by Owen Mullen
Over her shoulder, Alex Gilby was grinning.
He wasn’t the only one.
CHAPTER SIX
Bothwell, 9 miles from Glasgow. After the bells
The people in her house were unknown to Kim, although she had no problem recognising them as sycophants and hangers-on. Star fuckers and false-faces. None of them were friends; Sean had no friends. They ignored her, while he took their adulation in his stride, enjoying the role of king of the hill.
They chanted his name like the idiots they were. Sean! Sean! Sean! Sean!
He stood on a chair in the middle of the room, swaying; acting drunk. He wasn’t. That would mean being out of control, and Sean Rafferty had to be in control. Sean smiled down on them, called for silence, and raised his glass.
‘May you be half an hour in heaven before the devil knows you’re dead.’
They roared their approval.
Kim went upstairs and sat in the rocking chair beside the cot, watching Rosie sleep, listening to the steady rise and fall of her breathing. This was the miracle they had created. Eventually, she made her way back down and started looking for Sean. No sign. Perhaps he was in the study, on the phone, as usual. It wasn’t fair to dump a bunch of strangers on her and just disappear. That said, she doubted any of the toadying bastards had noticed. So long as the booze kept flowing, they would be happy.
The hall was deserted. She stopped outside the door and turned the handle, expecting it to be locked, surprised when it opened. He stood with his back to her; trousers round his ankles, grunting like an animal. A woman was spread across the desk beneath him. She was naked, her bare legs wrapped round his waist, binding him to her. One high-heeled Bionda Castana hung from her foot; the other had landed beside her dress and underwear.
Everything on the desk had been violently swept away – even the photograph of Rosie was broken. It lay on the floor, the glass in the gold frame cracked from top to bottom. In future, no matter how hard Kim Rafferty tried to erase the scene from her mind, that image would not delete.
Rafferty bent forward, his open mouth searching and finding one erect nipple then the other. His partner moaned, her thighs tightening as her lover pounded her.
Kim neither needed, nor expected, her husband to be faithful. She wasn’t hurt or jealous. He could have as many whores as he pleased and service them as often as he liked for all she cared. Except not in their house while their daughter slept upstairs.
Rafferty lifted the woman’s legs over his shoulders and thrust into her more deeply than before. She arched her back and climaxed, long and loud.
It was almost over, and if Sean turned around he would see her. Kim edged out of the room, carefully closing the door. There were tears in her eyes, not of sorrow but of anger. When the assured, well-dressed stranger introduced himself at the Miss Scotland final, Kim had known exactly who she was talking to, and accepted his dinner invitation with full knowledge of where it might lead, and what it might mean. On the beach in Antigua, he’d told her he cared for her because he thought it was something she needed to hear him say. Sean Rafferty was wrong. Kim’s mind was already made up; he would ask her to marry him. She would say yes and take the comfortable life on offer.
Love hadn’t come into it, yet there was a moment under the moon and the stars when she’d almost believed she loved him. It passed, as it was always going to. This was the reality, and the thieves and liars cheering him and chanting his name – begging to be bought, or already paid for – understood. Kim would never speak of what she’d seen tonight. She would go on smiling into his eyes, even as she shuddered at his touch.
Not forever; for now.
In the lounge, a man with dull eyes came towards her, shaking an empty wine bottle. He turned it upside down and spoke to Kim in a slurred voice, heavy with disappointment and disbelief.
‘Champagne’s run out.’
‘Has it? That means it’s time for you to leave.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Peebles, 50 miles from Glasgow. After the bells
Colin McMillan wasn’t sure what had wakened him, or for that matter, if he had ever been asleep. He had no idea what time it was. Not unusual these days. Some nights he didn’t make it to bed and came to in the chair at the fire, cold and confused, with another bleak twenty-four hours in front of him. At some point, church bells and fireworks told him it was midnight and he was living in a new year. Since then, he had drifted, not asleep though not fully conscious, through unfamiliar landscapes which brought no peace. McMillan doubted he would ever know peace again. That was all right. Peace wasn’t what he craved. Joyce’s death had left him on fire with anger and the inferno inside him would never be extinguished. The moment he walked into that room, his life ended. She had been a beautiful person but the woman hanging from the door frame was twisted and ugly.
