The Bird That Did Not Sing

by Alex Gray

  It was usually dark by the time she made the journey across the city, but tonight the twilight was a burnished sapphire, the air warm with the promise of another hot day to come. Shereen tugged at her raincoat then slipped it off; she’d only put it on out of habit, covering up the voluminous cotton dress. Her bare feet thrust into worn leather sandals made a soft flopping noise as she walked along, the rhythm of her pace soothing the woman, making her forget for a while why she was out and where she was heading. The envelope stuffed with money was in a bum bag. It bounced over Shereen’s fat belly with each step she took towards the tenement flat in Dennistoun.

  A fluttering movement made her look up and Shereen smiled to see yet another bright banner proclaiming the Glasgow 2014 Commonwealth Games. Hers might not be a long heritage here, but Shereen felt like a Glaswegian whenever she looked around at the flags and posters everywhere. It was odd, this sense of pride in a person whose parents had sailed from Jamaica last century, settling here in the UK, hopes of a better life foundering far too quickly. Shereen had never been back home, yet she’d yelled at the TV as loudly as any native-born Jamaican when Usain Bolt had won his medals in London.

  A crack in the pavement made her stumble and for a moment Shereen gasped, expecting her large body to tilt forward and crash on to the stone slabs. But she righted herself in time, one arm flung out for balance. Heart beating wildly, she leaned against a wall and checked her watch. There was plenty of time before she needed to be there. She would catch her breath for a moment. The woman fingered the leather bag at her waist. She had been making this journey for many months now, paying off the loan shark with regular amounts. But business had been good lately, Asa’s young body becoming more and more popular with the men who came to visit. And though it hurt her to see the girl’s cowed demeanour every morning and the way she now avoided her glance, Shereen’s purse had grown bigger from these visitors. The other flats would remain empty, however, the stream of girls that the big man had been promising cut off abruptly by that Englishman’s death.

  The light from the street lamps obscured any stars that might be overhead as the woman turned into the mouth of a close. She barely gave a glance at the buzzer as she pressed it, the familiar blank space against the topmost number giving nothing away. Anybody coming to make payments knew the person they were going to see; there was no need for a name.

  Her breathing was laboured as she climbed the three flights of stairs, her leg muscles protesting under the weight of her huge body, left hand grasping the banister as she hauled herself upwards. She took a few moments to let the pain in her chest subside before knocking on the door.

  There was a rattle as a chain was removed, then the door swung open to reveal a slightly built lad who stood aside to let her in. Angular jaws masticated the wad of gum in his mouth as he flicked his head to indicate that the woman should proceed along the dusty hallway.

  Shereen did not give him a second glance, knowing that the youth would curl his lip at her, a disdainful sneer for yet another victim of his grandfather’s moneylending.

  When Shereen entered the room, the man was slumped in front of an enormous plasma television, cigarette in one hand, a cut-glass tumbler of whisky in the other, his eyes fixed on the screen, where figures in white and dark blue were chasing a yellow football around a grassy pitch.

  She waited patiently, standing to one side so that he knew she was there, but not so close as to make a nuisance of herself. At last the thin sound of a whistle blew, a cheer arose from the unseen crowd, and the man stirred from his position on the leather couch.

  ‘It’s you,’ he grunted, half turning to look at Shereen. ‘Same as usual, I suppose,’ he sighed, feeling down the side of the settee for the hardbacked notebook that he had jammed between the seat cushion and the arm.

  ‘Actually, no,’ Shereen began nervously.

  ‘What?’ The man started in surprise, half rising from the couch.

  ‘Oh, I’ve got it all right,’ Shereen assured him, unzipping the bag at her waist. ‘I just wanted to pay it all off, though. Is that all right?’ she asked anxiously, biting her lower lip.

  ‘Hm, pay off the lot, eh? Well, it’ll cost you,’ the man told her, his eyes drawn to the book that was now balanced on his knees.

