by V Clifford
When Viv has finished the blow-dry, which has enough product on it to survive a tsunami, she packs up her kit, while Jinty stands with her arms crossed, looking out of the window. Casually she says, ‘We’re having a few for drinks this weekend. Don’t suppose you’d like to come along?’
This is a common invitation from Jinty, who has a social calendar that would put our monarch to shame. Thinking through the logistics of the rest of her week Viv says, ‘Can I ring you and let you know? Its just that . . .’
Jinty stops her and says, ‘It’s okay, Viv, you’re allowed to say no.’
‘No, it’s just that I’m working on something that has taken a twist and I might be caught up.’
‘Very cryptic. Ring me.’
With a cheque for fifty quid safely in her pocket, Viv skips down the steps towards her car.
One more call, in Tollcross. It’s a top-floor flat, but as long as she convinces herself it’s good for her health she takes the steps two at a time, her kit bag knocking against her knee as she goes. Annie is an academic, on sabbatical this year, so Viv’s appointments with her have been easier to fit in. In the past Annie’s been grumpy about having to rush back after work, or even worse take up her precious Saturday mornings having her hair cut. Viv had hinted that she could get it cut in St Andrews where she works, but that went down like the proverbial lead balloon.
‘Hi Annie, how’re you doing?’
‘Great, thanks. Wish I was permanently on sabbatical. How are you?’
‘Good, thanks. Oh God, there I go taking up Americanisms. You weren’t asking about my moral welfare. I’m just fine.’
‘Viv, I don’t know anyone finer. By the way, someone stopped me in the supermarket the other day and asked for the name of the person who cut my hair. I said your list is closed. Is that right? Is it still closed?’ Annie cocks her head.
‘Yeah, it sure is. There’s now a waiting list for the waiting list. Dead client’s shoes. How’s the book coming along?’
Once Viv has set up in the kitchen, she glances round the room while waiting for Annie to settle on the chair. With the gown safely secured, Viv sprays the short hair with water and combs it back off Annie’s face. Not many women can get away with such severity, but elfin cheekbones in her small heart shaped face mean she’s one of the few. The kitchen is a museum for Art Deco with original hand painted tiles and a dresser displaying crockery by Suzie Cooper and Clarice Cliff, including some of Shorter’s famous fish. Annie and her husband Roy are obsessed by all things thirties and have gadgets for every conceivable use. Annie, remembering Viv’s question, says, ‘Very nearly there. The Ruskin Foundation want me to talk to them about it, which is a compliment, even if they are a bunch of stuffed shirts.’
‘Last time I was here you were working on Ruskin’s trip to Scotland. Effie and Millais were being naughty. It sounded as if it wouldn’t bode well for Ruskin.’
‘God, well remembered, and you’re right it didn’t. He and Effie, after a great scandal, divorced and she ended up with Millais. Ruskin couldn’t consummate the marriage – although I’m not sure who was taking notes under the bed. Revolted by pubic hair apparently. Seen too many statues on his grand tour. Their match was never going to work. If he had been as wise in love as he was with so many other things he’d never have married her. Suppose you can’t be good at everything. Ruskin really wanted a prepubescent girl. He’d be called a paedophile today.’
Viv snorts at the absurdity, not in the slightest shocked by the Victorians. ‘The usual?’
‘Sure. Can I get you anything before we start?’
‘No, thanks. I’m already buzzing.’
They’ve been through a number of ‘flavour of the month’ cuts and Annie always goes back to her usual, a textured elfin look that’s perfect for her delicate Mia Farrow features. When she has strayed from her tried and tested path she’s always regretted it. People create warmth in different ways and Annie has always treated Viv as an intellectual equal, which isn’t entirely true. They chat about books while Annie’s hair takes shape, then it’s time to pack up.
