That night Leona returned to an empty home. Her mum had told her to go out for the day to visit friends, to try and scrounge something to eat. But it was seven o’clock now and there was no sign of life. Leona hadn’t really been in the mood to talk. She still hadn’t really thought about what had happened to her dad, she needed to be strong for her mum who’d taken the news really badly. But she’d also said things would be fine, so where is she? Leona saw a small letter had been delivered. It sat upended behind the door; must have been brushed aside when she came back. It was official, from Police Scotland and addressed to her.
Sliding her finger across the seal the envelope ripped in her haste to see what was inside. The note said she was to contact the Police station at Baird Street immediately. Something had happened to her mother and she needed to get in touch. She couldn’t stay by herself.
Leona didn’t know what to do and a sharp tension gripped her stomach. Terrified, she suddenly felt as if she was being watched. Her mum had gone into town to ‘get some money’ but she’d said if she wasn’t back she should go to her aunt’s house in Paisley. Something’s happened, but what?
Sitting in the hall on the third stair up, Leona crumpled the note into a ball and wondered who’d be safest to phone. No-one. She felt her only option was to run.
***
When the door clinked shut and the lock turned the reality of the situation started to hit home for Lorna. The cell at Baird Street Police Station was small; around eight feet long and six wide. There was a basic toilet at the far end beside a raised ledge with a rubber mattress, but no sheets. Lorna sat down; there was nothing else to do. On the wall was a poster which said:
Carrying a knife?
Get used to
4 years
behind bars.
There was a picture of a man with his head in his hands in a cell. Under the glare of the bright light Lorna started to sob; this wasn’t how her life was supposed to pan out. She’d had a good job, a great family, and because of a bad run she’d been reduced to this. The last hour had passed in a blur. She’d been ushered into the station and into a room at the back of the complex. She sat while an officer took her hand and then dabbed her fingers in ink. After that she’d been told to open her mouth; a swab was roughly swiped on the inside of her cheek ‘that’s for the DNA database’. Then down, down into the darkness of the cells. Looking out of the slot in the door Lorna could see there was no way out. There was an empty cell across the corridor and to the right, bars blocked the way. She was a prisoner and she only had herself to blame.
16
Junior Bikana had been running for around three hours. Part of Cameroon’s marathon team, he had been in training for the last four years and was celebrated as one of his country’s great hopes for the 2014 Commonwealth Games. But he wasn’t interested in sporting success, rather a personal agenda that he was close to realising.
Junior insisted on training alone. Everyday he would put in the hours. Today he was out on the road, every mile taking him a step closer to his ultimate goal.
At home his life had been difficult. He had never felt that he fitted in, had no interest in marriage. Then, after an encounter at a party his life had changed. His sexuality was not something he had ever thought about, not until he had met Christian Ndo. The affair had been brief but intense. When they’d been found out he denied it but Christian hadn’t been so lucky. His body was found in a ditch, he had been badly beaten. The police never found who did it, but Junior knew it was his friend’s family. Being gay in Cameroon was illegal, and anyone proved to have been involved in a homosexual act faced five years in jail. It was a matter of time before Junior faced the wrath of the law, with or without his sporting celebrity. So he did what he did best and ran, ran and didn’t look back.
***
The glare of the light hurt Sandy’s eyes but the doctor didn’t hold back.
“Sit still Mr Stirrit; we need to know if you’re concussed.”
The comments rankled but Sandy submitted to the rest of the examination. He’d been taken to the A&E ward at the Western Infirmary where he’d been wheeled in past the waiting queue for priority treatment. A woman recoiled when she saw his face and it wasn’t until he finally saw his reflection that he realised why. Niall Murphy had done a good job on him. Aching all over from the assault, his face painted quite a picture. His right eye was cut between the brow and the lid, with a thick red welt exposing the flesh underneath. His other eye was bloodied and swollen, while his front two teeth had been knocked loose, they’d probably need to be taken out.
“I don’t think we’ll be seeing you on the telly any time soon, do you?”
Sandy didn’t care for the bedside manner; he couldn’t see the doctor’s badge and didn’t want to know his name. But he was right; Sandy knew he wouldn’t be able to work for several weeks, not until the wounds had healed. He was a well known face and he’d run the risk of becoming the news if people saw him like this. He cursed his stupidity at pushing so hard against Murphy; should have guessed he was connected. Then it struck him that the beating might be due to his questions about Donald. Did Ian Davidson tip him off? The questions raced through his brain as he tried to think about how to proceed. I need to speak to the Police.
John Arbogast arrived home early from his expedition to the Lake District. ‘Home’ was still something of a work in progress. After he’d split up with Rosalind Ying he had spent around a month sleeping on Chris Guthrie’s couch, until he’d been told to pack his bags. It wasn’t that they didn’t get on, more that a one bedroom flat which was already home to two people didn’t need three to make a happy family. Arbogast had big ideas about recreating his old place, the flat he’d rented with Rose, but so far he’d made no visible progress.