  ‘How much?’ she asked. And he told her, the glint from a gold tooth shining as he grinned.

  Shereen nodded. It was more than she had calculated but she had it all here. Slowly she counted out the notes into his open palm, a sense of excitement growing in her breast.

  ‘Right. That’s it, then.’ The man seemed slightly disappointed as he drew a line under the rows of figures. ‘You can come back any time you need to, though. You know that, eh?’ He leered at her. ‘Good customer like you!’ He laughed, then, to Shereen’s surprise, thrust out a gnarled hand to shake her own.

  ‘Thank you,’ the woman said quietly. She rezipped the empty bag, and even before she had turned to leave, the man who had held her in such thrall was once more slumped in front of the television, grasping the remote control and turning up the sound.

  She had intended taking a taxi back to the flat, but now, with no money left in her purse, Shereen resigned herself to the long walk home. Heaving the raincoat back on, she strode away from the grey stone tenement, a new feeling of lightness in her step. She was free! It was difficult to believe after all this time and all these visits to the man at the top of the stairs, but the Jamaican woman nodded to herself as she walked, lips moving as she repeated the word over and over.

  As she turned a corner, Shereen caught sight of a white car parked at the kerb, its familiar livery letting her know what it was. Police Scotland. Two uniformed officers sat in the front, and as she passed the car she could see that they were holding papers full of fish suppers. Her step faltered as the thought came into her mind.

  She was free now. Free as a bird. She could rap on the window, make them look her way. Then what? Tell them about Asa? The woman blinked for a moment, remembering that feature in today’s Gazette. Didn’t it say that the police weren’t really interested? She looked more closely, hearing the laughter between the two cops, seeing one of them carelessly pop a chip into his open mouth. What would they see if she stopped? A big fat Jamaican woman wobbling as she leaned down beside their car?

  Shereen carried on, a small sigh escaping from her mouth. And as she walked away, tears spilled down her cheeks, though she could not have said who it was that she was crying for.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  He wouldn’t be shedding any tears over the aftermath of his explosion. Doing the job well and having the desired outcome was all that mattered to Rob Worsley. Years of working with ex-military types hardened by their experiences had inured the explosives expert to any sort of empathy for the victims of his work. Mostly he had done jobs overseas, trained a few groups on the hillsides of Pakistan, set off bombs that had wiped out entire villages. But this would be a little different, he thought, looking at the blueprint of his plan. His name would never go down in the annals of history, but so what? In just a few short weeks he would have the satisfaction of knowing that he had undermined all that amazing and expensive security operation surrounding the Commonwealth Games to blow up the famous Parkhead Stadium.

  Worsley grinned as he contemplated the outrage that would follow the explosion. How many of Glasgow’s citizens would mourn the royals rather than their beloved Celtic football ground? He glanced at the mantelpiece. Placed neatly behind a silver carriage clock was the envelope containing his travel documents. His destination after one big job had been Spain, a nice warm bolthole to escape the British weather, but this time he was going much further afield. The mad fool who called himself their leader had no inkling that Worsley and McAlpin had planned their escape route together. Dubai first, then Jo’burg and on to Nigeria, where the ginger-haired man had all those contacts. After that? Well, Worsley had several ideas of where he would like to spend his retirement, all of them far, far away
from this godforsaken country.

  He smoothed out the drawings, eyes darting across the meticulously detailed pages. It was a work of art, he thought proudly. And he deserved to be paid well for his part in the scheme. Not all of them were in this because of their ideals. Freedom from oppression indeed! He chuckled. That student, Number Six, he was typical of the sort of nutters their leader attracted, carried away on a wave of nationalistic fervour. Worsley shook his head and sighed. He certainly wouldn’t be hanging around to put his own mark upon the independence referendum. By the time the voters flocked to the polling stations he would be well away, hopefully on some sun-drenched beach.

