Referendum

by Campbell Hart

  ***

  Her mum would be out so Leona went home. It was about 1:30pm by the time she burst through the door, happy to be away from school, absent from the jibes and shame. The last few months hadn’t been easy and Leona knew the time had come to call it a day and go out and find paid work. She owed her mum that much.

  She’d gone straight through to the kitchen where she poured herself a bowl of rice krispies from the food bank, they had no milk so she made do with water. It’s not very nice but it’s better than nothing. There was a noise coming from the living room. Leona froze. What if it’s that debt collector again? She’d seen what he’d done to her mum – she might get worse, something to send a message.

  The cereal crackled in the bowl as she walked through. It’s not exactly a stealth approach. But Leona reckoned that whoever was in the house would be able to block her way to the door, so she could use the bowl as a weapon. But she saw she wouldn’t need it. Her mum was snoring on the couch; there was an empty bottle of cheap cider at her feet. It seemed this was happening more often now, ever since dad died and the debt problem had spiralled. She didn’t seem able to cope. Leona tidied up the mess from Lorna’s afternoon session and went upstairs to get a duvet. She tucked in her mother on the couch. She knew she’d be cold when she woke up.

  “I’m sorry about this mum, but don’t you worry we’ll get through this, you wait and see.”

  Leona stroked her mum’s hair, she was mumbling something but Leona couldn’t make it out. It was time to go and visit Ron Semple.

  ***

  “Nice place this, you should have brought me before.” Beckie Arnold had changed from her work clothes. In the dim ambience of The Buttery, Arbogast was seeing her in a whole new light.

  “I know, I’ve not been very good at treating you, have I?”

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it, you’ve done just fine and we haven’t exactly been spending heaps of time together. What’s all this about? Is there something you want to ask me?”

  Arbogast laughed, Beckie liked to tease him and he was trying hard not to pay too much attention to her plunging neckline.

  “I can see you looking, pervert.”

  “Sorry, it’s just—”

  “—I’m teasing, you big idiot. It’s nice to spend some time together like this, just the two of us.”

  “It’s always just the two of us.”

  “Well it’s nice to be sitting down rather than lying flat on my back, that’s been the relationship so far, hasn’t it?”

  “You haven’t complained.”

  They both laughed, he could feel her foot rubbing against the inside of his leg, “I thought it was nice to be sitting down?”

  “Ach, you’re no fun,” They were interrupted by the waiter who had arrived with the wine. Arbogast humoured him and went through the sniff and tell ritual, which they all knew was a farce.

  “Nice.” Beckie had nicked the glass and had already necked the contents.

  After the waiter left they sat in silence for a while, both waiting to see who broke cover first.

  “I was thinking things over in Belfast.”

  “Don’t try too hard. I’m not sure that wee brain of yours can cope.”

  “I’m trying to be serious.”

  “A thousand apologies squire; pray, do continue.”

  “I was thinking I need to get a new place to stay, that bedsit won’t do anymore.”

  It hadn’t been what Beckie expected. She thought he was going to ask her on holiday, but it seemed he was looking to spend more time with her than that. Her mind was racing, how could she let him down gently? Arbogast noticed her change of mood.

  “Hey, look, I’m not saying I should move in with you.”

  “That’s good, because you wouldn’t be doing that anyway.”

  “Why so cold, all of a sudden?”

  “We’ve only just met, John.”

  “It’s been three months.”

  “And you think we should move in together? Or to put it another way, you think there’s so much space at my place that it makes perfect sense for you to move in?”

  “It would make sense, Beckie. I really like spending time with you and it would—”

  “—no, it wouldn’t. You’ve been saying you’re going to find yourself a new place since we’ve met. You’re right to say that manky B&B isn’t fit for you. You’re a well known face in this city. What do you think your colleagues will be saying? They’ll think you’re turning into a down and out.”

  “Not if they saw you they wouldn’t.”

