Referendum

by Campbell Hart

  “Fuck you, Clyde; we’re not all happy to be here you know.”

  The mascot stopped and slumped, pantomiming dejection, and for a second Leona felt bad and she called back, “I know you’re only doing a job but for fuck’s sake, leave me alone.” The crowds thinned out after she got past Celtic Park. Bereft of an audience the outlying volunteers showed less enthusiasm and talked among themselves. She was going against the crowd anyway so they didn’t bother ‘pointing the way’. She knew where she was going anyway. Home.

  Lorna McMahon wanted a drink. She fantasised about dropping three cubes of ice in a glass, hearing it split and fizz as the gin poured over; with the splash and glug of the tonic rounding it off. But looking at the space where the freezer once stood she didn’t even have the ice. In the background she could hear the tannoy from Parkhead. The pre-show entertainment was underway and there was no way of drowning out the noise. She didn’t even have the luxury of leaving the house because she was still in too much pain to walk anywhere, and had no cash for the bus. Just to get out and go anywhere would be a blessing. Looking around the house she was resigned to the fact that her life was not going to plan, it probably never would again. How can it when so much has already gone wrong? A fierce rage came across her. She wanted to shout; to scream her name, let people know she wasn’t down and out just yet but she couldn’t. Just do it. I can’t. DO IT! The tension got too much; she needed a release. Screaming she picked up a bottle from an abandoned recycling pile and threw it, the pieces shattering off the hall wall. That felt better. She felt alive if only for a split second. Sliding down the wall Lorna sat with her head in her hands and sobbed herself into a fitful sleep.

  In her dream she was happy. The scene was almost dull. She was with Horace and Leona in the supermarket; they were filling up the trolley singing ‘Food glorious food’. Although the dream was about her she could see herself clearly, had full sight of the whole family; all of them skipping down the aisle, happy as they’d ever been. Then a rollercoaster drove her ever downwards. Horace was in the first carriage with Leona behind him, while she was bringing up the rear. The ride was fast. It was making her feel ill. In her vision she could see the structure start to buckle and warp. She watched in horror as bolts came loose. She knew what was coming but couldn’t do anything to stop it. Horace was the first to go. The rails fell away and she watched in horror as he sailed past her, smiling and waving ‘See you later love.” Lorna couldn’t move, she was looking for Leona but she was nowhere to be seen. Her carriage continued, up and down, round and about. All the way she was screaming for Leona while her husband circled around her waving and smiling, smiling and waving. She tried to get out of the carriage but couldn’t move. She was shaking the bar but it wouldn’t budge. Shaking. Shaking Shaking. In the distance Leona seemed to be calling. It seemed closer than ever but it couldn’t be her, she was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where are you, Leona? Why can’t I see you? I need to know you’re OK.”

  Then with a start she was wide awake. Leona was standing in front of her. She looked well. She was smiling, a real smile Lorna feared she would never see again.

  “I’ve been trying to wake you up for ages. I’m back mum and I’m OK. I thought you were dead but I heard your message on TV. I came home. I’m so sorry, I just didn’t know what else to do.”

  Lorna stared in disbelief, unsure if she was still asleep. But no, this was real. At last something good in her life. In the background the music had started for the closing ceremony. The Games were over.

  Referendum

  24

  August 29th

  Bar staff saw it all, and since the campaign for the Scottish independence referendum had got underway, Greg McPherson had seen more than most. The two men in the corner were the latest example of a heated debate in the current climate. He was starting to regret renaming the pub. Trade had been slow and the independence campaign offered a quirky idea that he’d gambled might get more people through the doors. He’d been right, the timing was perfect. The ‘Ya know’ bar opened on August 18th, a month before the vote. He’d managed to get a local journalist along, whose report had rippled-out across the UK. Reporters looking for opposing views came down every other day to quiz people on their views. And it wasn’t just Scottish media, the interest was international. He had specially brewed ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ beers on tap and nothing else. That way you knew where you stood, just by looking at the glasses. So far the debate had been good natured, but the two guys in the snug were really starting to go at each other.

  Grant Portland met Frank Paterson for a beer every Friday night. They’d gone to school together, worked together, gone on double dates together, but the one thing they could not agree on was politics.

  Grant knew they’d taken a wrong turn when they came into a referendum theme pub, as the vote was a subject they both fundamentally disagreed on. Sitting glaring at their polemically opposed pints, the conversation drifted into unchartered territory. Grant was getting angry. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

  Frank stuck to the script. “I mean that it’s a lot of shite, and you know it. You’re asking whether we have enough money from our oil reserves to maintain public spending if Scotland voted ‘Yes’; well of course it doesn’t. Read the bloody figures.”

  Grant was shaking his head. “The oil argument’s a red herring. That money would be an added bonus, not the basis for the whole economy.”

  Frank made a face like he’d opened a dirty nappy, “An added bonus; are you soft in the head, man? Without it we’d be missing billions from the economy. Billions. Where would that leave us? With massive cuts, and that’s all.”

  “Like the cuts we’re already seeing under the Tories you mean?”

