Butcher

by Campbell Armstrong

  ‘I hate when you swear, pet. Swearin coarsens you.’ He took her hand and stroked it. He flicked a lock of hair from her cheek. She was in a sulk. He’d offended her, and hadn’t meant to.

  She said, ‘I remember when you used to curse every second word.’

  ‘People evolve. Baba says if you don’t accept the possibility of change, you stagnate. And that’s the death of the soul.’

  Baba, Baba. Glorianna, who’d introduced Chuck to the guru nine months ago, still longed for the lapsed Catholic Rube used to be, hard-living, hard-drinking, meat-eating party beast and tireless lover. But that guy had vanished in Baba’s domain. She’d imagined he might have been more sceptical about the guru’s teachings. After the Catholic church had disappointed him, she guessed he’d been desperate to embrace a new system of beliefs – even if she didn’t quite understand how he squared some of his business methods with the guru’s words.

  ‘Is it because I swear you don’t fuck me any more, Rube?’

  ‘No, no … it’s …’ He drifted a moment. ‘I’m searching for somethin. Somethin beyond all this.’

  ‘Peace of mind. A world of harmony.’ La-di-dah. Babaspeak.

  ‘Aye, right.’

  She gazed at his face, which sometimes had an unexpected softness about it. I could show you peace of mind, she thought. Turn back the clock to the way things were. ‘It’s a tough road, Rube.’

  ‘Anything of value is tough to attain.’

  Echoes of Baba. She’d hung around the guru long enough to recognize his sayings. She’d been to his spiritual retreats, in a house near Loch Lomond, where he preached and his acolytes chanted. It was easy to fall into the guru’s ways. Hadn’t she done it herself? Been through the crystals, meditated, studied massage. She had a sensational Trigger Point technique. She read interviews with film stars who proclaimed their beliefs fearlessly: Gere had his Buddhism, Travolta and Cruise their Scientology. When she got to LA, she figured she’d better have something going for her beyond looks and talent and her massage skills – which Baba had suggested, in that persuasively quiet way of his, could be used for purposes of tranquility and relaxation, instead of sexual control and material gain.

  Easy for him to say. Sometimes Baba was too idealistic for her. What was he suggesting – free massages? ‘Somebody told me today I had a strong resemblance to Nicole Kidman.’

  ‘By any chance was he carryin a white stick?’

  She threw a towel at him. ‘I got the name of an agent in Tinseltown. I sent off some photographs of myself.’

  ‘You checked him out first?’

  ‘You think I’d send them without doing background?’

  Chuck said, ‘Not you.’

  She watched him for a time. ‘You look tense, Rube. Take off your jacket and shirt. I’ll massage you.’

  He stripped to the waist. He lay face down on a towel she spread across the lounger and she kneaded the flesh beneath his shoulders in the way she’d always done. Then worked his lower spine, within reaching distance of his buttocks.

  Chuck felt a familiar tingle. This celibate life had serious drawbacks.

  She asked, ‘You know how long it’s been, Rube?’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Eight months. Four weeks after you first went to see Baba.’

  That long. Chuck shut his eyes and heard an echo of ‘Nobody’s Child’ inside his head.

  9

  At 9 p.m. Perlman’s doorbell rang. He turned on the light in the hallway and opened the door. He was surprised to see Detective Superintendent Mary Gibson. ‘A sight for sore eyes,’ he said, and shook her hand. Her touch was light, her skin cool.

  She held on to his grip. ‘I heard about this “discovery” of yours and I thought I’d drop in – it gives me a chance to say hello.’

  ‘I’m delighted.’ And he was. She’d always been sympathetic to him, and fair, even at times when they had disagreements, and she was obliged to pull rank. She had an open intelligent face, shrewd dark eyes, and a feature that always pleased Perlman – a trace of girlhood freckles. She was accompanied by a detective sergeant she introduced as Jock Tigge, a dour black-bearded man who looked at Perlman and grunted a kind of greeting.

  Mary Gibson stepped inside the house. Jock Tigge, wide-shouldered as a wrestler, followed behind her. He had noticeably long arms. A baboon, Perlman thought.

  ‘I like the new look, Lou,’ Mary Gibson said.

  ‘New look?’

  ‘No specs. Contacts comfy?’