  “I’m not some fucking trophy, John.” Beckie knew she’d said it too loudly, she glanced at the couple at the next table and smiled an apology before turning back to whisper, “I like you, John; I really do, but if this is going to work we need to take it slow. You’ve just split up with a long term partner and I’ve not long signed my divorce papers. I’m happy right now and I want to spend time with you, but please don’t ruin what we have.” She’d taken his hands in hers and was looking into his eyes, “I want a bit more of this,” she said looking round the restaurant, “Before I settle back into a routine. And who knows, play your cards right and that could be with you, but let’s not rush it.”

  Arbogast was finding it hard to hide his disappointment but he knew what she was saying made sense. He smiled and said ‘OK’ just as the main course arrived. Food for thought.

  28

  Ian Davidson had been following the car for about three weeks before he was seen. Surprising really considering I’m supposed to be dealing with a professional. Davidson had taken Donald’s lead and was keeping close to Niall Murphy. Crawling along behind him in traffic, camped outside the Duchess on Duke Street while Murphy drank away his afternoon. The long lens had helped capture indiscreet moments and while few of his ‘clients’ were willing to talk there had been one – the student.

  His flat had been a mess when he’d found him but Peter Chalmers had definitely come off worse. Davidson had found him bent over clutching his stomach, blood dripping from his mouth. It seemed to be Niall Murphy’s trademark. Classy guy. At first the boy thought I’d come back to dish out more of the same, mistook me for a hitman. I didn’t mean him any harm but I do need his help. I told the boy he could do himself a favour by talking, that I could protect him from the bad men. He knew they’d be back so he agreed. The dossier’s building up. Graeme Donald will be pleased.

  ***

  It didn’t look like much. Leona remembered the place when it was the Happy Canton takeaway, they did good food. Not now, though, it was home to Nice ‘N’ Semple finance. Even the name made her angry. There was nothing nice about the process. Thinking about her family Leona knew this place was a cancer to hundreds of families, many of them would be worse off than her.

  “Can I help you, dear?” She’d been standing outside the shop for a while; the voice was behind her. It was a man, quite large, in a dark blue suit. He was carrying a brown paper bag which smelled of fat.

  “Just popped out for some bacon rolls but we’re open for business if you need to talk?”

  The man pushed in front of her and unlocked the door. He held it open for her, “So are you coming in or not?”

  He busied himself switching on lights and his computer before disappearing out the back. She heard the rumble of a kettle being brought to the boil. This has to be Ron Semple. This bastard killed my dad. He came back out about five minutes later with three rolls on a plate and cup of coffee, “Can I interest you in one? There’s plenty to go round.”

  She found his sleazy smile repulsive and his bacon offensive; he was flirting with fried food. His double chin concertinaed every time he tried to grin, “Business good just now is it?”

  “Ah, straight to business, fair enough, what can I help you with?”

  “I need to settle a debt.”

  “Well you’re in the right place.”

  “You don’t understand. I need you to wipe a debt.”

  Th
e smile was gone from Ron’s eyes. He’d had enough of the girl, “I run a business, not a charity.”

  Leona laughed, “You’re anything but. It’s time you started to take responsibility for the things you do.”

  Ron was surprised when he saw the small paring knife appear from the girl’s pocket. She was moving closer to him. He needed to handle this well, “Who are you? Let’s talk this through; doing the wrong thing now might be something you regret for the rest of your life.”

  “Do you remember Horace McMahon?”

  Now it clicked into place, he should have recognised her; she had his eyes, but certainly not his temperament. “Poor old Horace, yes of course I remember. A terrible shame what happened to him.”

  “You happened to him, you sold on the debt. Then he was killed.”

  “Your father killed himself as I understand it. He couldn’t repay his debts, so he left your mother to pick up the pieces.”

  Ron had a paperweight on the corner of his desk, it was sat in his to-do tray, pressing down on the documents that had a habit of scattering when high winds pushed the door open from the street. His hand was on it now but he maintained eye contact with the girl; she didn’t seem to have noticed.