Voices from a passing car, kids probably, loud and laughing, no doubt on their way to a party in Innerleithen, broke his train of thought. McMillan envied them; they had their whole lives still to live. He got up and went to the window. The snow had stopped and the featureless scene was surreal.
He padded in the dark to the main room and wondered about having a whisky. Johnnie Walker was his only friend; recently, they’d become very good friends, indeed. Trouble was – and he couldn’t deny it – one wasn’t enough anymore.
When his wife was alive, Colin McMillan rarely bothered with alcohol. His work required a clear mind and a steady hand. Joyce had had to scold him to take her out, even as far as the pub. When they got there, they’d sit side-by-side, staring into space with nothing to say to each other. What he wouldn’t give to be able to speak to her now.
She would like it here; she’d loved the Borders.
McMillan’s mother left the cottage to him in her will. Somehow, he hadn’t got round to selling the house in Bearsden, though he had no plans to return – even to visit. That was Joyce’s house. How excited she’d been when they bought it and over the years, filled it with love. There wasn’t a corner of the place that didn’t have her mark on it.
He would find her dressed in one of his old shirts – miles too big – painting the kitchen, or sanding the floor; what a mess she’d made. McMillan suggested they get somebody in. Joyce wouldn’t hear of it. Bearsden had more memories than Colin McMillan could handle; he wouldn’t go back. Not ever.
He ran his finger up and down the bottle on the sideboard and lifted a glass. His only friend in the world. Then, he remembered the telephone call, and put the glass down.
-------
He nursed the coffee between his hands, feeling its warmth against his palms. Dawn was breaking on the first day of a new year and through the window, something caught his eye. A fox: cautiously picking a path across the lawn, heading for the woods at the bottom of the garden, its body a vibrant orange against the virgin snow. The sweeping tail obliterated its tracks leaving no sign it had ever passed this way.
Left unchecked, a fox would ravage a chicken coop and go on to the next one to do the same again. Clever and cunning and probably rabid. What alternative did a farmer have except to put it down?
Harsh. Like the coffee.
McMillan ought to be aching with guilt and drowning out the horror of his wife’s suicide with booze and tears. Yet, he was sober and calm. Sipping Nescafe without sugar or milk because he hadn’t stepped over the door in days.
The letter from Joyce was under a floorboard in the bedroom. He brought it through and re-read it from the first line to the last heartbreaking word. Usually, he cried. Not this time. The sheets went back in their hiding place but the story they told stayed with him; there would be no return to sleep for him.
He hardly noticed the bitterness of the coffee, still thinking about the letter and the animal creeping through the snow, un-noticed; unseen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Milngavie, Glasgow. After the bells.
At first, James Hambley didn’t understand what was happening; it sounded like somebody was taking a sledge ha
mmer to the front door. Beside him, Martha came awake and sat up.
‘What the hell is that?’
‘Christ knows.’
‘What time is it?’
Hambley switched the bedside light on and got out. ‘Ten past two.’
He pulled the curtain back and looked into the street. Every house was in darkness. The banging started again. He tried to sound calm, although he felt anything but.
‘Stay here. Probably some doped-up kids. I’m going down.’
Martha shook her head. ‘Not by yourself you’re not.’
She reached for the phone. ‘I’m calling the police. Let them deal with it.’
Her husband was already on the landing. The pounding came again, louder than before, and a hoarse voice cried ‘Jimmy! Jimmy!’
Martha grabbed her husband’s arm. ‘Don’t you even think about opening the door.’
‘What about the police?’
‘Line’s engaged. Can’t get through.’
Hambley shouted. ‘The police will be here any minute! They’re on their way!’