Back in the car she doesn’t have far to go. Along a tree-lined Melville Drive, up through Buccleuch Street and round Forrest Road before she pulls over onto a yellow line and darts into the post office for a pint of milk. All the while musing on how much she loves learning about the human psyche when she’s with her clients. Back out just in time to see a blue meanie coming round the corner. She feels such childish joy at defying the law for two minutes, but the joy evaporates as she circles round the Grassmarket. Mid-afternoon is never a good time to get parked. Then she spots someone’s reverse lights halfway down and puts her foot to the floor. What a stroke of luck – it’s in a residents’ bay. Trotting back up the cobbles she looks up at her building, checking that the sign is still there. It is. She makes a note to take action. Inside, after a long morning of haircuts, she can’t wait to get rid of the millions of tiny shards of hair pricking her skin.
As she stands with hot water pumping over her she’s glad to get time to revisit the Andrew Douglas story. What was he doing in Copa Cabana? Who was he with? Will his father have changed? What could be underlying his disappearance? She slips into a long tee-shirt, determined to speak to those boys again.
Unable to put her thoughts in order she gets busy on-line. Her bank accounts will have to be juggled, but the purchase of next door looks doable. Writing out a note she slips onto the landing and puts it through Ronnie’s letterbox. The sunlight is streaming through the cupola and she’s tempted to hover in its warmth. She doesn’t. Her sense of modesty wouldn’t allow her to get caught on the stair in a state of such undress. Pulling on fresh underwear, old 501s and a black cashmere sweater she plays back her messages.
Jules is irate. ‘ Viv, ring me asap. There’s been a development.’
The next message is from her mother, ‘Vivian, I’m expecting you for tea, where are you?’
‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ Glancing at the clock, she’s never going to make it. Her mother’s use of her Sunday name is not a good sign, so the quicker she faces the music the better. It’s engaged. ‘Damn!’ Pressing ‘ring back’ she heads through to her bedroom and gives her hair a blast with the drier.
When she returns she punches in Jules’ number on her mobile. ‘Hey Jules, what’s up?’
‘God, Viv, you’re so difficult to get hold of.’ Jules’ irritation ever present.
‘I have checked my messages this morning. When did you ring?’
‘Oh, never mind that. There’s been a report that Andrew was seen in the petrol station just beyond Dalkeith, apparently with an older man. The woman behind the counter said they were like father and son. The guy I’ve got on this was ready to believe her. Yeah, sure! Get out there, girl, and do a bit of snooping.’
Viv stifles her own annoyance, not least at being called ‘girl’. ‘Jules, by now that woman will be making up stories with bells on specially for the press. It’ll be a waste of time. I’d be better off following my own trail.’ Maybe she could combine dropping in for petrol with her revisiting of the Royal and the Colonies. ‘Okay, I’ll do it. But I need to do my own stuff first.’
‘As long as I get the information you just do as you please, girl.’
Yeah, as if. Viv knows Jules. She is like an itch; irritating and never going anywhere until it’s ready to. The concept of letting anyone do as they please is completely alien to her. At the sound of her landline, Viv says goodbye to an already dead tone. Shaking her head she lifts the receiver.
‘Hi Mum!’
‘Hi, Viv. And to what do I owe this pleasure?’
No notion that she had called Viv in the first place.
‘Just wondering how you’re doing.’
‘I’m fine, hen, just watching John Wayne, so don’t let me keep you.’
Viv hears the dead tone for the second time in fewer minutes. Shaking her head again, she mutters, ‘God! She’s getting dottier and dottier!’ She knows
that her mum’s memory isn’t what it used to be, but that was crazy, even by her mum’s standards. Her dad once said, ‘old age was no place for sissies’. He couldn’t have handled being old. She swallows the memory, doubting now that he had gone to heaven. The adolescent Viv had had to believe it. Then, lifting her old leather rucksack, she pats her pockets for keys and mobile then heads out into a wet, miserable night.
Viv decides to go to the hospital first and turns right, retracing her earlier steps through the Grassmarket. The MG hasn’t started by the fifth turn of the key. Tonight she really can’t be arsed with it playing up. She sits tugging her lightweight jacket round her in an attempt to resist the cold draught the car effortlessly admits. It needed a new roof when she bought it, but she hasn’t prioritised doing anything about it. Now it seems a good reason to get rid of it. She is definitely beginning to crave the comfort of a breeze-free vehicle. Sixth try is successful. She still curses, hoping the heater will kick in sometime soon. Although Viv partly believes that discomfort is good for you, she also considers the desire for comfort a sign of middle age. Tonight she cares less about theories and just wants warmth. She doesn’t get it in full measure until fifteen minutes later when she walks through the automatic doors of the Royal.
