by Louise Welsh
Forty-Five
The landscape beyond the rear of the shopping mall was an expanse of fractured concrete, wrought with vegetation. Stevie had expected the same high buildings that had hampered the view of the horizon on their drive through the city. The unbroken stretch of grey sky startled her. She paused on the shopping centre steps, her attention captured by the swoop and turn of a flock of starlings. The birds pitched and rose, the flock folding and unfolding; scattering and then regrouping into shapes she no longer knew the names of.
Magnus sprinted down the steps. He paused when he reached the pavement and pulled the knitted cap he had worn on the boat from his pocket. Stevie saw that he did not know where to go. She followed him and put a hand on his shoulder. The Orcadian was trembling beneath his jacket. He tugged his cap low over his brow. It made him look like a burglar on the prowl.
Stevie said, ‘We’re close.’
He did not look at her. ‘We may as well still be on the islands, or on the moon, for all the good we’ve done.’
The misery in Magnus’s voice touched her own despair. Stevie put an arm around his waist. He gave a small judder and hugged her to him.
She said, ‘At least Evie is probably being well cared for.’
Magnus nodded, but did not speak.
The concrete expanse was a car park. Vehicles ranged across it in scattered ranks. The vegetation that colonised the cracks in the ground had crept around their wheels and hubcaps. Shoots stretched inside the cars’ engines and reached into their cabs, rooting them there. Mould muted the vehicles’ metal exteriors beneath a skin of brown-green.
Beyond the car park a clock-tower, its spire crowned with a golden ship, reached towards the glooming sky. Low-rise pubs squatted beside it, looking like they had been there since the first citizens stumbled, thirsty, into the city. The tower’s clock was figured with gold numbers. Its hands had stopped at five to midnight.
Magnus touched Stevie’s arm. ‘Look.’
She followed his stare and saw a shambling figure dressed in black, walking across the bleak expanse. Stevie thought it was a man, though the loose-fitting coat gave no clue of the person’s shape and a hood concealed the features. She pulled free of Magnus and took her rifle from her back. The oncomer raised their face to the sky and screamed something that was all pain and anger. Magnus reached into his pocket and Stevie knew he was going for his gun.
She kept a tight hold on her rifle, ‘They might be harmless.’
The figure crossed the car park towards them, their limping walk fast, despite their bent back and hanging head. They were making for the steps where Magnus and Stevie stood, sure as mercury rising beneath a flame.
Magnus aimed his gun. ‘Keep your distance.’ His voice melted into the open space.
The wind rose, trembling the weeds and fanning the skirt of the approaching figure’s coat. Somewhere a dog howled. The stranger raised their head and sent another scream into the gloaming. Stevie caught a glimpse of deep sockets set in a grey face; hollow cheeks and a black, depthless mouth.
The fluid in her spine shifted. Magnus caught her elbow and they retreated backwards, up the steps. The stranger was close enough to be sure that it was a man. He raised his head and looked at them. His mouth opened in a grin that revealed teeth more broken and blasted than Briar’s. ‘Are yous alive?’
Magnus kept his voice and his gun level. ‘For now.’
‘For now, that’s a good answer, now’s all we’ve got, this moment, now.’ The man’s voice was gravel. ‘No use looking forward, no use looking back, live for the present, the moment, this moment, now, for tomorrow, we may die.’ He turned his grin on Stevie and touched a hand to his forehead. ‘We who are about to die salute you. What is it, but a step in the dark?’
The wind carried a spatter of rain. The man coughed and spat a gob of phlegm onto the ground. He turned towards the wind, black coat flapping; raised a hand in farewell and screamed.
Magnus shouted after him, ‘We’re looking for the old Fish Market!’
The man was limping away from them, his shoulders and head pitching to the rhythm of his stagger. He made for the alleyway by the side of the shopping centre where his death might wait in the form of a rabid dog, a stranger with a knife or countless other guises. His hand was still in the air, raised in a long goodbye.
Magnus shouted again, ‘Do you know where the old Fish Market is?’
At first it seemed that the man had not heard him. Then he turned and pointed towards the spire.
