The Blood is Still

by Douglas Skelton

  Rebecca didn’t know who cried out next, such was the cluster of bodies around them, but it was the next three words that really kicked things off.

  ‘It’s the BBC!’

  Heads turned, eyes swivelled, even Dalgliesh craned upwards to see over the throng. Rebecca peered through breaks in the bodies crowding around them to see a blue Land Rover pull up and Lola McLeod climb out, still wearing the thick jacket she’d worn for her report earlier, while her bearded cameraman moved round to the rear to collect his gear.

  The BBC. They had produced a half-hour documentary on Dalgliesh and Spioraid that had been far from complimentary. Dalgliesh had dismissed it as an amateurish hatchet job on social media. He was none too fond of the Chronicle, but he really hated the corporation.

  He jerked his head towards Andy, who instantly pushed his way through the crowd to where Lola was fixing her hair before she did a piece to camera. ‘You’re no wanted here, hen,’ he said, loudly enough for everyone to hear. After all, there’s no point in putting on a show if the audience can’t catch every word.

  Lola was taken by surprise and seemed momentarily speechless. She glanced at the cameraman, who was hefting a digital camera onto his shoulder. Quickly, she regained her composure, but her smile was more like a nervous twitch.

  ‘We’re here to report what’s—’

  ‘You’re here to gloat, like you always do, is that no right?’ Andy interrupted, looking around at the crowd, playing to a gallery that had turned away from Rebecca and Chaz to focus on the TV people. Dalgliesh kept well back. Intervening to ‘save’ two members of the print media was one thing, but being caught on camera, his every word recorded while purporting to do the same, meant risking being misconstrued. Or even correctly construed.

  ‘Fuck off out of here,’ said Andy. ‘We don’t want you reporting back to your bosses in the government about us here. This is our business, nobody else’s.’

  Lola felt the need to defend her employer. ‘We are independent of government, as I’m sure you—’

  ‘Aye, right! They bastards in Westminster control you like they control all the media, like they control Holyrood and the council. So get the fuck out of here!’

  Lola attempted to salvage the situation by seemingly placing herself on the man’s side.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but if you’d just like to tell us what has made you so angry, maybe we can help. I take it you’re against the council placing Walter Lancaster in your area?’

  In any other situation it might have worked. Rebecca had done it herself many times. But this man had an agenda. He wasn’t from the Ferry, of that Rebecca was certain, and he didn’t care about Walter Lancaster. He was here to back up Dalgliesh and cause trouble.

  She looked to where the Spioraid leader had been standing, saw he was gone. He had done enough to make it look as if he had defused the situation. Now he could claim his minders had spirited him away when they saw trouble brewing. Whatever happened would be spun in such a way that made it look as if the media was to blame, that they had shown up where they weren’t wanted, had refused to leave. His followers would believe it because they wanted to. That was the secret of modern-day politics. Tell people what they want to hear, even if it’s a lie. Then repeat it, again and again. The lies become truth, the truth becomes irrelevant. Only the message matters, not the substance.

  The cameraman made the mistake of putting an eye to the eyepiece. Andy saw this and reached out with one hand to clamp his meaty fingers over the lens.

  ‘Don’t you film me, ya bastard. I’ve already had my photie taken without my permission and I’m no havin’ you bastards filmin’ me too!’

  The cameraman tried to ease Andy’s hand from his expensive kit. Bad move, Rebecca thought, as Andy pushed the cameraman back, yelling something about him going for him. Rebecca didn’t know how many Spioraid people were present – so far she had counted two more: Andy’s twin and the woman whose favourite word was scum – and she was certain they would back up their friend’s version of events. Eyewitness accounts are subjective and can be manipulated. People come to believe they saw something other than what they actually did see.

  The cameraman stumbled backwards, lost his footing, went down and his kit flew from his hand to crash onto the hard concrete. Lola moved forward to help him up but had to push Andy out of her path. That was also a bad idea, Rebecca thought. Andy spun, reached out to her, his face contorted with rage and hatred.

  ‘Right – that’s enough.’

