Divided City

by Theresa Breslin

  ‘Sit down,’ said Joe, pointing to a green-and-white striped chair in front of a matching desk.

  Graham gulped. There was nowhere he could put himself that part of his body would not be touching some of the despised and hated Celtic paraphernalia. His Granda Reid would have a heart attack.

  ‘I’ll stand,’ he said.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Joe flung himself on his bed, tipping some Celtic magazines onto the floor at Graham’s feet.

  Graham stepped back.

  ‘What did you want to see me for?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Em . . .’ Graham swallowed.

  ‘It’s quite a way for you to come up here,’ said Joe. ‘Don’t you live out in Robrostoun?’

  ‘Yes.’ Graham swallowed again.

  ‘And are you no going to the game the day?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Joe was suddenly aware that Graham’s jacket was buttoned to the neck on what was quite a warm morning.

  ‘Have you got your colours on underneath that jacket?’

  Graham nodded.

  ‘Jeeeeeez,’ said Joe. He shook his head. ‘No wonder you looked feart when Jammy brought you to the door.’ He used one of his granny’s expressions: ‘Have you lost your mind? Or are you just lost?’ As he said the words something clicked in Joe’s head. ‘You are lost, aren’t you?’

  Graham nodded again.

  ‘How did you land up here?’

  ‘I wanted to get across the motorway and took a wrong turning.’ Graham made a face. ‘More than one. I was trying to work out which direction to go when I saw the name StVeronica on the side of a building. I remembered that was the school you went to. Then your cousin stopped me in the street and challenged me. I thought you might live somewhere here. I had to say something. He was going to batter me.’

  ‘But what were you doing in this area in the first place?’ Joe asked. ‘Going somewhere you didn’t know you were going?’

  ‘I had a message to deliver.’

  Joe laughed. ‘Did you no think to put a stamp on it and shove it in a postbox?’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that.’ Graham took the piece of paper torn from his school notebook and showed it to Joe. He told Joe most of what had happened the previous evening.

  ‘You were lucky that gang didn’t do for you an all,’ said Joe. ‘Headbangers like that? They’d knife anybody.’

  ‘I know,’ said Graham. ‘I was terrified. When they ran off I thought Kyoul was dead. The paramedics said that probably I saved his life by calling the ambulance. When Kyoul told me his story I suppose I felt kind of obliged to let his girlfriend know where he is.’

  Joe shook his head. ‘It doesn’t explain why you ended up in the Garngath.’

  ‘I got off the bus too early. And I was trying to work out a way to get across the motorway. Then your cousin grabbed me.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Joe scrutinized the map. ‘This is the page for the Merchant City area that you’ve got here.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Graham. He sat on the very edge of the bed.

  Joe picked up the letter again. ‘But that’s not Merchant City that’s written on the last line of the address.’

  Graham leaned over Joe’s shoulder. ‘It is. Look.’ He spelled out the letters, ‘M-E-R-C-H-A-N-T. And the second word is City.’

  ‘The letters are all uneven,’ said Joe, ‘and the first word does look like Merchant but I don’t think the second one says City.’

  Graham recalled that last night in the street Kyoul could barely hold the pencil in his hand. ‘What does it say then?’

  ‘He’s scrawled it out so that it’s got a gap between the first part and the second, but I think it’s all one word.’ Joe squinted at the writing again. ‘It’s Merchantstown,’ he said at last.

  ‘Merchantstown?’ said Graham.

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Where the rich people live. A completely different side of the city from this.’

  ‘But Kyoul said his girlfriend lived in the High Street, and the High Street runs between Castle Street and the Trongate. That bit of Glasgow is known as the Merchant City. It’s on my map page that’s marked “Merchant City”.’

  ‘There must be more than one High Street in Glasgow then,’ said Joe. ‘You should have checked the phone book.’

  ‘I don’t know her second name.’

  ‘Well it looks like he’s written “Merchantstown” to me.’

  Graham looked at the letter again. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘And it makes more sense. Kyoul said she lived in a house with a big garden. There’s only flats in the city centre.’ He knocked on his own forehead with his knuckles. ‘How could I have been so stupid not to realize that?’

  Joe shrugged. ‘It sounded familiar so you probably thought of the first street you knew.’