Home was a large room in a shared house. His bedfellows, if he could describe them like that, were fine for now, although he really needed his own space. He was staying in an old bed and breakfast on Renfrew Street, which had recently gone out of business. The owners lived in London and were moving back to convert the building back into a family home. It was big for two people, but in the meantime four wayward souls were helping to meet the mortgage as temporary lodgers while loans were sorted out and contractors secured.
Arbogast’s belongings were piled in a spare room. He’d been allowed to dump his stuff which saved on storage. The owners liked the fact that they had a policeman on site; they felt the property was safe. His room was bog standard B&B fare. A double bed with a small 12” TV perched on a bracket seven feet in the air; he had to crane his neck from his bed to watch in anything approaching comfort. The room smelt of damp and the wallpaper was peeling and brown at the corner nearest the window.
He opened the door to go to shower; the house had shared facilities and chat was an unfortunate by-product of this short term arrangement.
“An inspector calls,” Arbogast knew the voice. His heart sank as the prospect of another long-winded conversation with Paul Meek beckoned. He turned around and nodded to his neighbour, “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine, but I thought you were away for a couple of days?”
“No,” he lied, “Just for the day, that must be your mistake.”
Paul looked puzzled but Arbogast wasn’t in the mood, “I’m sorry mate, I really have to go; call of nature.”
Under the jet of hot water from the misfiring shower Arbogast knew that he had to make a change for the better. He’d allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for long enough. His relationship with Rose was over, he knew that and he had an alternative, whether it was one he was going to persevere with was another question – one that might be answered tonight.
Back from the gym Beckie Arnold took time to assess the progress. She looked good and she knew it. Beckie had always been pretty active but at 35 was taking more effort to keep herself in shape. The daily routine in front of the full length mirror was starting to get a bit obsessive but the hard work was paying off. Beckie could s
ee greater definition in her abs, and when she turned side on the slight folds of fat on her side were being beaten back. She twisted and turned. She was pleased with the progress.
It hadn’t been easy to juggle time for fitness with the demands of work. As manager of the Continental Gold Hotel, it had been a busy month. There were no hotel spaces left in Glasgow, the Games had seen to that, so business was good. Busy, but good. If it was like this all the time there’d be no need to worry.
Then there was the cop, John Arbogast. They’d met online. He’d seemed surly at first and she hadn’t been keen. But he’d persevered; she’d given him a second chance and slowly they’d begun seeing more of each other. He was OK for now. From her bedside table she could see her phone moving slowly to the edge, she’d left it on silent/vibrate.
“Speak of the devil. Hi, John, what’s up?”
“Just thought I’d give you a call,”
“Really?”
“Yeah, are you busy just now?”
“Just back from the gym,”
“It’s nine o’clock at night.”
“When else am I going to get to go? Let’s cut to the chase here, what are you after?”
“What are you doing tonight?”
“The night’s nearly over, John, you said yourself it’s nine o’clock. Time for bed.”
“Can I come over?”
Beckie knew she had him right where she wanted, “Are you not going to ask me what I’m wearing,” she was whispering now, putting on the voice he liked. She heard a chuckle at the end of the line.
“So, what are you wearing Beckie?”
“Not a thing, can you imagine it? A woman like me, home alone and exhausted after all that exercise.”
There was no answer from the other side, “John, are you still there?” but the line was dead. About 20 seconds a ping signalled a new message on her phone.
Be there in 5 xxx
Beckie laughed; at least she didn’t have to go to that dingy hole he called home. Who knows this might be the last night they spent together. Depends on how he does.
July 22nd
Rosalind Ying was exhausted. The Games started tomorrow and her final duty before the main operation swung into place was to entertain the press. Every interview was more or less the same but given the international interest there were more of them to do than normal. She’d lost count after 15 but the press officer said there had been 24 in total. It was important to get the right message given there were still lingering concerns about safety following last year’s terror attack in George Square. All the questions followed the same pattern:
“How confident are you that we won’t see the militant Nationalists strike again?”
“There is no evidence to suggest that the group we dealt with last year was anything other than an isolated cell, which has already been dealt with.”
“But given 15 people died in the blast, aren’t you concerned about copy-cats?”
“The security operation in Glasgow is the biggest we have ever dealt with. Given the police and military are working together we have every reason to expect a peaceful Games – one that people will remember for all the right reasons.”
And on the questions went, all probing for something sensational. What the journalists didn’t know was that armed snipers were in position around the city in key locations. They weren’t going to be caught out again. CCTV was being actively monitored and there was an army of plain clothes officers out and about around the city. Rosalind Ying smiled throughout. She was the poster girl for Police Scotland’s Games. One of the most respected officers in the country she was also its most photogenic, with a Chinese mother and Scottish father, she cast a striking image for the press, who liked her slow and measured responses. When she spoke, they listened. And after the talking was done she slumped back into her chair at Pitt Street. The building was due to close, they were being decanted into a new office in Dalmarnock in few weeks time. She was going to miss the old place but was pleased to be leaving on a high.