  Leona knew she had to do something; this might be the only time she had the chance to get close to him when he didn’t expect it, “My name’s Leona, you killed my dad and my mum’s ruined because of you. You need to be stopped.” Lorna was gripping the knife tightly. She’d thought about this for weeks. Ron Semple was standing behind his desk. She needed to get at him; it was too awkward to stab him where he was. Looking down, she saw he had his hand on some kind of globe which looked heavy. She heard the door alarm go at the same time as Semple’s eyes darted past her. Turning to see who had come in she felt a dull pain at the side of her neck and dropped the knife. Shit.

  “Well look what we’ve got here, the final McMahon thrown into the mix.”

  An Irish voice. Niall Murphy. He grabbed her hair and forced her down onto the floor. Leona couldn’t move; she could feel the strands being torn from her scalp and was scared that worse would follow; she remembered what he’d done to her mother.

  “Little girls shouldn’t play with knives; bad things happen.”

  She watched as Ron Semple passed the knife to Murphy. No. No. No. Not like this, it’s not what I’d planned. Murphy tightened his grip on her hair and pulled it straight. He started to cut through. Leona felt the pressure loosen as more clumps fell away. She was crying, didn’t know what else to do. When he’d finished he kicked her in the back, to make sure she didn’t respond. He stood holding about a foot of her hair, dangling it in front of her.

  “Do not fuck with us. This could have been worse for you and this is your last warning. We did not kill your father but make no mistake, your family still owe us big time. If you don’t pay it back then that’s theft, and we don’t like being stolen from. Understand?”

  Leona nodded, she understood, it had been a bad idea to strike out on her own.

  “For the inconvenience I’m going to add another £1,000 to the bill. I don’t expect to be harassed by people who don’t pay their way—”

  “—a grand, but we can’t—”

  “— tough shit, you should have thought of that before you came here looking to cut someone up. You’re lucky I didn’t take the knife to your face. The next time I will. OK?”

  Leona was shaking as she went back out into the light and relative safety of Duke Street. She had no idea what she was going to tell her mum.

  ***

  “We can’t use this. There’s absolutely no way this is being broadcast.”

  Sandy Stirrit had been arguing with his editor Bill Williams for the best part of an hour.

  “Can’t or won’t? Look, this footage shows exactly the kind of abuse we’re being subjected to. They burned an effigy of me for God’s sake. When are you going to start taking this seriously?”

  “We’re a national broadcaster, Sandy, and I don’t know how many times we need to go through this. You took a camera down there, when the demonstration was actually aimed at getting you sacked, and filmed their reaction. You weren’t documenting an event. You were instigating news to suit your own ends.”

  “They’re accusing me of deliberately misleading the public. We’re being accused of being biased towards retaining the UK.”

  “They’ve been saying that for years.”

  “So that makes it OK does it? It might have escaped your attention but the vote’s in a couple of weeks, the outcome of which could have serious consequences for us.”

  “Now who’s being dramatic?”

  “Let’s be clear then, we’re going to put out pictures of the crowd asking for me to be sacked but we won’t show the rabid reaction I got. Some of them looked like they wanted to kill me.”

  Bill was massaging his nose with his thumb and index finger. Sighing, he agreed, “Sometimes I know how they feel.”

  Sandy was exhausted, he didn’t understand why the corporation always had to back down, “This will continue you know, every report will be scrutinised and replayed on social media. They won’t stop.”

  “They’ve every right to scrutinise us but you and I both know that our coverage is balanced. Every report is logged; we have a concrete record of what we do. And given we’ve had an SNP government for more than seven years I think it’s fair to say that the nationalists have been getting a pretty good crack of the whip.”

  “Well it’s been easy streets for them hasn’t it? When there’s no real opposition.”

  “Look, Sandy, I feel your pain but we can’t open up a can of worms on this one. If we go gunning for them it gets personal and they get more ammunition to use against us. I don’t want the BBC to become part of the story.”

  “But we already are Bill, can’t you see?”

