by Owen Mullen
‘Hello?’ It was her. She sounded sleepy.
‘Fiona? Did I wake you? It’s Charlie.’
‘Charlie? Charlie? What a lovely surprise. No I wasn’t asleep. Are you calling from Glasgow? I was just thinking about you.’
People always said that. I never believed them. ‘How are you?’
‘Fiona this isn’t a catch-up call, I’ve got bad news, very bad news I’m afraid. It’s Ian.’
‘Ian? What about Ian?’
‘He’s dead, Fiona. I found out by accident. Ian’s dead.’
Seconds of silence then she hung up.
I wanted to hear her voice, share our pain. Fiona had been closer to Ian than me, closer than anyone; she deserved time to herself. At nine o’clock that night my mobile vibrated on the glass coffee table. It was her. The conversation took up where it left off.
‘What happened?’
I told the little I knew, leaving out the mortuary attendant’s dramatic aside. She said, ‘I’m coming over,’ and rang off. Midnight she was back again. ‘I’ve got a flight tomorrow afternoon getting into Glasgow around six.’
‘I’ll meet you.’
‘No need, I’ll hire a car at the airport. Where will you be?’
I gave her directions to NYB.
‘Okay. See you around seven thirty.’ She must have heard the concern in my voice. ‘And Charlie, don’t worry about me, I’m fine.’
Friday was another strange one. Jackie was in her office under the stairs, working her way through a plate of Danish pastries, looking the way I felt. Man trouble, had to be. I would’ve helped but didn’t know how. I was shocked about Ian and nervous about Fiona. His death was a landmark in my own life, a realisation that the Moti Mahal era – ten pints of lager and a vindaloo, cheap wine, good blow, laughing at his mad antics ’til I was sore – was over. I would never be young again.
Cecelia McNeil added to my woes. Her note took me by surprise; she must have written and posted it hours after our meeting. This was a lady expecting miracles.
* * *
Dear Mr Cameron,
Excuse me for being over-anxious. I’m aware it hasn’t been long, but I just had to thank you for listening so sympathetically. Please let me know as soon as you have news. These last weeks I’ve lived in despair. Now, at last, I can believe again. Be assured you are in my prayers. God is at your shoulder.
Yours, Cecelia McNeil.
* * *
In NYB, Andrew Geddes waved to me and shook his head. It would be next week before the pathologist pronounced on the cause of death. I tried to reserve a table in case Fiona was hungry. There wasn’t one; the restaurant was fully booked. I pulled Jackie aside.
‘Stick something together for tonight, will you? It’s important.’
‘It’s Friday. We’re chocka.’
‘Then give me the table you give Brad Pitt when he comes in on a Friday and you’re chocka.’
‘I’ll sort it out.’
I should’ve left it there. So should she. Neither of us did.
‘Good of you, Jackie. Considering I’m your best customer.’
She bit back. ‘And that entitles you to what exactly?’
It was banter, our usual thing, except for different reasons we were both too fragile for humour. A flash of annoyance washed over me. ‘Seven thirty. If you really don’t have space we’ll go somewhere else.’
‘You’re your father’s son, Charlie.’
That small exchange warned me, if I needed warning, where I was emotionally. Discovering Ian had hit me hard. Fiona’s world must be rocking.
At seven I was waiting, more nervous than I would’ve believed possible. Every few minutes I glanced to the door; seven thirty became eight o’clock then quarter past. Jackie Mallon breezed by. Busy improved her mood but not her timing.
‘Been stood up?’
I might have killed her with my bare hands.
The first thing I noticed was the cigarette; Fiona hadn’t been a smoker when I knew her. The City Fathers had banned smoking in public places; this wasn’t the moment to mention it. She ran to me. I took her in my arms and held her until she pulled away. Rain lay on her coat. ‘The flight was delayed. I got here as fast as I could.’
‘Are you all right?’
She shivered. Her voice was a monotone. ‘I don’t know what I am, Charlie. I don’t know anything right now.’
