Referendum
Page 26
Beckie Arnold ran down the ward. She’d pressed the emergency button but she felt she needed to do more. The fine soled shoes she was wearing slipped on the vinyl flooring as she ran down the hospital corridor. Where is everyone? She saw a white coat disappear into a ward and then followed it in, grabbing the jacket and pulling them back.
“Doctor, you have to come quickly. It’s my partner, something’s happened, he’s choking.”
Back in the hospital room Arbogast shook violently in bed. His hands were outside of the covers and barely moved while his body contorted, his back arched in pain.
“He’s choking. Nurse – help me turn him over.”
Beckie hadn’t noticed anyone else arrive but there were now two nurses in the room. They rolled down the covers and turned Arbogast on his side. The Doctor chopped twice at his back then stood down.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re meant to be helping him.” Beckie was pulling the doctor back; she didn’t know what she was doing. But the noise had stopped. A familiar voice boomed out.
“Get your damned hands off me!”
John Arbogast was back in the land of the living.
***
It’s been a long drive but I need to get there as fast as I can. I’m getting too old for journeys like this. The concentration of driving such a long distance was wearing him down. He flicked off the tape and said goodbye to Beethoven. The kids always laughed at his cassettes, asked him where he’d dug them up from but it was too expensive to get something new. But anyway stop putting it off; it’s time to go in. Parking the car in the multi-storey he took his best jacket from the boot. I want to make a good impression. Looking at his reflection in the back window, he took a deep breath and walked in.
***
“John, you’re OK, thank God. I thought I’d lost you.” Beckie had thrown herself on the bed. She’d forgotten about his broken ribs but John was quick to remind her.
“Have a heart woman, that’s agony.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. Are you OK?” He looked weak but he was smiling, “They weren’t sure what was wrong, you just switched off. Can you remember what happened?”
“Not really. We were driving, then something hit us,” A flash of recognition hit him and he shouted out, “Where’s Chris? Is he OK?” He winced as the movement sent sharp pain through his chest.
“Chris is fine, John, don’t worry about him. He’ll be out of here in a couple of days, a lot sooner than you anyway.”
“And Murphy, did he get away?” Beckie’s expression told him everything he needed to know. His only thought was that he was glad. Glad there would be no questions, no trial, and no exposé. It was over; things could go back to normal, whatever that was. “How long have I been here?”
“It’s been two days.”
“Two days? It feels like the accident just happened so what date is it?”
“It’s September 18th – Referendum day.”
“But I haven’t voted.”
“With everything that’s happened to you that’s all you can think of?”
“I need to vote, we all need to vote.”
“It’s too late, John. It’s past 10 o’clock. The polling stations are closed.
“But I’ve missed my chance.”
“You didn’t even know who you were going to vote for.”
“But I should have made my mark.”
“You’ve done that in other ways. You just need to concentrate on getting better. What’s done is done.”
Arbogast was angry with himself for letting the situation get out of hand. He felt like a fool for not listening to Chris. If I’d slowed down I might have avoided this mess. The doctor told him he’d be out of action for a couple of months, that he needed rest. It was during that conversation that an old man appeared at the door. He asked if this was John Arbogast’s room? For a stranger he had a very familiar face. How did he know I was here?
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. They found my number in your wallet and phoned to let me know. They said I should visit; that hearing from me might help.”
John Arbogast was battered and bruised, tired and emotional; this was the last place he expected to finally come face-to-face with his father, “Why now, after all this time?”
“You left the note in the summer and my wife said then that it was high time we met. I didn’t want to, though. I didn’t know what I could say. How could I possibly make up for all those lost years? But then when the doctor called...”
“You weren’t sure I’d pull through.” Arbogast was trying hard to hold back the emotion, “I didn’t expect to ever meet you. All these years I thought you were dead. But I’m glad you’re here. Come and sit down. We’ve got a lifetime to get through.”
It was a day John Arbogast had hoped for. Hoped for but never expected to see. As he lay in bed with people around him he felt that he had been wrong in the past; there was always hope for the future.
48
The package arrived on September 19th but it didn’t reach Sandy Stirrit for another three days. He’d been flat out covering the aftermath of the Referendum. Sitting at his desk he cut open the envelope to find dozens of pictures and several CD cases. The note suggested he might want to investigate.
Hi Sandy,
We met before under difficult circumstances but I want you to know it was just business. If you’ve received this package it means I’ve either been arrested or, more likely, I’m dead.
The contents of this parcel are evidence of criminal activity involving Graeme Donald in Belfast and Glasgow.
I’ll leave it to you to decide how to use the information but I’d ask you to expose this man for a lifetime of greed and gross abuse of public trust.
Niall Murphy
Sandy sat back and flicked through the pictures. It was going to make a great story.
***
In George Square the saltires still flew, but the songs had changed from anthems to laments. The food bank was gone and Karen Balfour rued what she saw as a missed opportunity; she’d hoped for so much more. But her tears had been shed and as she held her baby in her arms, she was determined this wouldn’t be the end. We’ll be back. Just wait and see.
About the author
Originally from Ayrshire, Campbell Hart has lived in Glasgow on-and-off for more than 20 years. A qualified broadcast journalist he spent ten years working in commercial radio and at BBC Scotland before moving into PR.
His debut crime novel ‘Wilderness’ was inspired by real events and the bitter winter of 2010. It reached No. 2 in the Amazon Noir charts and stayed in the top 100 for five months. The follow-up ‘The Nationalist’ was a No.1 bestseller in Amazon’s Scottish Crime chart.
For more details visit: www.campbellhart.co.uk
Acknowledgements
As always the devil is in the detail. I’d like to thank Evelyn Pinkerton, Marjorie Calder, and Rosie McIntosh for their time. Your feedback was invaluable – thanks a million!
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About the author