  ‘They’re fine.’ Perlman fingered the slight ridges on either side of his nose. Sometimes he felt he was wearing phantom glasses and made to adjust them, then remembered his schnozzle was gloriously naked. He escorted Mary Gibson into the living room, thankful that the place was shiny clean. Surreptitiously, he closed the door to the kitchen.

  ‘How have you been?’ she asked.

  Perlman was preparing a catalogue of complaints, but she spoke before he could get a sentence out. ‘Wait, don’t answer. I know you, Lou.’

  Perlman thought: Kvetch not. Grumbling was monotonous, and drained the spirit. Besides, he’d been diverted from self-absorption and pessimism by what Mary Gibson called the ‘discovery’. It was a discovery, all right, not one he enjoyed making, although it did provoke a welcome bafflement, a doorway into that world of perplexity and mystery he longed for. Forget the headless clown, he had this in his own house.

  ‘So this found object is in the bedroom,’ Mary Gibson said.

  ‘Upstairs.’

  ‘Somehow I never imagined you having a bed, Lou. I always thought you just flopped out on a sofa.’

  ‘I’m a bundle of surprises,’ he said.

  Mary Gibson arched one eyebrow, and stepped across the living room. She was immaculate, lipstick perfect, hair just right. She dressed in soft colours, peaches and quiet tans, understated. She was elegant; she didn’t look like a cop, didn’t smell like one. She left in her wake a subdued perfume, an essence Perlman found captivating.

  She surveyed the living room. ‘Very tidy, Lou. I’m impressed.’

  Be grateful she never saw it before it was Bettyized. He’d sent the pale-faced Betty McLatchie home. She might need to be interviewed at some point, he knew, but she said she was scunnered and would he mind if she came back tomorrow? Christ – he’d forgotten her missing son, blown out of his mind by the appearance of the baggie. Maybe Kirk would turn up, repentant and weary. Perlman hoped so.

  At the foot of the stairs Mary Gibson paused. ‘Lead the way, Lou.’

  Perlman climbed past her on the narrow stairway. ‘You’ll need to step over these newspapers.’

  ‘They have recycling places everywhere.’

  ‘That’s an urban myth,’ Perlman said.

  She glanced at a photograph on the wall. ‘Your parents?’

  Perlman said yes. A framed black and white, a studio shot, Etta and Ephraim and their two kids, circa 1953. Nobody was smiling. Ephraim wore the plain black suit he wore to shul, and Etta was dressed in a skirt and blouse – the blouse black and white striped, the skirt grey. They had the look of immigrants uncertain of their place in the world, assimilated only in the most superficial ways, but still and forever outsiders. Colin, six years old, a good-looking boy in a serge suit with short pants from the Cooperative, stood alongside his father. He was already a Glaswegian, already learning the ways of the Gorbals streets. And little Lou, in knee-length trousers and white shirt, stood next to Etta, frowning, peering suspiciously into the camera, an inquisitorial look even then.

  ‘You’re quite the tough-looking wee man, Lou. You have a slight resemblance to your mother,’ Mary Gibson said. She continued to examine the portrait for a while. ‘Your dad doesn’t look happy.’

  ‘He was never at home here,’ Perlman said.

  No mention of Colin. Colin was erased, if not from the photograph then certainly from conversation. The bad penny. Perlman stopped on the threshold of the bedroom. ‘In here,’ he said. ‘Excuse the state.
’

  ‘I promise, I’m not looking,’ she said.

  In Mary Gibson’s presence the bedroom seemed even smaller than before, more tatty. Jock Tigge cleared his throat, as if suppressing a comment. Perlman knew he’d carry stories back to Pitt Street. You should see Perlman’s bedroom, Christ, talk about a tip. The sheets haven’t been changed since the year Dot. I’ve seen cleaner zoos.

  He hated Tigge suddenly. Tigge wasn’t on some trumped-up sick leave, Tigge could come and go at Pitt Street all he liked, Tigge could investigate and book miscreants, powers denied Perlman. How resentments expand until they fill the whole heid, Perlman thought. Cloggin the noggin.

  ‘We were in the process of cleaning up when we found the bag,’ he said.

  ‘We?’ Mary Gibson asked.

  ‘I have a nice woman in to help. Don’t say high time.’

  ‘The phrase never entered my mind.’

  Perlman indicated the plastic bag, which he’d left on the floor.