‘Jimmy! Jimmy!’
Martha said, ‘That’s... That’s…’
‘I know who it is.’
Hambley opened the door and gasped. Wallace Maitland stared at them. His coat was gone and the white shirt was torn and covered in blood. He fell forward. Hambley caught him and eased him inside. Maitland was crying.
‘In God’s name, man. What’s happened to you?’
Maitland lips moved but nothing came out. He started to tremble; he was going into shock. Hambley barked at his wife. ‘Martha! Stop blubbering and get some brandy. And try the police again.’
‘No…no…no,’ Maitland said. ‘Not the police. Just… help me.’
CHAPTER NINE
Central Glasgow. After the bells.
We said our goodbyes to Alan and Jackie and Andrew and Sandra, and waited on the icy pavement for Alex to bring the car. Kate slipped her arm in mine. I pretended not to notice. Pat Logue had recovered the ground he’d lost. The temperature would affect him less than the rest of us but his wife seemed satisfied: her husband was never going to be a shining example of sobriety. Still, he’d made the effort. Short-lived though it was.
I got into the back with Kate and Gail; Patrick took the passenger seat.
‘Drop us first, could you, Alex? Might be in time to prevent the boys from burnin’ the house down.’
Gail reacted. ‘I warned the two of them before we left. Any nonsense and they’ll be looking for new digs. We don’t do raves.’
Patrick corrected her from the front seat. ‘Nobody does raves anymore, Gail. That was the nineties. Faded out when they stopped being a secret.’
‘You know what I mean. They better be in bed or they’ll hear me.’
We travelled through the deserted city with Alex hunched over the wheel, driving in the tracks of vehicles that had already come this way. He spoke without taking his eyes from the road. ‘So long as I stick to the main drag we’ll be okay. Slow going but we’ll get there. They reckon it’s El Nino.’
Patrick said, ‘El Nino. Plays for Barcelona, doesn’t he?’
At the Broomielaw, the lights were red but we didn’t stop. Beneath us, the Clyde was a black chasm cut between the snow-covered banks.
Kate said, ‘I wonder how long somebody would last in that.’
Alex answered. ‘Minutes at most.’
Pat Logue didn’t agree. He turned in his seat to speak to us. ‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘Heard a story once about a man who wanted to join a tribe that lived miles above the Arctic Circle. To be accepted he had to pass three initiation tests no one had ever survived.’
‘Is this a true story?’
‘Do you want to hear it or not?’
We settled down and let Patrick speak.
‘He had to walk twenty miles barefoot across the frozen tundra, wrestle a polar bear, and make love to an Eskimo woman. For eight days there was no sign of him and they were certain he must have perished. But, on the ninth day, a look-out spotted a speck on the horizon, crawlin’ through the snow. When he was close enough they could see he’d been through hell. Deep wounds raked his flesh; one of his arms was almost severed. His clothes were in tatters and he’d lost a lot of blood. Delirious – probably near death – he raised his one good arm and spoke to the chief.
“Right,’ he said. ‘Where’s this Eskimo woman you want me to wrestle?”’
Everybody laughed.
Patrick smiled a drunken smile. ‘End of the street’ll do us. And thanks. For everythin’.’
The Logues got out and we drove back across Glasgow. Nobody spoke until Alex voiced what we were all thinking.
‘How does Gail put up with him?’
I said, ‘She puts up with him because he’s a good guy. He goes his own way and he’s unreliable, but if you need a friend, Pat Logue won’t be hard to find. Apart from that, she loves him.’
We stopped outside the Devonshire Hotel, near Anniesland Cross, on one of the city’s main arteries. Tonight – or more accurately, this morning – it seemed alien.
‘This do you?’
‘Absolutely. Will you be all right?’
‘Never died a winter yet, Charlie. I’ll be fine.’