Lost in thought she caught a flicker on her computer monitor. A flying envelope on the bottom right hand side of the screen told her she had a new email. She knew the name.
To: ‘Rosalind.Ying’
From: ‘Steve’
Subject: Fun and games?
Hi Rose,
How are you?
I saw you online today – you looked awesome! Is that really the same person I met last week?
It’s weird not having you around so I thought I might pay you a visit?
It would be great to see the Commonwealth cycling next week (and you too of course).
What do think – do you have room for a stray?
Let me know
Steve xxx
Rosalind smiled. She liked Steve but hadn’t expected to hear from him again. Her hands wavered above the keyboard, she was undecided on whether this was a good idea. But then, what harm could a few days do?
Let me know when the flight’s booked.
R x
17
Leona felt like she’d been walking for days rather than hours. She’d phoned round her friends but no-one would take her in. They knew her dad had died and that her mum was missing and they didn’t know how to deal with it, didn’t know what to do or say. So they’d made lame excuses and said maybe another night, but another night was no good, she needed someone now.
Leona was still only 15 and assumed that she’d run the risk of being taken into care if she went to the Police and she didn’t want that. What good would it do? Her mum said that if anything ever happened she should go to her aunt’s in Paisley but she didn’t even have enough change for the bus fare; the only way she’d be able to get there was on foot, and it was a long walk.
Leona didn’t know what to do. She’d been trudging around the city centre for hours. It was busy. Thousands of people had come for the Games. She wanted to go too but despite ticket prices starting low they still couldn’t afford the luxury. Eventually she’d headed back east, out towards the National Hockey Centre on Glasgow Green. The sport had finished for the day and she watched as happy families made their way home. There were lots of little kids skipping along at their parents’ feet, every second one seemed to be holding a cuddly Games Mascot – they called it Clyde. Leona hated the gormless green thistle which was plastered across the town; it represented everything she could never have. Earlier in George Square, she’d spent a few minutes in the Commonwealth shop where they’d been selling big versions of the same thing for £100. Who can afford to waste so much money on something like that? She felt a growing sense of resentment at all the people enjoying themselves, when most of them probably weren’t from around here. It was then she realised why she’d come. The Hockey Centre was right in front of the place they said they’d found her dad. She hadn’t been conscious of that as being the reason; didn’t want to think about it, but she’d been circling around the area for some time. The road to the bridge was out of bounds, big sand bags that made up a checkpoint blocked the way and the road was policed by several people at any one time.
She put off her pilgrimage for a while longer and ventured into the Live Zone. She had to go through a metal detector and the queues were long, but there were things there to take her mind off her own life. Stalls, rides, and games were everywhere. There were thousands of people on the Green; those who couldn’t make the events live were watching the action on a big screen. It felt good to be around people. By one of the burger stalls she almost cried out when a man carrying a pile of steaming hot dogs dropped one, distracted after someone called out his name. But as it dropped Leona’s hunger returned unannounced. She grabbed the food and walked off, savouring every bite in front of a computer simulated competition to outrun the fastest man on earth. No-one could. In the Spiegeltent she watched a band she heard someone say had been big in the 80s. She thought they were OK. Then it was time to go. As the crowd petered out, she knew she couldn’t put it off any longer. The exit took her out
about 100 metres from the bridge. She stood alone as the stewards closed the gate behind her.
It was 11:00pm and dark, but she could still see clearly with the cloudless sky guiding her towards the sandstone span. She had been expecting the area to be cordoned off; her dad had only died a couple of days ago. Thinking of the countless flowers she had seen tied to gates and lampposts she expected tributes to be left, but there were none. The only people who cared couldn’t come to pay their respects; they were too busy trying to keep on living. The area under the bridge was empty. The only trace that something had happened was a few inches of police tape which fluttered in the wind from a spike in the fence which separated the walkway from the River Clyde.
Holding the tape she looked up, trying to see where her dad would have been. All she could see were dark girders which ran out into darkness.
“How did you even get up there,” she said to the night.
Then from a distance she heard laughing. From the unlit section of path on the other side of the bridge she saw three figures, pinpricked by the glowing ember of their cigarettes. They sounded drunk so Leona wasn’t taking any chances. Too late, though, they’ve seen me.
“Alright darling; where do you think you’re going?”
She started to run and she heard their footsteps pick up the pace as they followed suit. But the road had been blocked off and the security fence barred the way. Cursing she turned to see the three men had moved apart, as they tried to stop her from leaving. Feeling her heart race she had to think of something fast. Looking to the river she made her decision and jumped over the fence.
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