The loiterers inside are a different bunch from her last visit, but their determination to sneak out into the cold wet night for a puff is the same. The smells are also different; as over-sanitised as yesterday, but there must be different veg on the go. The bed that the young guy was in is empty, but there is a fat chap sitting by it. Interesting. She hesitates for a moment, then takes a deep breath and saunters up the ward. Shit! It’s the psychologist she saw on the website.
‘Hi, how is he?’ She attempts to sound more confident than she feels.
‘Who’s asking?’ He is wary, his eyes raking her briefly. West coast accent.
‘Well, that’s not very nice.’
She puts out her hand for him to shake, which catches him off guard. Automatically he takes it and they shake. It’s now more difficult for him to be nasty – she hopes. He nods towards the empty bed. ‘He’s away for a shower. You the woman who phoned the ambulance?’
‘Guilty!’
‘He thinks he’s getting out tomorrow, but I’ve got my doubts. Just as well you found him. I’ll not ask how that came about.’
As they wait the silence builds. Finally John Black limps down the ward aided by a nurse. She hasn’t seen him upright before and he is a pitiful sight: skin and bone, as if he’s run out of blood. His deep-set eyes look dead, encased in dark circles. He could hardly look worse.
‘You back?’
Viv smiles, amazed at how frequently people state the obvious.
‘As you see. How’re you doing?’
‘As you see.’
‘Touché!’
Another awkward silence follows. John finally breaks it.
‘Think I’ll be out of here tomorrow. If I’ve got somewhere to go.’ He stares at the prison psych, who keeps his eyes down. ‘It’d only be for a few days.’
Nothing. Viv notices the hint of a north-east accent.
‘Please, Sandy?’
‘You know how it is, John. You can’t. Don’t make things more difficult than they already are. Robbie will go ballistic if he finds out I’ve been here.’
Viv is fascinated by this revelation. There’s obviously a favourite with power over him. Sweat trickles down Sandy’s forehead. He reaches into his pocket, draws out a clean cotton handkerchief and blots his brow. Viv can’t believe that this apparition has a jealous lover in the wings. Although he’s not in uniform he’s unmistakably Alexander MacDonald, and the way he wheezes he should be in the bed rather than on the chair beside by it. Viv hardly considers him capable of getting to the end of the ward, never mind getting his end away with young boys. Still, money is a powerful incentive when you’ve got a habit. John is still looking at him, hopeful of a reprieve, but MacDonald keeps his head down.
Viv interrupts their stand-off, ‘John, where do you live?’
He bats away the question. ‘What’s it to you, and why are you here again? I’ve already told you Drew can speak for himself.’
At this MacDonald’s head snaps up, ‘What are you after?’
He looks accusingly at John.
‘I’ve said nothing . . . have I?’ A plea to Viv, who says, ‘Nothing useful . . . Mr MacDonald, you wouldn’t have any information on the whereabouts of Andrew Douglas, would you?’
He’s surprised at her use of his name. ‘As he said, what’s it to you?’
For the first time he looks directly at her. She stares back, noticing his eyes, deep blue pools rimmed with darker blue, almost black, and edged with thick lashes that must have been the envy of many. Perhaps he did have something once, but it’s long lost in a face that now looks Jurassic. He blinks first.
Occasionally, a loose truth works, so Viv says, ‘I’m a journalist doing a story on young missing people; Andrew is missing.’ She raises her eyebrows and tilts her head in a gesture hoping for appeasement. MacDonald starts to get to his feet and supports himself by pressing one incongruously slim, manicured hand on the bed. He doesn’t speak. He pushes himself upright, and once he’s shuffled past the central nurses’ station, he turns and says, ‘Leave it. You don’t know what you’re getting into.’