  Tigge produced a pair of latex gloves from his coat pocket and put them on, then bent to pick up the baggie. He held it in the air.

  ‘It’s a hand all right,’ he said. He had a funny singsong rustic accent. Perlman thought: Aberdeenshire. The accent annoyed him. He was doomed never to adore Tigge. The chemistry was pish.

  Mary Gibson looked closely at the object.

  Perlman said, ‘It was stashed among the newspapers.’

  ‘No rings,’ Tigge said, eyeballing the hand. ‘No obvious marks.’

  ‘You can’t see shite through the slime in the bag,’ Perlman said impatiently.

  Mary Gibson asked, ‘No idea how it got here?’

  ‘None.’ Perlman was engrossed with the sight of the hand. The flesh was black, shrivelled.

  ‘Have you had an intruder at any time?’ Mary Gibson asked.

  ‘Not that I know.’

  ‘Do you ever leave the house unlocked, Lou?’

  ‘Crazy? There are people here who’d take your false teeth while you slept. And I’m not talking teeth in an overnight glass, Mary. Right out your geggie.’

  ‘Could somebody have broken in without you knowing it?’

  ‘There are two doors, back and front, I bolt both from the inside at night. These are new since the shooting. When I go out, I lock them both, Chubb triple-action locks. I would’ve noticed if anybody had interfered with them, Mary.’

  ‘Windows,’ Mary Gibson said.

  ‘Snibbed from the inside. You’d need to break glass to get a hand on the snib and release it. No glass is broken anywhere in the house. So what have we got? Houdini? A ghost? A being with special powers who can pass through glass and/or stone?’

  Mary Gibson said, ‘If you didn’t have an intruder, and your house is a fortress—’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

  ‘The question stays the same. How did the hand get here?’

  Tigge smiled. ‘A skinny dwarf came down the chimney.’

  Perlman glared at Tigge. Who asked your opinion, Sergeant Simian?

  Mary Gibson said, ‘Take the bag to the car and wait for me, Tigge. We’ll run it over to Sid Linklater.’ Linklater was an owlish young forensics wizard. Scholarly Sid.

  Tigge left, clumping on the staircase.

  ‘Light on his feet,’ Perlman said.

  ‘Tigge only joined Force HQ from Elgin,’ Mary Gibson said. ‘Just so you know.’

  ‘I’m to make allowances?’

  Mary Gibson laughed. ‘You don’t know how.’

  Perlman liked her laugh. It was low-pitched, and could even be bawdy after a few drinks. ‘Maybe I did go out one day and I forgot to lock the door.’

  ‘It’s always possible—’

  ‘Aye, but it worries me.’

  ‘We all have moments, Lou, forgetful, preoccupied—’

  He feared the idea of mental decline. First you forget, then you drool. Halfway down the stairs he lit a cigarette and said, ‘I wouldn’t want to be within a mile of that bag when Sid opens it.’

  ‘Young Sid is enchanted with all things morbid, Lou. The stench of putrefaction is pure cherry blossom to him.’ They reached the living room where she scanned the music collection. ‘I know what you’re thinking. You have a proprietorial interest.’

  ‘My bedroom. Finders keepers, Mary.’

  ‘And you expect to be involved in an investigation.’

  ‘I live in hope.’

  ‘Lou.’ She patted his arm.

  ‘I’m about to hear your “life’s a disappointment” speech.’

  ‘Tay’s not going to back you, Lou.’

  ‘Oh Mary, it’s fuck all to do with my wound. I know that. You know that. You can’t come back until your shoulder’s truly mended.’ He walked round the living room, impersonating Tay’s flat accent, and wagging a finger in the air. ‘Translation: they want me out. It’s all politics. I have a history down there of … saying what I think.’

  ‘And doing what you like.’

  ‘Feh, so I stepped on a few toes, crossed a few lines.’

  ‘More than a few, Lou. This is me you’re talking to. How long have we known each other?’

  ‘I need back in, Mary. Talk to Tay.’

  ‘He’s a misogynist with a mind like an air-raid shelter. I’m a token in his eyes. And you broke a rule, so you’re persona non grata. You always will be so long as Tay runs the show. But I’ll try. Just prep yourself for a no.’

  Perlman walked with her to the front door. He remembered she’d separated from her husband six months ago. ‘How’s the marital situation?’

  ‘Larry doesn’t want to be a cop’s husband. I’m never home, he says. Which is true.’