  ‘That means I’d need to take this letter all the way across the river and I don’t know that part of the city.’

  ‘Throw it the bin then,’ said Joe.

  ‘I can’t,’ said Graham.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I told you, I feel I ought to deliver it. He’s in a bad way, she doesn’t know what’s happened to him, and . . .’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well . . . he told me the girl would give me money for bringing the phone back to her.’

  ‘Give you money?’ said Joe suspiciously.

  ‘Fifty quid,’ said Graham. ‘Kyoul said she was well off. He said he’d put it in the letter asking her. He wanted me to take her mobile phone directly to her and tell her what happened to him as early as I could this morning. It would be like claiming a reward.’

  ‘Sounds like drugs,’ said Joe. ‘You don’t want anything to do with that.’

  ‘No,’ said Graham. ‘He swore it wasn’t anything to do with drugs. And I think he was telling the truth.’

  ‘Still sounds dodgy to me.’

  ‘He said they were in love, but her family wouldn’t approve. Like Romeo and Juliet, I suppose. You know about Romeo and Juliet?’

  ‘I know fine,’ said Joe. ‘It’s a play where everybody ends up dead.’

  There was a silence in the room.

  Then Joe said, ‘What’re you going to do?’

  Graham consulted his watch. ‘I usually visit my granda in Bridgebar on a Saturday. We’re going to the game together today. It’s at Parkhead.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Joe. ‘I’m going with my da.’

  ‘Well it’s your ground, so my granda likes to go early. He always does that when Rangers are playing there – to avoid any trouble. So even though I’d like to take the phone back to this girl because I promised I would, I don’t think I’ve got enough time to get all the way to the south side and back again.’

  ‘You’ve got enough time,’ said Joe. ‘Just about.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘One of my uncles lives over there. I go and see my cousins sometimes.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘If you came with me I’d split the money,’ said Graham.

  Joe stared at him.

  ‘Halfers,’ said Graham.

  Joe didn’t take long to think it over. ‘You’re on,’ he said, and stood up. ‘But first I need to fix up my dad.’

  Chapter 10

  Graham wondered what Joe had to do to ‘fix up’ his dad so that he could leave the house.

  His own parents were pretty protective but even they allowed him out on a Saturday morning. ‘Does your dad watch what you’re doing all the time?’ he asked Joe.

  ‘More the opposite,’ said Joe. He lifted a savings bank (green and white) from his desk and took out some money. ‘He’ll be sitting about waiting for the run-up to the match on the telly, but he probably hasn’t eaten any breakfast. C’mon.’

  Once downstairs Joe pulled open his front door. ‘I have to find Jammy,’ he told Graham.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Graham.

  ‘Believe me, I would rather avoid him too, but at this moment we need him. Otherwise we
won’t have enough time to see to my dad and get across the city.’ Joe stood on his front doorstep. ‘JAMMY!’ he roared at the top of his voice. ‘JAMMY!’

  Graham looked out nervously. Bunting idled in the morning air. Apart from that, no movement.

  Joe walked to the front gate. ‘JAMMY! Where are you? C’mon. I need you. JAMMY!’

  Graham stepped back as he saw Jammy loping up the street.

  ‘I knew you’d want my help with that yin,’ Graham heard Jammy say as he came into the garden with Joe. ‘Want me to lamp him now?’

  ‘Enough,’ Joe told his cousin. ‘He’s good. He’s a pal of mine.’

  ‘What’s your name then?’ Jammy came forward and inspected Graham.

  ‘Gra—’

  ‘Gregory,’ Joe cut in. ‘His name’s Gregory. After a pope. See?’

  ‘What?’ said Graham.

  Joe whacked Graham in the ribs. ‘Your mammy called you after a pope. Isn’t that right, Gregory?’

  ‘A pope?’ said Graham.

  ‘A pope?’ repeated Jammy. The scowl left his face. ‘So he’s no a Hun?’

  ‘You’re catching on, Jammy,’ said Joe. ‘You’re a smart one the day.’

  Jammy’s face broke into a big grin. ‘A pope?’ he said again. ‘It’s no often you get a pope up here in the Garngath.’

  ‘I do not believe this,’ said Graham under his breath.