  “Not tonight, Sandy. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

  “I hope that’s not a decision we come to regret, because as far as I can see, it’s bullshit.”

  Outside the protestors had started to disperse, the images from the day were racking up high viewing figures on blogs and online news sites. Public opinion was starting to shift.

  ***

  The whisky burned his neck as he slugged back the shot. He was angry because the deal had fallen through. To be more accurate the deal was ‘on hold’ until after the Referendum. Steve Jeffson wasn’t happy. He’d been chasing the client for the best part of two years. From the initial interest shown for the site, through to planning permission, and initial design, things had moved slowly but surely. But when business leaders started to get concerns about the possibility of the UK splitting up, things had changed pretty quickly.

  Steve Jeffson had owned the site since 2007. The three acre plot near to Glasgow Airport had permission for mixed use with office accommodation and a hotel both being considered. But the company he was working with had got cold feet. London based, and seeing Scotland through the prism of national media coverage there was real concern about the future. They said they didn’t know if there would be currency differences, transaction taxes, and different rates. They said there were too many variables. He’d argued that nothing would change, that if anything, a breakaway state might even offer better incentives for them to bring their business to Scotland. But they hadn’t listened, weren’t interested.

  Last night’s TV report had been the final straw. The financial backers had pulled the cash, saying they’d need to wait and see how things went before they could reconsider. Steve Jeffson suspected they’d been looking for an excuse to pull the project for some time. The economy was still slow and the office development would have been speculative, still high risk given the lack of interest. It didn’t matter though as the deal was off. Worse than that his loan was up with the bank and it would be difficult to refinance. All things considered it had been a bad investment and all thanks to this bloody referendum. He asked the barman for another whisky; just one more
hit and then home. But his host was shaking his head.

  “Think you’ve had enough, why don’t you call it a night.”

  Steve Jeffson was going to argue but he knew he was right, the game was up.

  ***

  The bags seemed to appear overnight. On the grey asphalt of George Square people started to leave donations for the new Glasgow Food Bank. At first just a few, but within days the numbers had exploded.

  Karen Balfour was one of three people manning the stall; a makeshift office made up of an old collapsible table with a banner tied to the front, which flapped underneath in the light summer breeze.

  It seemed the obvious place to set up. Last year, the terror attack at the Cenotaph had killed 15 people and candles were still left every Sunday to remember the dead. Always a focal point for the city, the Square was taking on a new role, with activists hoping to send a message about the kind of country Scotland had become.

  Karen met Jamie Ogilvie by chance. She’d been looking to volunteer for the ‘Yes’ campaign at a rally when he’d asked her why she was there. It had seemed an odd question. She told him she was out of work and wanted to get involved. Jamie insisted that her life could be better if only her employers adopted new ways of working. He’d explained why Zero Hours contracts were abusing workers rights; that she wasn’t alone and more and more people were being left to wait for work like she was. He’d asked if she knew about food banks. Karen admitted she’d been using one to tide her over, explained about the baby, about why she didn’t know where the father was. He said he was setting up a new food bank, not one just to feed people but to inspire change. Jamie Ogilvie said it wasn’t right that people were living like this in the 21st century. Karen agreed. That was three weeks ago. Today she could see they’d captured the public mood.

  Once word got out people came in their hundreds. The asphalt was lost to a rainbow of plastic bags which stretched from the Walter Scott monument in the middle of the Square right up to the Cenotaph. There were so many bags, so many people coming that the Council had fenced off the war memorial. One of the heads of the ceremonial lions at the Cenotaph had been removed to have blast damage repaired. A heras fence barred the way to the public, the steel grid serving as a focal point for messages of support. There were donations as far as the eye could see. It was the scale that really hammered home the point. Karen watched as more people came and left donations. The orange, blue, and green plastic bags rustled in the wind with their handles taut with expectation as tins, cereal, powered milk and tea were left behind. Left in the hope that people could be helped, but really more in the expectation that something was about to change, that charity like this would soon become a thing of the past.