  The voice was loud and carried the weight of authority. Andy froze, his fingers barely clutching the fabric of Lola’s jacket. He watched as a man shouldered his way through the onlookers. Rebecca heard people say the name Tom. He was a small man, his head shaven like Andy’s, and he looked as if he could give him a good twenty years, but there was power and confidence in the way he stood that made Andy eye him warily.

  ‘I don’t know who you are, pal,’ the newcomer said, ‘but I’ve been watching you and I think you’re at it.’

  Andy looked around for support from his Spioraid buddies.

  ‘Maybe you should keep out of this, mate,’ said the woman.

  ‘Darling, I’ve kept out of it up till now, but I’m no havin’ you folk cause trouble in my streets, okay?’ Tom jerked his thumb in Andy’s direction. ‘Does anybody know this guy? Or him? Or her?’ He gestured to the second man and the woman. ‘Cos I’ve never seen any of them before.’

  There was muted mumbling all around and Rebecca heard people agree they’d never seen them before. They weren’t from the Ferry. ‘You’re right, Tom,’ one woman shouted. ‘Who are they?’

  Andy’s face was a study in ferocity. ‘What’s it to you, pal?’

  Tom was unfazed. ‘Well – Andy, is it? I’ll tell you. I saw that boy there taking his photos and he never once turned it in your direction. He was pointing it at your man Dalgliesh. And this fella?’ He stooped to offer the cameraman a helping hand back to his feet. Your man Dalgliesh, Rebecca noted. This Tom, whoever he was, had it all sussed. ‘He was defending himself, far as I could see.’

  ‘Now, wait . . .’ Andy began, but Tom was having none of it.

  ‘Naw, son – you wait. You’re trying to stir the shit here and I’m no havin’ it.’ He looked back at the crowd, his neighbours. Many obviously knew him and were beginning to wonder who Andy really was.

  Andy really should have walked away. But he didn’t. He decided to brazen it out. ‘I cannae believe this.’ He turned to his friends, his arms out as if he was being crucified. ‘Can you believe this?’

  His two cohorts were less enthusiastic about prolonging this any further. Tom had brought a new and, to them, unwelcome dynamic to the proceedings. Rebecca saw them dart anxious glances at the people now surrounding them. They gave each other a quick look and began to quietly back away, but the ranks closed behind them. A big hand descended on the man’s shoulder and a head shook, a clear sign that he should stick around.

  Andy saw this, swallowed, really should have sensed the wind was in his face now, but he opted for another approach, one the desperate and the stupid everywhere take when things don’t go their way. He went on the attack. ‘You know what I think?’ He faced Tom, his eyes narrowing. ‘I think you’re someone sent here to disrupt this peaceful demonstration, this display of the will of the people.’

  That’s right, Rebecca thought, when in trouble just shout ‘WILL OF THE PEOPLE’. That’s not overused at all.

  Andy squared off in front of Tom. ‘You been paid by the council, or maybe Westminster, to come here and—’

  Tom grinned and shook his head; it was enough to stop Andy in his tracks. There was a smattering of laughter from the crowd. Someone said they’d known Tom all their life.

  ‘Son,’ said Tom, ‘I came here to listen to your man Dalgliesh tonight and you’re right, I came with a mind to speak up if I had to. But not to disrupt and not to defend the council or Holyrood or Westminster. The folk here know that’s just
no me. He talked about outsiders and folks no understanding the Ferry. But see, he doesn’t understand the Ferry. Aye, we’re no happy with the idea of this Lancaster bloke maybe coming here . . .’

  He looked around and acknowledged those who nodded their agreement. Some didn’t, though. He was one of them but not everyone agreed with him. Rebecca heard some muffled insults. Arsehole. Dickhead. Interfering old bastard. If Tom heard the comments, he paid them no heed.

  ‘But you want to know something about us, son? And it’s maybe the one thing your man got right. We are decent. We’re just ordinary folk. We work, we have a wee drink now and then, we look after our families. This is home to us, you know? Sure, there’s bad apples, there’s bad apples everywhere. Sure, there’s problems, and maybe we are ignored because we’re no one of they special interest groups or whatever. But this is still our home and we’ll fight to protect it and we won’t let people like you, or your man, wherever the hell he’s gone, bring us down with your hate.’