I searched her face for the girl I’d known, hoping she’d be there, unchanged. Selfish, yet I did. I didn’t find her. On another day perhaps, not today. Her skin was dry, her eyes red from crying. Her hair wasn’t the colour I remembered; it wasn’t any colour really, and it was short. I doubted she’d even remembered to run a comb through it. Grief sapped her spirit. All the women in my life had been measured against this woman and found wanting. I’d told myself they didn’t suspect they were being judged. Of course they had, they must have felt her, always close. No face, no name, no number; a ghost. The perfect girl. The one that got away. Fiona.
‘Let’s sit down. Are you hungry?’
‘Not really, I haven’t eaten much since you called.’
I led her to our table. She said, ‘What happened to Ian?’
There wasn’t anything new to tell. ‘His body was found in Loch Lomond. God knows what he was doing there. Cause of death won’t be established until the autopsy report. We’re expecting it at the beginning of the week.’
A waiter approached – I waved him away. She said, ‘He’s dead. I can’t believe it.’
‘Neither can I. When did you last see him?’
‘I’ve been trying to remember. It must be three years.’
‘You weren’t working together?’
‘No, not for ages. Ian got restless. You know how he was, always itching to be somewhere else.’
‘He left you?’
I couldn’t imagine it, Ian Selkirk had needed Fiona more than I did.
‘I asked him to go.’ That admission came at a price. She drew in on herself, became smaller. She didn’t look at me. ‘Could I have a drink?’
I clicked my fingers in the air. My father did that sometimes, and I detested him for it. Wine would have been inappropriate. I ordered brandies, large ones. We sat in silence until they came. No toasts. No cheers! The alcohol was medicinal. An antidote to sorrow.
‘You remember the time he disappeared and turned up here asking for money? I didn’t tell you the truth. He was robbed. In Spain he did what he did in Koh Tao, went off by himself every night. Ian wasn’t particular about who his friends were. Probably met some pretty rough characters. Of course he never could keep his mouth shut. He must have told one of them. They rolled him and took the cash he was supposed to pay into the bank. It wasn’t ours – it belonged to the construction company we worked with.’
‘Thought you were in real estate?’
‘I am. Re-sales and new builds. Our office deals with the clients, organises viewings, collects deposits. The buyers come through us. The whole sector’s flat, no one’s spending. The financial meltdown has made people cautious. Back then it was a different story; the amount of money passing over my desk was unreal. When he got mugged he panicked. Typical Ian. That’s when he asked you.’
‘But you sorted it?’
‘Don’t ask me how, Charlie. The builder wanted nothing more to do with him. My savings went, and the car. We worked for nothing for eighteen months. All our nice commissions put towards repaying what had been lost. That wasn’t enough. I had to guarantee his conduct.’
‘Sounds tough.’
‘He promised to behave, meant it too, and he managed it. But you know, Ian. In the end he forgot what he’d got us...me...into. Six years ago he started using. A bit of blow once in a while never hurt anybody. I wouldn’t have minded if that was all. He was on it twenty-four-seven. Lord knows what else. Eventually I told him he was finished.’
Her eyes darted over my face looking for reproach; she wouldn’t find any.
‘I couldn’t t
ake the chance. He was a liability, paranoid, obsessed, unreasonable.’
Her hand closed round my wrist, urging me to understand.
‘He wasn’t how you remember him, Charlie. Good-time Ian, always joking, taking the piss. That wasn’t him. He was different. When he was wasted he didn’t care about anything; when he wasn’t he was freaked. I’d done it once. I couldn’t cover for him again.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Not much, tried to brass it out, said he’d been thinking of moving on. He had some money coming, not enough to last, especially with his habits. He said, “Take it easy, Fiona” closed the door and that was that.’
Her shoulders shuddered. I signalled for another couple of brandies, without the clicking fingers routine. ‘Since you telephoned I keep asking if I could’ve done more, got him help, something. I don’t know.’