‘That’s it there, the Briggait. It’s a flesh market now, tender flesh, easy on the gums.’ He raised his head to the sky and howled.
Forty-Six
For a man who had not eaten or slept in a long time, Magnus was running fast. Stevie followed him across the car park. The open space left them dangerously exposed, but he hurtled on, racing across the broken concrete, towards the spire. Stevie shouted, ‘Magnus, for God’s sake!’ but she matched his pace, the rifle strapped to her back jarring against her spine. The vegetation that had colonised the car park was slick beneath her feet, more like seaweed than grass. A blast of rain hit her face. She shoved a strand of wet hair from her eyes. Up ahead she could see the name of a pub, The Westering Winds, and beside it the Fish Market, where Ivan had said the teenagers might be held.
‘Magnus …’ Her voice was lost in another gust of wind, another spatter of rain.
The Fish Market was large, built from blond sandstone and decorated with crests and other carvings. Two bearded faces stared through the smir from high on the building’s frontage. Water stains and verdigris darkened their features, recalling the mould that had crept across the corpses of Sweats victims who, only seven years ago, had lain unburied in the streets.
Magnus faltered to a halt at the edge of the car park. Stevie caught up with him and saw the wrought-iron gates padlocked ten feet high across the building’s triple entrance doors.
She shoved his shoulder. ‘Come on.’
There was a modest doorway to the left of the grand entrance. They sprinted across the road and huddled side by side in its scant shelter, bodies touching, jackets streaming with rain.
Magnus’s face was pale beneath his woollen hat. ‘I know they’re in there. I can feel them.’
Stevie blotted her face with her scarf. ‘Wanting them to be there isn’t the same as knowing they are. If this place has lookouts, they’ll have seen us coming. I’m not risking my life on a hunch. You shouldn’t either.’
A mechanical thrum rattled the air. They looked up and saw a helicopter wasp-like, high above them.
Stevie shrank deeper into the doorway. The sound of the helicopter’s rotors coiled a knot in her belly, but she could not take her eyes off it. She tried to tamp down her fear.
‘The propaganda effect of that thing could be worth the petrol it eats.’
Magnus gave a grim smile. He had lost weight. His cheeks were hollow, the hinge of his jaw more prominent.
‘Thinking of getting one, pres?’
She had almost forgotten she was president of the Orkney Islands, had barely thought about Alan Bold deputising for her. ‘Islanders aren’t so easily impressed.’
Magnus’s eyes were trained on the miracle above them. Planes and helicopters had once been commonplace, but it was years since either of them had seen one in the air.
‘Islanders can be impressed – they just don’t like to show it.’ He settled his cap lower on his head and looked at her. ‘I’m one of the few born and bred Orcadians left, so this isn’t something I’d say lightly. You impress me, Stevie, you always have.’ He looked away. ‘I’m not coming on to you. I just wanted to say, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me and Shug.’
The compliment sounded too much like a leave-taking for Stevie to find any pleasure in it. A burst of wind loaded with rain and gravel assaulted the doorway where they were hunched. She tried to wipe the wetness from her face with her scarf, but it was sodden.
‘Save the
speeches for the homecoming ceilidh. Remember what we promised each other. We’re both coming out of this alive.’
Magnus gave her another of his skull-like grins. ‘You always were ambitious.’
The sound of the helicopter’s engines was growing louder. Stevie looked upwards and realised that it was lower than before.
Magnus showed his teeth. ‘They’re landing.’
He was right. The helicopter was descending onto a cleared portion of the car park. Stevie could make out the air ambulance markings painted across its body. It was bigger than she had realised, designed to accommodate equipment and medics. They watched as it wobbled above the weed-choked concrete. The wind caught the helicopter and it seemed it might tumble like a leaf, but the pilot held firm. Its feet touched the ground and stayed there.
Stevie’s hand sought Magnus’s. ‘They might not notice us.’