  Judging by the nods and the small cheer, Tom had most of the crowd on his side. Rebecca wondered who he was. He spoke well and he seemed to command respect. His next words answered her unspoken query.

  ‘I’ve been a trade unionist all my life, you all know that.’ He was addressing the crowd more, as if he’d forgotten about Andy, who stood behind him like a petulant schoolboy being dressed down by a headmaster. ‘You all know that I went down south, worked the pits. When I came back I was a councillor here for many years.’

  ‘Aye, and a bloody good one, Tom!’ shouted someone. ‘We need you back!’

  ‘Bastardin’ communist, that’s what he was,’ muttered a man behind Rebecca.

  Tom waved the suggestion away. ‘I’ve done my bit. I’m retired, and it’s all different now. But my old grandfather, God rest him, he was in the International Brigade and he shouldered a rifle in the Spanish Civil War and then he volunteered to go to France in 1939. He was one of the first from the Sneck to sign up. But you know what he said was the greatest evil threatening the working man? It wasn’t the bosses. It wasn’t politicians or police or their own kind on the make. He said the greatest evil the working man faced was his own prejudices. He said that men like Franco and Hitler and Mussolini fed on the fears and the prejudices of ordinary folk and then vomited them up like bile. They were his words. Vomited them up like bile.’

  He paused to let that sink in. He circled Andy, no longer looking at him. He had taken command of the situation.

  ‘I came here tonight to support my neighbours. I don’t want that guy Lancaster in the Ferry. I don’t want my grandchildren to be in any danger from a wee shite like that. I don’t want my daughter to worry about her kids being out in the street with him around. But I listened to that fella Dalgliesh.‘ He swivelled to face Andy again. ‘Your pal. And as I listened I heard my old grandad’s voice, talking about hatred and prejudice and bile. I heard lies and half truths and – what do they call it? – spin. So, aye – protest. Demonstrate. Exercise your democratic prerogative to say no. But don’t let folk like this’ – he jerked his thumb over his shoulder – ‘hijack your rights, your feelings. Tell that fella Dalgliesh and his flunkeys here to get the f—’ He hesitated briefly, thinking better about swearing, his passion taking over his tongue. ‘To just get away from here. Leave us alone. We can take care of our own problems. Because we are the Ferry!’

  That brought a loud cheer and Rebecca realised that what she had seen in many faces earlier was not anger because they agreed with Dalgliesh’s rhetoric but quite the opposite. She had been totally wrong about these people. And Tom, whoever he was – and she resolved to get an interview with him, if he was agreeable – was now their spokesperson. She wondered how Mo Burke would react to that.

  It all became too much for Andy. He had come here for trouble, that was his function. He glared at the people around him, his jaw set so tight it was in danger of locking, his eyes darting arrows through narrow slits. He had been shamed. He had been found out. He had been deserted by his boss. He was isolated and he was angry and he did what the isolated and the angry all do. He lashed out.

  He waited till Tom turned to face him again, then threw the punch. It was a powerful swing and it came up from his gut to his shoulder to his fist. It was designed to land with the force of a piledriver.

  But Tom moved faster than his years suggested. Perhaps he had been expecting it, even been planning on it. He leaned back to allow the fist to curve harmlessly a few millimetres from his face.

  His own punch was measured and swift and hit the mark. It was the blow of a man who had done this sort of thing before. Andy rocked back, but didn’t go down. He had taken punches in the past and could shake most off, it seemed. He crouched, his eyes flashing as the crowd roared their anger.

  He really should have taken a telling. He should have sensed the mood in the air and tried to get away, but once again he didn’t. He made things worse. He reached into his back pocket and came out with a small cosh. Rebecca had never seen a real cosh before and this one looked home-made, a leather bag filled with coins or nuts and bolts. He lunged, the weapon swinging in an upwards arc, aiming for Tom’s face. Tom may have been older but he was nimble. He stepped aside and grabbed the arm, yanking it behind Andy’s back, then jabbed at the man’s kidneys with his left hand. Andy grimaced but kept his footing. He jerked his neck backwards, smashing the back of his head into Tom’s nose, sending him reeling.