  ‘It’s tough,’ he said.

  ‘It’s damn sad … I’ll get back to you, Lou.’

  He opened the front door for her and watched her walk to a parked car and get in on the passenger side. He closed the door and returned to the living room.

  Changes are in the air, he thought. It’s my fucking hand.

  10

  First thing each morning Dorcus walked the inside of the stone wall that surrounded his property. Wearing thick rubber gloves, he raked up rubbish slung over from the towers. He often found wrinkled condoms, knickers, bras, shoes, lipstick tubes, punctured tyres, bicycle wheels, wads of used toilet paper. Once, he’d come across a set of false teeth, upper and lower. He shovelled all this stuff into plastic bin bags.

  He’d written letters of complaint to the council about the junk, but nobody had ever come to offer advice, or suggest a remedy. Dorcus’s old house was an anachronism and should have been knocked down when the estate first went up. Those Slabbites lived in another country, where the rule of law was a joke.

  He finished clearing the rubbish and dragged the plastic bags to the bins outside his kitchen door just as the dogs erupted in a harsh chorus of barking and charged to the wall. A boy’s face appeared in the leafy upper limb of a high oak that grew outside Dorcus’s property, but branched several feet above the razor wire.

  Dorcus looked up at the kid. He was eleven, twelve, and had a cigarette stuck between his lips. His hairstyle was one favoured by young Slabbites, skull shaved almost to the bone, leaving a faint fuzz.

  ‘Hey you. Dysfart.’ The kid tossed his cigarette end at the dogs. ‘My da says you’re weird. He says you eat weans. Issat right?’

  Dorcus stomped on the butt and glared at the boy. The dogs jumped at the wall, snarling. ‘Your f-father’s … t-talking stupid.’

  ‘He says you’re fuckn mental.’

  Dorcus shouted back. ‘He’s the m-mental one.’

  ‘He says you’re a l-lassie, a j-jessie.’

  Mocked by the kid’s stutter, Dorcus tugged at his thin yellow hair, which grew almost to his shoulders. He quivered. Anger shook him.

  Dorcus said, ‘I’ll set my dogs on you.’

  ‘Oh aye, they magic dugs? Climb this wall, eh? Fuckn peddy. Arse-bandit.’

  Dorcus knew he lacked a combative face. H
e’d never scare this kid.

  ‘My da says this hoose is hauntit, filt wi ghosts and aw that.’

  ‘Your da’s a superstitious m-moron.’

  ‘He is no.’

  The boy hawked some phlegm and spat. It caught in leaves, and dangled. ‘See, you’re no even worth a spit, ya fuckn freak.’

  Dorcus pictured laying the boy out on the surgical table and taking a scalpel with a number ten blade to his heart. Very slow incisions.

  The boy lit a fresh cigarette. Then he changed his position on the branch and hung from it one-handed and made a jungle noise. ‘Greoooo. Me Tarzan, you Jane. Snort snort.’

  The Dobermans launched themselves against the wall with renewed frenzy. They leaped and salivated, but they were six feet short of the boy. Fall, you little bastard, fall, Dorcus thought. And just for a moment the kid slipped and looked like he would tumble, but he hauled himself back up into the thickness of leaves, adroitly evading the razor wire. Then he was gone and the branches vibrated a while after his departure.

  Dorcus stared at the tree and thought: I’ll go out in the white van later.

  He stepped inside the house. His palms were sweaty. He dried them against his khaki trousers. He entered his father’s study, where the old brown-tinted blinds were drawn. The Judge had bought this property in the early 1950s, years before the Slabs came into being. The house was sandstone Victorian, with cupolas and sculpted ornamental fruits above the front door. There were more rooms than Dorcus could ever use. Some he never entered. He’d tossed curtains over chairs and sofas and wrapped his mother’s piano in a dust cover. He tried to maintain the place on the money the Judge had left him, but the struggle against damp and decay was too demanding.

  He sat in his father’s cracked brown leather swivel chair. The Judge used to sit here night after night, law books open before him, and his big fountain pen in his hand. He scribbled notes in yellow legal pads. He often talked aloud to himself as he anguished over interpretations of the law. One bitter cold morning, Dorcus had come into the room hauling a bucket of coal to add to the dying fire. The Judge had taken off his glasses and set his pen down and asked, How old are you now, Dorcus?