  ‘I want you to do something for me, Jammy,’ said Joe.

  ‘Anything,’ said Jammy. ‘You and me are pals, aren’t we, Joe?’

  ‘Sure are,’ said Joe.

  ‘Best pals?’

  ‘The very best. Listen, Jammy, will you?’

  ‘I’m listening. I’m listening.’

  ‘I want you go to Abdul’s and get us some stuff for my dad. Say it’s for Mr Flaherty and Abdul will know that you’ve to get rolls and milk and the papers. OK?’

  ‘OK.’ Jammy nodded enthusiastically. ‘OK.’

  ‘What are you going for?’ Joe asked him.

  ‘Rolls and milk and the papers,’ Jammy repeated. ‘Rolls and milk and the papers.’

  ‘That’s great. You’ve got it, Jammy.’ Joe put the money in his cousin’s jacket pocket. ‘Don’t take that out till you get to the shop.’

  ‘I won’t. I won’t,’ said Jammy. He ran off happily as the boys went into the house.

  ‘Dad?’

  Joe’s dad was sitting in the living room staring into space. He gave a start as Joe spoke.

  ‘What, son? What?’

  ‘Go and finish getting dressed.’ Joe spoke firmly to his father. ‘I’ve sent Jammy for the rolls and your papers. I’ll make you some tea. Go on,’ he said more gently. ‘I’ve got to go out this morning and I want to see you put a shirt on and eat something before I go.’

  ‘You’re coming back though?’

  ‘Aye. Aye. Don’t worry. I’ll be here in time to take you to the game.’

  While Joe and his dad were talking, Graham glanced around the room. It was smaller than the lounge in his own house but nicely furnished in shades of cream and brown. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace was a photograph of a woman and . . . a small wooden crucifix.

  ‘There’s always a sign.’ Graham could hear his Granda Reid’s voice in his head. ‘You can always tell. Even nowadays, when a lot of them don’t bother with holy pictures hanging up and statues to this yin and that yin. But if you’re in any of their houses, look about you. You’ll see a wee icon or somethin. Idolatry. That’s what it is.’

  ‘C’mon.’ Joe tugged Graham’s sleeve and Graham followed him into the kitchen. ‘Help yourself to some juice from the fridge.’

  Working at speed, Joe put the kettle on, rinsed last night’s dishes in the sink, set out some plates, cut half a dozen slices of cheese and made a pot of tea before Jammy was battering once again on the door.

  ‘Got the rolls and the milk and the papers.’ Jammy nodded cheerfully at Graham. He put them on the table and handed over the change to Joe. ‘Mr Abdul says hello.’

  ‘You done well, Jammy,’ said Joe. ‘The boy done good. Didn’t he, Gra— Gregory?’

  ‘What? Oh yeh. Yeh.’

  Jammy beamed at both of them.

  ‘You done brilliant,’ said Joe. He gave Jammy a few coins. ‘Away and buy yourself some sweeties. And Jammy,’ he shouted after his cousin, ‘stay out of trouble today.

  ‘It’s a good job Jammy doesn’t have a ticket for the game this afternoon,’ Joe said as his dad, now fully dressed with hair combed, came into the kitchen and sat at the table. ‘One of these days someone’s going to do him.’

  ‘Aye’ – Joe’s dad picked up the teapot – ‘and it might no be somebody from the other side that does it.’

  ‘Right, Dad.’ Joe plonked the bundle of newspapers on the table in front of his father. ‘You’ve to have that Guardian crossword done by the time I get back.’

  ‘Can your dad do the Guardian crossword?’ Graham asked as the two boys left the house.

  ‘It’s a joke between us,’ said Joe.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Graham laughed. ‘I thought that.’

  ‘Did you?’ Joe turned his head and gave Graham a long look. ‘Actually, my dad can do the Guardian crossword.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘D’you know what bus we need to get to the south side and where to get off?’

  Graham was jogging to keep up with Joe.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Joe. ‘But I know where to find out. We’ll go to the Mungo Museum. My dad’s cousin works in there. He’ll let us see a map of Glasgow and we’ll find out exactly where we’re going.’