The engine died; the rotors slowed. The door to the cab opened and a man jumped down onto the concrete. It was a rock-star entrance, but he was soberly dressed in a long, waxed coat, ideal for concealing a rifle beneath. The man faced away from them, scanning the distance between the helicopter and the shopping centre. Stevie thought they were going to go unnoticed, but then he glanced towards their doorway. The distance between them was too far for Stevie to make out his features but she saw him freeze and knew that they had been spotted.
The man turned and spoke to someone inside the cab, cupping his hands around his mouth to funnel his words away from the wind and rain. Stevie reached for her weapon and felt Magnus do the same beside her. The helicopter rotors were still turning; their slipstream trembling the brim of the man’s hat. He steadied it with one hand and ran towards the Fish Market in a half crouch. Three people followed from the helicopter.
Stevie looked at Magnus. His eyes were red with tiredness, his features drawn. There was something reckless in his expression that made her whisper, ‘Remember, we’re not Thelma and Louise or Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. We’re survivors.’
The bodyguards, if that was what they were, reached for their guns as they drew close. The man turned his head and said something that made them lower their weapons. They were close enough for Stevie to see that they were all men, bulkier and better-fed than the soldiers who had attacked her in Eden Glen.
Their leader took his hat from his head and, mindless of the rain, walked to the doorway where Stevie and Magnus were waiting, his hands raised in the air to show he was unarmed. Stevie could see his face more clearly now. He was clean-shaven with pale skin and dark hair, cut short in a way that emphasised the roundness of his head. The newcomer’s expression was mild, his features open and honest. He nodded at their weapons.
‘Keep your guns to hand if it makes you feel better, but you’ll not be needing them.’ He had a Borders accent; a lilt of lowland Scots; round English vowels.
Magnus said, ‘Are you Bream?’
‘I am.’ The provost’s smile was measured. ‘From your accent I’m guessing you’re our Orcadian visitors …’ He paused and wrinkled his forehead, as if searching his memory. ‘… Stevie and Magnus. I heard you were headed for the City Chambers. We were waiting for you. What happened?’
Magnus’s hat was still pulled low over his forehead; the growth of his beard had thickened. Only his eyes were exposed and they gave nothing away.
‘Our lift dropped us off earlier than expected.’
Bream raised an eyebrow, but did not ask him to elucidate.
‘Which one of you is president of the Orkneys?’
‘I am.’ Stevie did not return his smile. ‘If you know our names, you already know why we’re here.’
Bream met her gaze. His eyes were a sharp, Icelandic blue.
‘I’m hoping you’ve come to build an alliance between the City of Glasgow and your islands.’
Stevie had expected him to mention the children. She stumbled over her words.
‘I’m not sure how practical that would be. We’re not exactly neighbours.’
Rainwater ran down Bream’s face, slicking his hair to his head.
‘It’s true. Badlands lie between our two territories, but the people who live in them are largely the same people who lived there before the Sweats. I’ve heard about Orkney and the work you’ve done. You’ve managed to maintain a democratic process. So have we.’
Stevie said, ‘I can’t take credit for democracy on Orkney. The community works together.’
Bream nodded. ‘No doubt, but a successful community requires a strong leader. From what I heard, yours would have fallen apart without you.’
Stevie looked at the ground. ‘No—’
‘Who did you hear it from?’ Magnus interrupted.
The provost levelled his gaze. ‘Someone who fancied himself in your friend’s job.’
‘A man called Bjarne?’
Bream replaced the broad-brimmed hat on his head. ‘Sounds like he’s not flavour of the month.’
Magnus said, ‘He’s not anything. He’s dead.’
Bream lowered his head for a moment. It was impossible to see his expression, but when he raised his face to look at them again, it was calm.
‘How did he die?’
‘Shot with a shotgun from behind.’
‘He was executed?’
Stevie said, ‘Not officially. Our community doesn’t approve of capital punishment, but someone obviously had it in for him. It was our first unsolved murder.’ She corrected herself. ‘One of our first two unsolved murders. Whoever shot Bjarne also killed his wife.’
Bream made a face. ‘I only met him once, a month ago. He talked big about trade agreements and alliances, but he struck me as a man who would be better at making enemies than deals.’