  This was the signal for his friends to move. The man shook the hand from his shoulder and drove his elbow deep into the stomach of its owner. The woman whirled in a roundhouse and punched the man behind square on the jaw.

  And that was when all hell broke loose.

  36

  Walter Lancaster had been told to stay in his room at the hostel, but after all that time in jail he couldn’t face four walls closing in on him. He had to get out. He had to walk in the fresh air. He had to be outside, with the sky wide and free above him, even if it was cold and damp and dark. So he pulled on his coat, an old parka he’d bought in a charity shop, and set out in the hope he could walk off the anger and disappointment that had made him pace his shoebox room.

  That telly reporter had ambushed him, the bitch. He had wanted to scream at her to leave him alone. He’d wanted to rage at the old bloke with the beard behind the camera to get it out of his face. Couldn’t even walk down the street without them peering at him, poking at him, pressuring him. Couldn’t they see all he wanted was peace? All he wanted was to be left alone.

  He should have been starting that new life in his own place but instead he was stuck in that poxy room in that poxy hostel, being gawped at by junkies and prossies and the homeless. He shouldn’t be homeless. He had a place in Aberdeen, had decorated it himself, all nice and clean. Spotless, it was. But they took it away from him, rented it out to someone else while he was away. They couldn’t keep it as pristine as he had, he knew that. He would have taken that flat in the Ferry and fixed it up, he was good with his hands, always had been. He could do a bit of joinery, plumbing, even electrical work. He would have turned it into a home. His room in that hostel was clean enough, but it wasn’t home. All he wanted was a home, even if it was in the Ferry.

  But they had snatched it away from him. All they bastards. The demonstrators. The press. The social workers. For your own safety, they said. Aye, right. They didn’t give a bugger about his safety; they were only thinking of themselves, of their jobs. So he was stuck in that poxy wee room until they could find somewhere else. Might not be Inverness, they said, and that pissed him off no end. He had wanted to come home. But now that looked doubtful, thanks to all they bastards.

  Did they not understand that he wasn’t a danger to no one? Could they not get that? He wasn’t a threat to no one. He just wanted to get on with his life, that was all. Just live and let live. He’d done his time. He’d been punished. Society had sliced their pound of flesh out of him.

  And for what?

  Fo
r taking a piss. That was all. Taking a piss. They were taking the piss, so they were, saying he was a sex offender. He had never touched a kiddie in his life, not in that way. Yes, he had pictures and videos on his computer, but looking wasn’t touching. Who was harmed by just looking? But they slapped the sex offender label on him and they put him away. He lost his home and his job. Just for taking a piss near a playground he couldn’t even see and for looking at stuff in the privacy of his own home. And now he was living out of a poxy wee room in a poxy wee hostel in a town that he once thought of as home but didn’t want him any more. And that bitch on the telly plasters his face all over screens again and the social workers and the police tell him not to go outside. Did they not know he was going crazy in there? After months and years inside, he needed to be able to come and go as he pleased. He had his freedom, now let him be free.

  He walked aimlessly into the Old Town, turning onto Church Street, passing by skinny trees sticking out of raised slabs that seemed to burst from the ground like rocky outcrops. They were meant to represent perseverance, insight and open-heartedness. Aye, right. Inverness was showing open-heartedness all right. Not much insight into his needs either. Perseverance, aye. They were doing their best to persevere him the hell away from there.

  He gave the sculpture a disdainful look from under the hood of his parka as he walked past. It wasn’t raining, but the hood hid his face. He didn’t want any more hassle, not tonight. He didn’t want someone to recognise him and give him grief. He’d had enough of that in his life, thank you very much. Nobody was giving him a second look, though, so that was something at least. People were just passing him by without a glance. Young people, old people, all heading home or out for the night. Looking for somewhere to eat. Looking for something to do.