‘Ian was always a headstrong guy – he danced to his own drum. Behind the smile he was complex. I realised that in Thailand. You saved him the first time; after that it was up to him.’
Brandy wasn’t my drink but tonight I welcomed it.
Fiona said, ‘I don’t get Loch Lomond, I mean, what was he doing there, or in Scotland for that matter? And Ian was a great swimmer. In Koh Tao he swam all the time. How could he drown? Him of all people, how could he drown?’
How indeed?
Questions poured from her. ‘Was he by himself? What about his things? What about...’
I took her hand. ‘Let’s see what the autopsy says. Drugs and deep water don’t go together. Speculating won’t help – we need information. And I think you should try to eat; they do the best burger in Glasgow here. I recommend the mozzarella and pesto combo.’
We attempted conversation, the normal kind. Tell me about this? Are you still doing that? It lacked conviction. Ian Selkirk’s death never left our thoughts. Time had made strangers of us. Around half past ten I asked where she was staying, half hoping the answer would be ‘With you.’
‘The Millennium. I told the office they’d see me when they see me. I’ll have to organise the funeral, after that...’
‘I’ll walk there with you.’
The hotel, down one side of George Square, had been the scene of a tragedy. A few days before Christmas, a lorry driver collapsed at the wheel and crashed through the traffic lights into the building. Six people died that day. Like many in the city, I remembered what had happened every time I passed.
The rain had stopped. We strolled to the corner and crossed near the cenotaph. The benches where office workers ate lunch on sunny days were empty now. In an hour or two the party would spill out of the pubs, kids pretending to be grown up by acting like kids. We hadn’t been part of that scene. The gang of three’s evenings ended at the Moti; South Indian garlic chicken, Mr Rani’s stories and Geeta’s secret smiles. Above, on the central column, Sir Walter Scott gazed over the Dear Green Place as he had for one hundred and eighty years. Old Walter must have seen some sights.
‘We won’t know anything until Monday at the earliest. How will you spend tomorrow and Sunday?’
‘I don’t have a plan. I don’t want one. I’m tired, still reeling. I expect I’ll stay in bed. Call me when the autopsy report arrives.’
Fiona was friendly, but her meaning was clear, she intended to keep her distance. There would be no grief inspired reunion. I felt disappointed yet strangely relieved. She kissed me on the cheek.
‘Goodnight, Charlie.’
If there was anything else to say we didn’t find it. I was almost asleep when my mobile told me it had something for me. I fumbled in the dark; the screen came alive in my hand. Reading brought back everything I was unsure about.
NITE NITE SLEEP TIGHT
DONT LET THE BED BUGS BITE FI x
Eight
The next forty-eight hours crawled by. My mother left a message on the ansaphone. She hadn’t heard from me in a while. Was I okay? Wasn’t it about time I called?
Yes it was, but I wasn’t going to, not today. I couldn’t deal with the inevitable interrogation about girlfriends, especially the nice one, what was her name again, the singer, the one that played in a band? She meant Kate Calder.
On Sunday night I ran into Andrew and his new partner, holding hands and whispering to each other in the diner at NYB. Sometimes she laughed. I leaned against the juke box and watched them, wishing it was me and Fiona. Sandra was a quiet brunette with a good figure. When she went to the ladies I said, ‘Nice, you’re doing all right there, Andrew.’
He let the compliment pass. ‘And you’re trying too hard, Charlie. What do you need? Spit it out.’
I didn’t waste time with denials. ‘A car reg. No felony, far as I know.’
The number was in my pocket, written on a piece of paper. He took it. ‘See what I can do. About time you got yourself a girlfriend. Plenty of fish in the sea.’
He sounded like my mother. That kind of chat was guaranteed to send me running for cover.
Danny Galbraith finished his set to a sprinkling of applause. The Great American Songbook fitted with the theme. He patted my shoulder on his way to the bar. ‘Piano’s out of tune, Charlie. Feel like slitting my wrists when it’s like that.’