Something in the provost’s denial made Stevie ask, ‘You’ve no idea who might have killed him?’
Rainwater dripped from the brim of Bream’s hat. ‘I didn’t even know he was dead. Like you said, we’re not exactly neighbours.’
The bodyguards had stood a respectful distance from the conversation, but now one of them stepped forward.
‘They’ll be gone, if we don’t get there soon.’
‘Thanks, Simmy.’ Bream turned to look at him. ‘It’s a big building. Start on the ground floor and work your way upwards. I’ll meet you back at the Chambers.’ The provost saw that Stevie and Magnus were following his conversation. ‘Every family has its troubles. One of our council members decamped with a kid young enough to be his grandchild. We had bother with that kind of thing in the early days – people exploiting children they were pretending to help. We imposed a policy of zero tolerance.’
The mention of zero tolerance, so soon after Bream’s enquiry about whether Bjarne had been executed, made Stevie draw breath.
Magnus said, ‘We met them.’
‘Where?’ Simmy was all heat and eagerness, as keen on the hunt as the dogs they had outrun.
Stevie hissed, ‘Magnus,’ but he pointed towards the shopping centre.
‘In the mall, bunked up in a control room on the upper floor. There was an old woman with them, an ex-actress called Natalie.’
Simmy nodded. ‘Thanks, mate.’ He clapped his companions on the shoulder and the three of them jogged off, moving quick and sure across the riven concrete.
‘Don’t hurt them.’ Stevie’s words were snatched away by the wind.
Magnus waited until the men were at the far side of the car park.
‘We’re not here to make an alliance. We’re looking for three children who were stolen from our islands by a woman called Belle. Your friend Ivan said two of them are prisoners in this building.’
Stevie saw the gun in Magnus’s hand and knew he had sacrificed Ivan and the others for the chance of getting Bream on his own.
‘Stolen children being held prisoner is a serious accusation. You believed a man who took a child as his lover?’ Magnus’s weapon did not seem to bother the provost. He stepped closer, shortening the gap between them. ‘I don’t know
anyone called Belle and my corporation does not imprison children.’ He raised his hands, palms outwards and looked at Stevie. ‘There’s a set of keys in my left-hand pocket, get them for me. This is a good coat. I don’t want Magnus here getting the wrong idea and ruining it with bullet holes.’
Stevie reached into Bream’s coat pocket, fished out a heavy assortment of keys looped together on a chain and handed them to him.
Magnus kept his gun trained on the Provost.
‘It’s nothing personal. I can’t take any chances, not now we’re so close to finding them.’
Bream picked through his bunch of keys, until he found the right one. ‘Guns have a way of making things personal.’
He unlocked the door and led them into a long corridor lined on one side by numbered doocots. He saw Stevie looking at them and said, ‘This place was being used as artists’ studios when the Sweats hit. Do you remember how councils used to bribe artists into gentrifying poor neighbourhoods by offering them cut-price workspaces?’
It was an attempt at camaraderie but Stevie did not return his smile. ‘I suppose having artists around made things more interesting.’
Bream made a wry face. ‘Making things interesting is something we don’t have to worry about any more.’
He led them through another door into a hall that had once racketed to the sound of fishmongers selling their wares. A glass roof arched overhead, curving from a central spine, like a massive whale skeleton. Grime and leaves had accumulated on the glass, dulling the daylight seeping in from the already dull sky. The fishmongers of Glasgow must once have got rich, paddling in fish blood, their white coats flaked silver, counters sparkling with ice. The Fish Market had been magnificent. Now it was a leaky warehouse, stacked with jagged mounds of harvested technology. People bundled in waterproofs and woollens were sorting the junk into piles. Hats and balaclavas obscured their faces, but Stevie got the impression that they were all young.
Magnus grasped one of the salvage workers by the shoulder and pulled back his hoodie. He was slight, with slim hips and a sullen droop to his shoulders. Stevie caught his resemblance to Shug. But when the worker turned towards Magnus, he was a stranger, with pale skin and pinched features. The worker pulled wordlessly away. Magnus mumbled an apology and let him go.