  Waiting was what they did best. Waiting in cars, watching windows and doors, looking at each and every person passing by. The man and woman seated in the front seats of the Vauxhall Corsa might have been weekend shoppers waiting for a friend to join them. There was nothing particular about their appearance that a passer-by would remember: Mr and Mrs Average, dressed in jeans and khaki raincoats, they stared out at the street with expressionless faces as though boredom had set in long since. In reality Kate MacDonald was an undercover officer of many years’ experience, her ability to merge into a crowd one of her greatest assets. Joe Hammond, the bald-headed man sitting in the driver’s seat, had been seconded from the Met. He had said little to the woman beside him after the briefing from Detective Superintendent Lorimer back at HQ. Joe knew how to take orders and follow them to the letter. The importance of the job had been impressed upon them, and both surveillance officers had been given some access to the intelligence that Drummond had supplied.

  Last night other watchers had sat patiently outside McAlpin’s home in Bishopbriggs, a featureless semi-detached villa like hundreds of others in the housing scheme, except that it sheltered a man who might possibly be a terrorist intent on targeting the 2014 Commonwealth Games. This morning MacDonald and Hammond had trailed their quarry across to the east side of the city to the tenement flat where McAlpin had parked his white transit van and disappeared inside a close, two bulky carrier bags in each hand. They had noted the moment when he had set the bags down, fished keys out of his jacket pocket and unlocked the heavy main door. It was a little bit of progress. What he was doing there and why he had brought the van was a matter of interest to these officers, their hidden camera recording each and every one of McAlpin’s movements.

  Asa looked out of the bedroom window. Her tattoo still felt sore from the activity of the previous night and even sitting in the hot water this morning hadn’t made any difference. Shereen had insisted on it, leading her into the steamy bathroom, helping her over the edge of the bath. The caretaker had poured salts of some kind into the water, swirling it around with her fat fingers while Asa sat there naked, legs drawn up to hide her shame.

  Now all the Nigerian girl wanted was to wrap her arms around her body, but the plaster cast inhibited this. Still, the fleecy dressing gown Shereen had given her helped to retain the lingering warmth from the bath as she stood staring down at the street below. Asa saw that the white man’s van was there again. Surely he would not come into her room? Not so early? Her dark eyes took in the drab street; everything was so grey. Even that car across the street with a couple sitting in it was a dull metallic grey, the colour of guns. Asa had seen guns once, when the police had come to their village, big bulky things strapped to the officers’ belts. They had made the policemen seem bigger and fiercer, strutting around the beaten earth with polished boots as they looked down at the cowed faces of the villagers.

  Last night Asa had heard a girl crying. It was the familiar keening noise she had often heard back home, one that evoked death and grief. The sound had come from the room across the corridor, next to the bathroom, but there had been no noise this morning though Asa had listened intently once the water from the taps had finished flowing. Shereen had talked incessantly, words that meant nothing to the Nigerian girl, as she had strained her ears to hear.

  She remembered how the big woman had wrapped the bath sheet around her, folding her into a hug, careful not to press the damaged arm. Asa had looked at her once, seeing tears in Shereen’s eyes and something else: a look of regret, as if the woman was sorry for what had happened.

  ‘He’s on the move.’ Joe Hammond put the car into gear and watched as the big man swung his body into the cab of the white van. In seconds they were driving along the quiet street, then out into the traffic of the main thoroughfare heading back into the city centre.

  ‘What’s the betting he just goes back home?’ Kate said wearily.

  Joe grinned. It was the same up here, then: surveillance teams everywhere probably put bets on their quarry’s next move, anything to alleviate the tedium of hours spent waiting. ‘A tenner says he’s off to Albion Street,’ he replied.

  Kate looked at him through narrowed eyes. ‘D’you know something, or is that a random guess?’ she asked.

  Joe laughed. ‘Just a hunch,’ he said.

  ‘Okay, you’re on,’ she replied, watching the rear lights of the big van as it braked at a junction.