  They walked together onto the pedestrian bridge that spanned the M8 and led to the city centre. Gorse and broom blazed gold on the grass-verged side of the motorway and in the distance the blue-hazed hills swelled against the horizon.

  ‘You can see a lot from up here,’ said Graham, pausing in the middle.

  ‘Yeh. It’s the highest point in the city,’ said Joe. ‘Brilliant place to live, the Garngath.’

  Graham looked at him to see if he was joking. ‘Aye, right.’

  Joe’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing, only continued walking across the bridge and down the steps leading to Alexandra Parade. The two boys came onto the curve of Castle Street and past the Royal Infirmary, looking like Hogwarts, with its fascinating dark turrets and towers. Before them the High Street straightened out for its descent towards Glasgow Cross. On the right was the ancient hospital of the monks and on their left, set back from the road, the old cathedral. They crossed the square with its lampposts showing the curled coat of arms of the city – the Bell, the Fish, the Bird and the Tree – to the St Mungo Museum of Religious Life and Art.

  Joe swung the glass door open and they went inside. ‘Upstairs,’ he said. ‘That’s where the information desk is.’ He took the stairs two at a time.

  Within seconds a uniformed attendant was on their heels.

  ‘We’re going to get bounced,’ Graham told him out of the side of his mouth.

  ‘Naw.’ Joe turned and grinned at the security guard. ‘Hi, Pat,’ he said. ‘I need to find out what bus to get to the High Street on the south side.’

  ‘Oh, it’s you, Joe.’ The guard smiled in recognition. ‘Sure, hang on and I’ll get a transport map from behind the desk.’

  Graham looked around as they waited at the top of the stairs. It was a couple of years since he’d been here with his school. Through the archway he could see what his teacher had called Glasgow’s most famous piece of art: Salvador Dali’s painting of Christ of St John of the Cross. Graham remembered the museum guide raving on about how beautiful it was – this unusual, dramatic view of Jesus Christ stretched on his cross. The figure was suspended over some men and fishing boats beside a peaceful seashore. Depicted from high above, it showed a man, head bowed, with no sign of wounds or struggle upon his body. And though Graham was intrigued, like the rest of his class, to find the outline of the dove enclosed within the muscle
of the upper arm, he much preferred the hands-on room upstairs. He’d enjoyed the quizzes on the different religions, doing the games and the brass rubbings, and looking at the prayer mats, one with a built-in compass to enable the user to find the direction of the Kaaba in Mecca.

  Joe saw where Graham was looking and pointed to the huge painting. ‘You know, visitors come from all over the world to see that image.’

  Graham shivered.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Joe.

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘You’re in the minority then,’ said Joe. ‘It’s part of Glasgow. Though my dad thinks it was better where it was before they moved it here. It was in the Kelvingrove. He says people queued for hours to see it when it first arrived.’

  ‘Know a lot about painting, does he, your dad?’

  Joe waited a moment before replying, unsure if Graham was being sarcastic, then said, ‘He knows a lot about everything, my dad.’

  ‘Here you go.’ Joe’s cousin Pat had returned with the map. As he unfolded it he asked Joe, ‘How’s your dad, by the way?’

  ‘Up and down,’ said Joe.

  Pat shook his head. ‘It’s a terrible thing, thon depression.’

  Depression. That was it! Graham now knew what had struck him as being familiar about Joe’s dad. It was the way he held himself, the way he looked. It was the same way his Aunt Kirsty looked when she’d got depression after the birth of her baby. Graham thought of Joe’s dad again, the flat expression in his eyes.

  ‘You say to him to come over to us for dinner,’ Pat told Joe. ‘Any night. He’s a fine man, your da. Your ma was that proud of him.’

  ‘I know. Everybody says that.’

  ‘Tell him, mind now.’

  ‘I’ll tell him, Pat. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘I’ve found the place you’re looking for.’ Pat pointed to a street on the other side of the river. ‘It’s a street over in Merchantstown, just off the main road. You can get a bus to it from here. There’s a bus stop nearby. If you walk outside and turn left in the direction of the Tollbooth, it’s only a yard or so.’

  Pat showed them where the other High Street was located on the south side of the city and told them the number of the bus to take.

  As he saw them to the door he said to Joe, ‘You’ll be going to the game this afternoon with your dad?’