It sounded all right to me. ‘Tell Jackie. She’ll sort it.’
I should have been well refreshed – up for the cup Pat Logue called it – on Monday. Not so. My head felt heavy and my joints ached. Maybe I was coming down with something; more likely it was emotional backlash.
Andrew contacted me mid-morning about the autopsy. ‘We’ll have the report this afternoon. We’ll know how your friend died. Expect my call. And they’ll need you to formally identify him.’
‘All right.’
All right was as far as it went, I doubted Fiona would be keen. I called her. No reply. I tried the Millennium. ‘I’m sorry, sir, Miss Ramsay checked out.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
I wasn’t ready for that. Later when Fiona called me the first thing she said was ‘I’m not at the Millennium, I didn’t like it.’
Mystery solved.
‘So where are you?’
‘The Artto. Much better, and they’ve got an Indian restaurant. Any word?’
‘This afternoon. Someone will have to ID the body. Want me to do it?’
‘I don’t think I could, Charlie. Seeing him lying there...’
‘I’ll do it.’
‘Thanks.’
Thirty seconds later my mobile rang: Cecelia McNeil. She launched straight into it.
‘He’s taken money from our account, Mr Cameron. Quite a lot of money.’
‘How much?’
‘Fifteen thousand pounds.’
It was the kind of detail I should have checked. Finding Ian Selkirk at the city mortuary had distracted me. No excuse. Mrs McNeil was doing my work for me. But what she’d said cast doubt on her assumption that her husband was a danger to himself: a man who intended to end his life didn’t need money.
Though I didn’t feel like working I tried to put myself in Stephen McNeil’s shoes. He had the car and fifteen thousand pounds from their bank account, a sizeable sum, enough to see him over a weekend or two. His wife had requested credit card statements. Visa would tell us where he had been even if he wasn’t there now. His only son committed suicide; he blamed himself and ran away unable to face the boy’s mother or his loss. Where would he go? Where would I go? There wasn’t enough information. The police might turn-up a parking ticket. If we were very lucky he could’ve been pulled over and charged with drink driving and we would have an address. Unless he did something to draw our attention it wasn’t going to be easy to trace Christopher’s father.
McNeil was a trucker with Newlands, a firm of carriers in Whiteinch. I drove to a flat patch of gravel behind a metal fence. To one side was a warehouse fronted by a loading bay and a series of roller doors. In the early hours I imagined it would be a busy place. Now it was closed. One driverless vehicle st
ood alone. Cecelia McNeil said her husband’s employer hadn’t seen him. Maybe this was his rig. I went to a single-room building tacked on to the store where a man wearing a jacket on top of overalls sat behind a desk covered in paperwork. Pre-season posters of Celtic and two bare-breasted females pouting at the camera gave clues to the male-dominated workplace. A blown-up photograph of five men in matching t-shirts took pride of place. Their beer bellies said darts. The guy in front of me was one of them. Stephen McNeil was another. A calendar a month out of date clung to the wall at an angle; Miss March encouraged us to believe summer was round the corner. She didn’t have any clothes on.
The guy looked up, already annoyed. ‘Yeah?’ Newlands wasn’t big on visitors.
‘Hi. Is Stephen McNeil around?’
His reply set the tone. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘His wife’s trying to contact him.’
‘I wish her well,’ he said, and went back to whatever he’d been doing.
I was expected to leave. It took him a full minute to notice I was still there. The place smelled of cigarettes and oil, a layer of dust filmed every surface and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling cast weak light in the middle of the afternoon. Earth trailed from the door to the desk and the single-bar electric heater at Mr Friendly’s elbow. Displeasure darkened his eyes, our initial conversation might never have happened.
‘Something I can help you with?’
I asked my question again knowing he was going to be upset whatever I did.
‘Is Stephen McNeil around?’
His grip tightened on the pen in his hand. ‘Who wants to know?’