  “Last time I looked the SNP had been in charge for the last seven years. What are they doing?”

  “Standing up for the people of Scotland is what they’ve been doing.”

  “Bullshit. They blame all the bad stuff on Westminster and everything else is down to them. It’s nonsense and you know it.”

  “How’s it nonsense? It is nonsense that they want to represent our views, make a stand and make a better world for everyone living in this country.”

  “That’s birthday card pish and you know it. You can’t just wish away reality and hope for the best.”

  “Hope over fear my friend. That’s my party right there, and that’s what I’ll be voting for.”

  Greg McPherson decided that enough was enough. These two idiots have been sitting for long enough. Instant arseholes, just add alcohol. Look at them shouting at each other, best friends with voices raised, and getting noticed by the punters; time for the old pals two to call it a night.

  “Excuse me gents, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re annoying the other customers,” He’d seen this type before; best of friends usually, but the mood changed when politics called. It seemed you couldn’t walk the length of yourself without seeing a yellow banner somewhere. He was ignored. The shouting continued.

  “So you’d rather take the word of a red Tory than one of your own, is that what you’re saying?”

  Greg noticed the taller of the two was gripping his glass slightly too tightly. The argument was getting out of hand; they were both red in the face. He leaned in to take the glass but it was a mistake. The glass smashed off the table and was thrust back in his direction. The smaller man stood up with wild eyes and threatened him with a broken glass, the dregs of the beer running down his arm, “Don’t you come near me you bastard. Imagine running a pub like this and not even taking a view, using the vote to make a quick buck. You’re a bloody profiteer.”

  His rant was cut short when Grant jabbed him with his left fist. He’d boxed a bit in his time and when Frank dropped the glass he followed through with a swinging right. Greg stepped back. The pub stopped to watch. The fight was more enticing than the nil-nil draw playing out on the TV screens. The recently arri
ved reporter was happy too, the pictures told their own story. By the time the Police arrived Greg McPherson was happy just to have some peace and quiet.

  ***

  Arbogast was already sick to death hearing about the Referendum. It was the only thing anyone was talking about, although so far the amount of actual information available seemed thin on the ground. It boiled down to the passive aggressive campaign of the ‘Yes’ camp, to the out and out aggressive doom-mongering of the ‘Nos.’ Fortunately he’d decided to leave the country, for a while anyway.

  The last few weeks had been spent trying to find out more about Niall Murphy, but it was proving harder than expected. Unusually for a man in his position his record was clean. Spotless. There was nothing on file that suggested he was involved in any criminal activity, but it was clear he knew Donald. It seemed reasonable that Sandy was telling the truth when he said he’d been targeted by Murphy after asking about Donald. The two seemed linked and Arbogast needed to know more. He was taking a risk looking into his boss and he knew it; if he was caught out his life would become difficult, he’d probably be drummed out of the force. Constructive dismissal cases weren’t hard to make against Police officers. They were few and far between but when they put their minds to it the top brass could build a rock solid case against one of their own.

  He didn’t want to be one of the few. With three days leave he didn’t have much time to do his homework. But touching down at George Best International Airport in Belfast, Arbogast felt he was edging closer to the truth.

  25

  The hotel room was a double, but with four people in close quarters it still felt cramped. The man, from Loo-Easy-Anna, USA, sat in a chair in the corner and watched. His wife went to pick up the suitcase from the doorway but he told her to leave it. Their child, a hyperactive three-year-old boy, was bouncing and screaming on the bed.

  No-one seemed bothered about her.

  Karen Balfour had been working at the Continental Gold for about six months. They’d called it a ‘flexible’ contract and during the Commonwealth Games she’d been working seven days a week. The money was good and the tips were generous. At 25 she hadn’t expected to be working as a chambermaid, but with a hungry baby to feed she didn’t have much choice. She heard the crinkle of plastic from the corner and could feel she was being watched. Loo-Easy-Anna was staring at her, leering almost. They had been unhappy with the first room, a double with three single beds and had demanded something better. The only other one available had a double bed with space for a fold down for the boy. The porter had wheeled the bed up from storage and left her to make it up. The hinges were tight and she struggled to flatten it; expecting the tourists to help her out; but they just sat and stared, fidgeted, and bounced. I can’t take this much longer. Bent over the mattress, she could feel the man’s eyes creeping up her legs, peeking under her skirts. The boy said the bed felt lumpy; the mother told him it was the best they could get, they weren’t at home anymore. Hospital corners. Tucking in the sheets. Pulling out the edge and folding it under. It looked neat. Job done. Turning back Loo-Easy-Anna flicked his eyes quickly from her legs and smiled. He pulled out a wallet crammed with notes, more than she’d ever had herself. He took his time; picking through the wad, past the large notes and picking out her tip. He crumpled the notes into a ball as he placed it the palm of her hand.

  “Thank you so much my dear, now if you could just help get the case on the bed you’re free to go.”

  The case is huge; big and heavy. Karen dragged it across the floor, the wheels helped but she didn’t have the strength to swing it up and over. She tried a couple of times but it kept crashing back on the bedroom floor. Why doesn’t he just do it himself? Eventually he did. Sighing he grabbed the case and slung it up onto the sheets. His wife was bleating from the bathroom.

