my grandmother left. Real estate’s a bit dull for you guys. What happened to having fun?’
Fiona said, ‘Making money is fun. Great fun.’ Her eyes travelled round the club.
I said, ‘How long are you in town?’
‘We’re leaving tomorrow. Flying visit.’
‘How can I reach you?’
She dug a pen and a scrap of paper from her bag and wrote down a number.
‘My mobile if you ever want me.’
If I ever wanted her.
Fiona raised her glass. ‘A toast. To friendship.’ We echoed the sentiment. She took my hand and squeezed. ‘Old friends are the best friends.’
Ian interrupted. ‘One for the road, Fi?’
She spoke to him though her eyes never left mine. ‘Can’t. We’re already late.’
To hell with pride. I was still in love with Fiona Ramsay. Not what I told her.
‘Maybe next time,’ I said. ‘Let me know you’re coming and we’ll do the Moti again.’
She tossed her hair over her shoulder. ‘That would be nice.’
I thought about them, pictured them; in a taxi going to the airport, waiting at the gate, sitting on the plane, leaving me behind. I studied her mobile number; the ragged scribble was all I had to hold on to.
Ian and Fiona had unsettled me; they still had the ability to make what they were about sound more interesting than everybody else. I felt flat.
A year after they left, Ian was back asking for help. Not Jack the Lad Ian – the one who conned his way to the bar – this Ian Selkirk was on the edge of pleading.
Not even for an old pal?
I didn’t realise he was frightened.
Then I got the call, the words rushing from the phone, breathless and unqualified. No introductions. None needed. I was in love with that voice; and the mouth, and the eyes.
‘He’s disappeared, Charlie. Ian’s disappeared.’
‘I saw him last week.’
‘Where?’
‘Here, in Glasgow. He needed money.’
She hesitated. ‘Did you give it to him?’
‘No, I didn’t have it. What’s gone wrong, Fiona? When we met I thought everything was great.’
‘Everything was.’
I heard her sigh. ‘A property developer gave us exclusive rights to market a beach front complex. The units sold like hot cakes. There was only a handful left. We had had a hectic few days. Too much money to keep in the safe. Ian was on his way to the bank.’
‘With cash? Doesn’t it get transferred electronically?’
‘This is Spain we’re talking about, Charlie, cash is king. Nobody declares the true amount. Business is done under the counter, brown envelopes all over the place.’
‘So what happened?’
‘He never got there.’
‘Have you called the police?’
‘Of course, I told them he was missing. I kept quiet about the money.’
‘You think he stole it?’
She didn’t answer.
‘How can I help? What can I do?’
‘Look for him. Find him and get him to come back. I’ll come over if I have to. Whatever mess he’s in can be sorted. I should’ve known the bloody idiot would go to Glasgow.’
That conversation was the first inkling things weren’t as rosy as Ian and Fiona painted them. The force field round them had been breached.
I decided to trust Andrew Geddes. I told him about Ian. He listened without judging and pointed me in the right direction. Days were taken up with telephone calls to hospitals and visits to hostels. I tracked down some of his class from Glasgow University. Andrew worked his contacts. We found nothing. I even tried a couple of gay bars hoping to see him.
One young man, a pale, thin boy barely old enough to be allowed over the door, said he had met an Ian who lived in Spain. I gave him my number and asked him to contact me if he saw him again. A few nights later he did - Ian was at the bar, drinking alone. I drove like a lunatic across the city. When I arrived he wasn’t there. I’d missed him by ten minutes.
It was the Fiona of old who rang the second time. Confident. Unfazed. The everything’s-wonderful girl. ‘Panic over. He’s here. It’s all been a misunderstanding. I over reacted, I’m sorry.’
No mention of the money, no explanation of why Ian Selkirk had been in Scotland, or why he approached me. ‘And thanks, Charlie. Stay in touch.’
No mention of us.
I told Andrew. He made a face. ‘You were having fun for a while, tracking down your friend, weren’t you? Found him too.’
It hadn’t occurred to me. ‘I suppose I was, Andrew.’
‘Fancy trying it again?’
That was the start.
-------
* * *
The city lights blinked in the late evening gloom. I parked and headed for an Italian restaurant near Kelvin Bridge, a haunt when I was at Strathclyde. Tonight the food had no taste; my fault not theirs. Ash Wednesday was drawing to a close. Cecelia McNeil and her God, Luss and the old man painting the fence were already a dream. Then Ian Selkirk’s grey dead face and the certainty of the mortuary attendant.
Off the record. Your pal didn’t drown
Yeah. It had been a strange day.
Six
Donnie Fulton watched Eddie Tumelty slap a shovelful of earth on the dark brown mound they’d created; some of it trickled down the side and dropped over the edge. In the hole, water collected around Eddie’s boots in a muddy pool.
‘Clay,’ he said. ‘Less than two feet and already we’ve hit clay.’
Donnie didn’t respond. It could’ve been concrete for the difference it made. They had their orders, what was there to say?