We watched him do a u-turn that normally wouldn’t be possible on this part of Great Western Road and drive away. Kate took my arm again and we picked our way carefully towards my flat on Cleveden Drive. It felt colder than earlier; the air burned our lungs and nipped our skin. I slipped and almost fell. Kate rescued me. A few steps further on, we both went down, and lay in the snow, laughing.
Kate said, ‘I’m having fun, Charlie.’
I helped her to her feet. ‘Glad somebody is.’
She pulled me to her and kissed me. Her lips were warm. ‘Somebody is.’
In Cleveden, the parties had ended or moved on. I made coffee, adding a generous measure of brandy to take the edge off, while Kate dumped her stuff in the spare bedroom. Her guitar was safely locked away downstairs at NYB; we’d collect it on our way to the airport.
I hadn’t seen this coming. Our affair had been over for two years and at the time we’d agreed it was for the best. Now Kate Calder was in my flat and I still wasn’t sure what it all meant until she called my name and I turned round.
She was standing in the doorway, one hand leaning against the frame, red hair falling across her pale shoulders onto her bare breasts. The night hadn’t been short of surprises but nothing matched this. Her body was as smooth and lean as I remembered. Flawless, and for a moment I struggled to breathe.
‘Think I’d come all this way without these?’
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t. Kate saw the look on my face and walked towards me, arms outstretched – naked apart from the snakeskin boots.
She smiled a slow smile. ‘Let’s try that again. Happy New Year, Charlie.’
‘For Auld Lang Syne?’
‘For whatever.’
CHAPTER TEN
New Year’s Day
Martha’s question wakened him. ‘What’s going on, James?’
He opened his eyes and sighed. ‘I have no idea.’
‘Don’t lie to me. I’m not stupid.’
‘I’m not lying to you.’
‘I think he’s been in an accident. Or a fight. We should call the police.’
Hambley forced a laugh. ‘A fight? Who would Wallace be fighting with? Relax. I’ll speak to him.’
Thank God she couldn’t see his face.
He was exhausted and angry. Martha was expecting answers about where Maitland had been. Last night was a disaster, whatever way he looked at it. A bad situation had suddenly got worse – much worse – and Hambley had no idea what to do about it. Everything he’d worked for could be ruined. And there were other possibilities, too serious to dwell on; he might go to prison. What they’d done was coming back to haunt them.
After a series of miscarriages, Ma
rgaret Cooper and her husband, David, were desperate to have a child. During Margaret’s fourth pregnancy, she started to suffer severe back pain and began to bleed. David brought her to Francis Fallon where partial placental abruption was diagnosed. When the bleeding became heavier, this was upgraded to complete separation. Wallace Maitland performed an emergency caesarean section but the baby was stillborn. His next move ought to have been to carry out a hysterectomy. Instead, he elected to try to save the womb. Maitland couldn’t get the bleeding to stop and deprived of oxygen Margaret Cooper suffered brain damage.
Neither Francis Fallon nor Wallace Maitland accepted responsibility. Hambley chaired the internal review of the case which concluded Maitland had acted in the best interests of the patient, and while the hospital regretted what had happened to Mrs Cooper, everything possible had been done to save her and her child. Gavin Law was the assisting surgeon. His testimony was disregarded. Soon after, he submitted a letter of complaint about his colleague.
Hambley strode into the bedroom and threw back the curtains. He opened a window. Bright daylight and cold air flooded in. Under the duvet Maitland drew in on himself like a frightened child.
‘Get up. Get up!’
Maitland didn’t move.
‘Stop hiding, and get up.’
Maitland’s head emerged from under the clothes. Martha had cleaned him up but his face was still a mess: both eyes were black; one of them was closed and his nose looked as if it might be broken. Hambley ignored the pain Maitland had to be in and got straight to the point.
‘What the fuck happened to you?’
‘I don’t know.’
Hambley answered his own question. ‘You went to find Law, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘Did he do this?’
Maitland started to cry.
Hambley was unmoved. ‘You can cut that out for a start. Feeling sorry for yourself won’t change anything. Tell me what you did.’