  “Watch your back, honey.”

  He glared at Karen and suggested she leave. As the door slammed shut, she looked at her tip. It was a single dollar. What am I supposed to do with this?

  It had been a long day and the end of a hard week. The good humour of the last few weeks had been replaced by business as usual. Karen’s feet were aching from the miles spent walking the halls of the Continental. She needed something else but this would have to do for now. Her pager went off, another call to duty, but she was already an hour over her time. She phoned from the service cupboard.

  “Someone’s looking for me?”

  “The boss wants to see you,” It was Colin Shepherd, the porter who’d left her to fend for herself. He’s a lazy bastard who’ll get found out someday, “The boss wants to talk to you, something about next week’s shifts.”

  At least she was ending the week with good news. They usually found out about shifts on the Monday so having time to plan childcare with her mum would help as the work had become less regular. But down in the office Beckie Arnold didn’t look pleased to see her, there was something wrong – she wouldn’t look her in the eyes. It was making Karen feel uneasy.

  “Thanks for coming down. It’s been a busy week and I know you’ve got a lot on at home.”

  Karen nodded. Beckie didn’t usually go in for small talk unless there was something serious. The last time she’d seen her like this was when she said goodbye to the 40 temps they’d taken on to cover the summer shifts. Her heart sank, she knew what was coming.

  “I don’t want to draw this out, Karen. You’ve been an absolute star for us here. You’re popular with the rest of the staff. I really like you and I know you’ve worked really hard for the last six months—”

  “—but?”

  “— but things have changed. Your flexible contract means we can offer work when there’s work to do and – well – I want to be straight with you, there just isn’t enough to go round right now.”

  This isn’t happening. Karen’s brain was in freefall, she couldn’t accept what she was hearing. All she could think about was her bills, the rent, the food – her baby. This isn’t happening; can’t be. I must have been working too hard.

  Beckie had tilted her head to one side; she seemed to be speaking, “What?”

  “I said are you feeling OK?”

  Karen’s mouth was bone dry, her hands were shaking. She didn’t want to hear any more so she got up to leave, “I’ve just got to finish what I was doing, completely forgot about room 312.”

  Beckie was shaking her head, “Sit down Karen, there’s no need for that.”

  “No need?”

  “I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”

  Ten minutes later she was out in the street.

  ***

  It was an easy collection. The debt owed by a 23 year old guy who lived on the ground floor of a tenement block. Niall Murphy was on fire; he’d grown the business quickly and now had about ten people working for him. They liked his style, he didn’t fuck about. He’d appeared from nowhere and then ‘bang’. He’d heard people were calling him Mad Murphy, another nickname for a Glasgow Gangster. Flicking through the tabloids earlier he’d seen a spread about some hard case named after a hamster. Ridiculous. It worked for Sid Vicious though, bitten by a hamster called Sid. Name stuck. Didn’t work out long term though, he hadn’t thought it through. Niall had thought it through, though; he knew he wouldn’t get touched. Murphy smiled when he rang the bell of the flat; his buddy for the job, Eck Smith, thought he was laughing at him which was making him nervous. They could hear footsteps inside, soft controlled steps, then a click. The dim light which had cast a dull glow under the front door disappeared. Niall knocked again, harder this time.

  “Open the door, Peter. I can hear you. I’d advise you not to waste our time.”

  Silence.

  Niall nodded to Eck who did what he did best, put his shoulder into the door frame and rammed it. The mortice locks were open and the door swung free easily. The Yale lock bounced from its casing, clatterering across the laminate flooring inside. Eck followed and fell through the doorway, crashing into a flimsy table wh
ich gave way under his weight. Niall knew they had to act quickly. It was mid afternoon and there was a good chance other people might have heard them. He jogged into the flat, checking through rooms. Nothing.

  “Peter, you’d better come out now else this isn’t going to be pretty.”

  Silence.

  “For fuck’s sake.” From the bedroom he heard a muffled shout, then more noise; louder this time. Eck appeared with their mark. He was on tip toes as he was raised by the collar of his Fred Perry polo shirt.

  Peter Chalmers didn’t even have a good reason to be in debt. He lived alone, had his rent taken care of by his parents, but he liked to party, thought there were no consequences. Cocaine was his current fad, something his friends respected. Peter was the guy with the connections. He could always be relied on to get the gear. But his student loan had run out and he didn’t want to ask his parents for more cash, he’d already taken too much. He’d seen a piece on the TV news about loan sharks, about people who gave out easy money to saps who didn’t think about the interest. Well with a new term approaching he knew he had options. He’d be moving out of the flat so who’d be able to find him? Peter asked around, found a local guy called Semple. He even had a shop; looked like a takeaway place. He knew he was dealing with morons; people who didn’t think like him; people with no hope. The £100 had bought him some coke. He’d scored with the girl he’d been after and it had been a great night. Peter Chalmers was moving out and moving on. The boxes in the hall meant the loan sharks would never get him. But here they were.