Fulton didn’t much like his partner. Tumelty was lazy and a complainer; all the way from Glasgow he’d moaned. Eventually Donnie got tired listening to him whine and made a suggestion, ‘Want me to tell Kevin you’re not happy? Sure he’d sort something cushy for you if you asked him.’
Kevin would sort him all right.
Donnie rested his elbow on the spade and rolled a fag with the dexterity of a magician. He scanned the empty horizon. His boss had been very clear about where they were to go. Mamba country. Miles and miles of bugger all. It was certainly that.
‘Make it deep,’ Rafferty had said.
They arrived in the middle of the afternoon and, at first, the two men worked together until there wasn’t enough room for both. Now they took turns. This was Eddie’s turn and he didn’t like it. Not what he’d signed on for. He saw the fag between Fulton’s fingers. ‘Do one for me, will you?’
Donnie ignored him.
�
�Come on, don’t be a tight arse, do one for me.’
‘Do your own.’
Donnie had no interest in anything beyond finishing and getting back to Glasgow. They’d been at it for over an hour with at least another hour ahead; heavy work, slow work; a job they’d done more than once. And Eddie was right, it was crap. Donnie hated it every bit as much he did. He stared into the excavated ground and thanked god it wasn’t for him.
They were digging some unlucky bastard’s grave.
* * *
------
* * *
In the east end of the city Alexandra Parade was quiet, unrecognisable from the bumper to bumper traffic jam it was during the day. The Parade began where the New Edinburgh Road ended and ran as far as the Necropolis overlooking the city. On the whole stretch there was only one pub – unusual for Glasgow. Inside the Gables the landlord chivvied stragglers to do their talking walking.
Ambrose Reid, Ambie to his friends, stood at the kerb whistling a tuneless melody and waited for a taxi. The Cheltenham Gold Cup had been good to him. His lucky race he called it, and it had been again; under his jacket a wedge of notes pressed against his shirt. Reid wasn’t a boozer – he preferred women – but tonight he wanted to celebrate. He had called Isobel and told her to get some wine. Laughter and loud voices drew his attention to the pub and the manager shepherding the last of the diehards into the street. When the door closed the laughter ended. Denied sanctuary the drinkers seemed lost. Reid shook his head. Losers. He couldn’t know time had been called on him as well.
Across the street Kevin Rafferty watched from the front of a white Vauxhall. Ambie Reid was no stranger to him. Occasionally he’d used the pretty boy when charm was more effective than muscle; in his business those kinds of jobs were few and far between. Reid was a gambler, a handsome nobody who lived by his wits, with a well-earned reputation as a ladies’ man. Something Kevin would never be.
The guy behind the wheel said, ‘Yes?’
Rafferty answered. ‘Yeah. Take him.’
The driver flashed the lights. Further down the Parade a black cab coughed to life and moved through the junction towards Reid with its hire sign lit. The window rolled down.
‘Where to, mate?’
Reid told him and got in the back. Without warning the doors opened, two men appeared and slid in either side of him. Ten minutes later they stopped outside Sandro’s fish and chip shop in Baillieston. The blinds were drawn. The sallow skinned owner and his wife weren’t there. Kevin Rafferty was. Reid’s affair with his mother was known to everyone but him. When his father told him, he wanted to be sick. Jimmy was cold. He could have ended the relationship with a word – the affair had been going less than a week when he heard about it. Instinct told him to let it mature so the hurt, when it came, would be greater.
Reid thought he was fucking Isobel Rafferty; instead he was fucking Jimmy.
They huckled him out of the car into the shop. Kevin was behind the counter wearing one of Sandro’s white coats. He smiled. ‘Single fish or supper, Ambrose? What do you fancy?’
Reid struggled to break free. ‘Kevin. What the...Let me speak to Jimmy.’
‘Pie then? Or a pudding, maybe? Sandro does a very nice pizza.’
A terrified Ambie was dragged to the range. Rafferty turned the thermostat all the way to the top. Isobel’s lover started to cry. ‘Please. Please. Please!’
Hands grabbed his hair, he saw himself in the mirror above the gantry.
Kevin said, ‘Take a last look, pretty boy’ and dipped Ambrose Reid’s face in the hot fat. He held it under. Reid’s days as a ladies’ man were over.
* * *
-------
* * *
As soon as Isobel Rafferty saw her son standing in the doorway she knew.
Unless Kevin was here to tell her Jimmy was dead this visit wasn’t about anything good. Since the divorce, Kevin and Sean hadn’t come near her, they’d taken their father’s side. She didn’t understand why.
Kevin looked his mother up and down, taking in the lipstick and the length of the skirt. Disapproval mixed with contempt in his eyes. He said, ‘Don’t bother waiting up, he won’t be coming. Shame you’ve gone to so much trouble.’
‘What?’
‘Lover boy can’t make it tonight.’ He grinned. ‘Or any night.’
‘Ambrose?’
‘The very same.’
From the beginning of the affair, Isobel was aware she was putting herself between a vicious thug and a smooth talking user. But she was a single woman, now, with the paper to prove it. Reid wasn’t the answer to anybody’s dreams. Already he owed her more money than he could ever repay. That didn’t matter. He listened when she spoke and lifted his eyes when she came into the room.