  McAlpin heard the ringtone as he stopped at the traffic lights. He listened, waiting for the sixth note to die away before indicating left. There was never a good time to have one of these meetings; sometimes the leader notified them all a day or two in advance, but often as not the mobile would ring out, a signal for the six men to convene at the prearranged destination. The phone beeped, and McAlpin lifted it up to read the text message. It gave an address on the south side of the city, a good half an hour from where he was right now. Soon the plumber’s van was heading across the Kingston Bridge, a small grey Corsa in its wake, each of the two surveillance officers curious to know just where they were heading, the ten-pound bet quite forgotten.

  ‘Asa?’ Shereen had slipped into the girl’s room, locking the door behind her.

  The Nigerian girl glanced up with dulled eyes then yawned and looked away again.

  ‘How’s the arm?’ Shereen asked, tapping her own arm to signify what she was saying.

  The girl looked away again, avoiding Shereen’s stare.

  ‘How would you like to come into the kitchen? He came by to drop off the groceries. Fancy having some tea?’

  The girl turned to look at her, alerted by the familiar word.

  ‘Tea? Come on.’ Shereen beckoned towards the door and unlocked it. ‘It’s just the three of us today. You, me and our new girl. No bloody men to annoy us yet.’ She grinned.

  Asa stood up, her eyes on the hallway beyond the door. ‘Toi-let,’ she said, practising a word she had come to use often.

  ‘Okay,’ Shereen agreed. ‘Toilet first. Then you come through to the kitchen. His Nibs brought some cake with the groceries. God knows why. But let’s enjoy it while we can, eh?’

  Asa wrinkled her brow. ‘Cake,’ she said, savouring the word, then nodding.

  ‘Aye, cake. Yum, yum,’ Shereen said, rubbing her huge belly and laughing.

  As she waited outside the bathroom for Asa to emerge, it was hard not to imagine the other girl in the room next door.

  Shereen gnawed at her lip, wondering if she dared risk it. Then, ‘Oh sod it,’ she muttered. ‘Why shouldn’t the poor wee cow have a bit of cake and tea as well?’ Taking a bunch of keys from her cardigan pocket, she opened the door next to the bathroom.

  Shereen’s scream of terror brought Asa running out of the toilet to the big woman’s side.

  She skidded to a halt, rigid with horror at the sight in the bedroom.

  There, suspended from the light fitting on the ceiling, was the body of a thin dark girl, her neck twisted sideways, arms hanging lifelessly by her sides.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The man with the golden tooth chuckled as he replaced the handset. They were all the same. Thought they could do without him, then something happened and they were running to his door once again. The big dark-skinned woman had sounded tearful, but then most of them tried that trick, employing emotion as though it could
budge the moneylender from his usual rates of interest. ‘Let one have a lower rate and they’ll all want it,’ he’d told that skinny wretch of a grandson who lived with him.

  She would be round soon, she had said in breathless tones, as though she had been running. The man laughed out loud, the image of her overweight body swaying from side to side amusing him greatly.

  Asa had never seen such fear in another person’s eyes before.

  She followed the woman around the flat, still dazed from the sight that was now behind a locked door, watching as Shereen took various items from the food cupboard and shoved them into a large carrier bag. She had already packed some of Asa’s clothes and toiletries, talking and weeping as she pulled things out of drawers and cupboards, the Nigerian girl watching silently from the doorway, one ear listening in case footsteps heralded the arrival of either of the men.

  They were leaving. There was no doubt about that in Asa’s mind. She might be unable to understand the torrent of words coming from the older woman’s mouth, but she could hear the high-pitched anxiety in her tone and read the frantic way she bustled about, throwing things into bags, hardly sparing the girl a glance.

  ‘Come. Now,’ Shereen said at last. These at least were words with which Asa was familiar, and the girl followed her meekly along the corridor and out of the main door.