‘Why? What is it that I should leave?’ Viv calls after him. He doesn’t even turn back; just keeps ambling up the ward.
John lets out a huge sigh. ‘Now what?’ Turning to face Viv, he shakes his head. ‘What the fuck am I going to do?’ When he swears it’s as if it’s unfamiliar; as if he’s trying it out for the first time.
‘Go home?’
His face contorts as if she’s created a bad smell.
‘You’ve no idea – no clue.’
The nurse stops by and reads his chart. She looks at them, knowing that she’s interrupted something, but that’s not her concern. She takes her time then asks John to get back into bed and get some rest. He complies. It’ll be nothing short of a miracle if they let him out tomorrow.
‘You’re letting him out tomorrow, then?’
The nurse looks at Viv, then at John.
‘Not that I know. He’s to have an assessment in the morning . . .’
Viv catches John shaking his head, trying to shut the nurse up, but Viv is on a roll now. ‘What kind of assessment would that be?’
John speaks up. ‘None of your business. Now get lost. You’ve done enough damage for now.’
This isn’t going to plan at all. Viv imagined at the very least finding out about the flat, so tries a different tack. ‘Why won’t he let you stay at the flat then?’
The nurse clips the board to the back of the bed and with a backward glance takes off down the ward.
‘Sandy would let me stay but his crazy boyfriend is a nutter who has taken a dislike to me . . . not just me. He also likes to get his own way. There’d be such a row . . . Sandy’s a good guy, but Robbie’s bad news. Total bad news.’
‘In what way?’
He sighs, ‘Did I not tell you to get lost? Just believe me, he’s bad news.’
‘You could stay at mine.’ This is out before she realises what she’s said.
He narrows his eyes so that they almost disappear. Then his tone lifts. ‘You serious?’
‘For a couple of nights till you get sorted. You’d be sofa surfing.’
He looks puzzled.
‘On the couch . . .’ Her voice tails off as the prospect of sharing her space kicks in.
He notices and says, ‘What’s the catch?’
‘You tell me. You’ve got nowhere to go and I’m offering you house room – two nights tops, mind.’
Viv fishes around in her jacket pocket and hands him a card with her mobile number on it. ‘Here, ring me if they’re going to let you out. Have you got any money?’
He looks away. Stupid question. She takes out twenty quid and says, ‘This’ll get yo
u a taxi to where I live, but ring me first.’
He takes the twenty and mumbles a thank-you, before meeting her eye. ‘I don’t know anything else.’
‘Fine. Ring me.’
She smiles as she walks back towards her car. This isn’t the kind of thing she would do normally. In fact she hasn’t had anyone to stay since Dawn left over two years ago. What’s life for if you don’t take the odd risk?
Chapter Five
The drive out to the petrol station seems like a waste of time but at least it will keep Jules happy. Besides, she’s getting low on fuel and it’ll give her time to think. Viv is surprised at how decrepit MacDonald is. He hasn’t been good to himself and looks as far from her image of a psychologist as she can imagine. The gay world is more unkind to the ugly than the heterosexual, and she can’t get her head round him being gay or having a wife for that matter. He strikes her as way beyond his sexual sell-by date. She justifies her ageism by saying out loud, ‘Well, I’m just being honest.’ As if this makes it okay.
The road is quiet at this time of night and the petrol station is deserted. As she gets out of the car she shuts the door, which makes a clunking sound it shouldn’t. The seatbelt’s caught in the door. As she bends to put it back inside a shadow falls over her. She looks up. There stands one of those guys you see on American TV who can lift a truck with his pinkie – tattoos, hairy hands and a five o’clock shadow that isn’t designer stubble. The fact that he can move without sound is pretty scary. She almost smiles, but thinks better of it.
He growls, ‘You all right, lady?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ She bristles slightly at his use of ‘lady’.
He doesn’t move, and when she tries to lift the petrol hose he puts his hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re not about to ask any questions in there, are you?’ He nods toward the automatic doors.
‘No, just in for petrol.’ Her petulance rising.
‘Be sure about that.’