Her voice faltered, afraid to ask. ‘What’ve you done to him?’
‘What he deserved.’
Kevin walked to the car idling at the kerb.
‘Jimmy says hello by the way.’
Isobel shut the door and pressed her back against its cool surface. Ambrose was dead, murdered because of her. Reality hit, her eyes closed against it; she was a prisoner, the divorce was a sham, meaningless legal waffle Jimmy hadn’t bothered to challenge because he knew what she was only realising: it changed nothing.
Her legs gave way and she collapsed on the floor sobbing quietly. Mascara worn for her lover ran in black lines down her face. There would be no fresh start, no freedom, no new life.
Her ex- husband wouldn’t let her go. Not now. Not ever.
Nobody quit on Jimmy Rafferty.
* * *
------
* * *
‘Is it done?’
‘It’s done,’ Kevin said and told his tale, teasing out the details.
The old man leaned on his stick, feeling nothing in his left leg and close to nothing in his arm. The body he’d relied on had let him down, betrayed him after a lifetime. The mother of his sons was another example of the same truth. In the end everything, everyone, let you down.
He allowed himself a grim smile and savoured the graphic descriptions of pretty boy Reid’s demise, enjoying the irony. Ambrose must have been an even bigger fool than he had seemed, to imagine he could mess with Jimmy Rafferty’s property and go unpunished. Ex-wife or no, Isobel would always belong to him.
He wouldn’t tell him but, for once, Kevin had done well.
Sean heard his brother speaking and switched off. A nobody had died an agonising death. How did that help them? Where was the advantage? They only had so much energy; they shouldn’t be wasting it settling scores. His mother had got herself a new man – so what? Jimmy and Kevin couldn’t see it. Clowns, both of them.
Kevin knew he’d pleased his father; his mood was bright. ‘We’ve got a break,’ he said, as if it had slipped his mind. ‘Somebody’s interested in the thief’s body.’
‘Who?’
‘Nobody we know. Guess where he went when he left the mortuary.’
Sean wasn’t interested in games. ‘No idea?’
‘Loch Lomond.’
‘What did he do?’
Kevin shook his head.
‘Did he meet anybody?’
‘No, he walked on the pier and stared at the water.’
‘Any sign of the woman?’
‘None, though it can’t be a coincidence. Maybe he was trying to pick up the money trail?’
Jimmy broke in. ‘Find out who this character is.’
Sean said, ‘If he laughs at you, count to ten.’
Kevin balled a hand into a fist. ‘Don’t push it, Sean. Christ, I took his fingers off. He was never going to break.’
Sean was unimpressed. ‘They always break. You pressed the wrong buttons. At the very least you should’ve hidden the body. And how did you lose his mobile?’
Jimmy listened to the exchange. Kevin he understood. Sean had always been a mystery. Neither resembled him. Kevin was six foot one, dark and fiery; handsome if he didn’t have the scar. The Ambie Re
ids of the world were meat and drink to him. Not a talent to be underestimated, he had inherited that gift from him. Sean was fair like his mother, not as tall as his brother. And the boy was deep, always had been.
Sometimes Jimmy wondered if he’d fathered a ponce.
Seven
I woke on Thursday morning to find a stone where my heart should have been. During Ash Wednesday my life had slipped its moorings and left me adrift. My watch told me it was twenty past seven; memories jostling with doubts about my choices overwhelmed me. If I’d said this, if only I’d done that. It was a mistake to leave Thailand when I did. I ought to have gone back after my grandmother’s funeral; how different it might have been. Fiona and I would be together. Why couldn’t that have been enough? And Ian would be alive, conning somebody and making them feel good about it.
Blue thoughts on a blue day. Getting out of bed wasn’t easy.
The sky threatened rain. Yesterday’s sunshine had been a fortunate fluke; the Scottish weather assumed its default setting, overcast and chilly. It suited my mood. I waited an hour before calling. Andrew Geddes was at home. Noises in the background said Sandra might be with him. It wasn’t the right moment to give him the whole story so I asked if he could chase the autopsy report and let it go at that. I pushed what I had to do to the back of my mind; it wouldn’t go away.
Someone would have to tell Fiona. I would have to tell Fiona.
I dragged myself under the shower and let the water cleanse me, until I felt good enough to cancel the day, then I called Jackie and let her know I wasn’t coming in. She didn’t ask why.
‘If anybody wants me urgently, tell them to go fuck themselves.’
I wasn’t joking. She didn’t laugh.
I hung round the flat, walking in and out of rooms, going over what I would say and how; pretending I wasn’t sure where Fiona’s number was, all the while knowing it was in my phone. A dozen times I dialled and killed the call, inventing one excuse after another; it was too early, although Spain was only an hour ahead; she might be busy, might be at lunch or with someone. Be married, have kids. Wouldn’t it be better to wait until evening? The number I had was old, almost ten years old. There was every chance it was no longer in use. In the end I punched the button and heard the tone ring a thousand miles away.