City of Strangers

by Louise Millar

  The police officers laughed. No doubt Mr Singh’s white teeth were flashing too hard in his dark beard.

  The man’s eyes darted left and right.

  There was a sharp tap by his head. The female officer’s voice again. ‘See, if I worked here, I’d be on that Obese: A Year to Save My Life.’

  All three laughed again.

  Footsteps moved to the back door. It creaked open.

  ‘Right, so the backyard belongs to you, Mr Singh?’ The male officer again.

  ‘Aye. You think the guy came over my gate?’

  ‘Forensics’ll tell us,’ the woman said. ‘Have you had any problems in the past with people breaking in, or anything unusual happening at the back?’

  ‘Not really. A bit of graffiti last year when the . . .’

  The voices faded and vanished.

  The man allowed himself three long, slow breaths, and one muted cough. The sweat from his chest landed on the plastic bag by his cramping foot.

  He knew what they were looking for.

  They wouldn’t find it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Doph, doph, doph . . .

  On Saturday night, six days after they had found the body, Grace stood in the kitchen of Gallon Street, in a throng of people. Mac’s DJ friend Asha bobbed at the decks in the corner, a hand on the headphones atop her pink crew cut. There must have been fifty or sixty people in the kitchen, spilling out into the hall and onto the fire escape. They were dancing, straining to hear each other over the music, laughing, heads thrown back.

  Someone had strung fairy lights round the handsome neo-Gothic back door and the heap of wedding presents, which would wait there unopened until they had some more storage. John’s fancy dimmer switches gave the place a sophisticated glow; cold wine and beer were stacked in the built-in silver fridge. Wedding-present candlesticks glowed above the plates of food Mac had miraculously arranged.

  She knew what it looked like: the fantasy kitchen of property programmes, designed to ‘entertain family and friends’. The clean-up company had done an expert job yesterday, too. Every surface, hinge and crease had been deep-cleaned and disinfected. The smudges of fingerprint dust had vanished, and the white walls and tiles shone.

  Yet right now, she wanted to be any place but here.

  Grace took a stray coat from a chair, and squeezed through to add it to the pile in the sitting room.

  If only they could steam-clean her mind.

  Gently, she shut the door and sat on the sofa. There were more fairy lights round these wedding presents. Their new curtains covered the front bay window. It looked quite homely. A new framed wedding snap of her and Mac sat on the mantelpiece, brought by a friend tonight. A rainbow blast of confetti billowed in their faces outside the registry office, hiding Grace’s strained smile. Mac’s arm was round her waist. He was waving to guests out of shot, ready for the evening reception party.

  She scanned their eyes, hers dull with grief, his bright with the occasion.

  Her eyes strayed to a photo of Dad and, in a rush, the panic of that last day returned. The growing sense of unease as she rang him all day, knowing he’d never miss a hospital appointment. Finding herself at his front door, gripping Mac’s hand, taking a last breath before they opened it together, instinct telling her to savour the last few seconds of life as she knew it. That there was something bad on the other side. An unfathomable sight.

  Tonight, why wasn’t Mac thinking of the dead man’s family? Rubbing her face, Grace pulled the evening paper from under a cushion, and turned to page six.

  BURGLAR DIES AT GALLON STREET

  A man has died while breaking into a flat in Gallon Street. The owners of the flat returned from holiday to find a body in the kitchen. Police say the intruder, who was in his forties and had been drinking heavily, died from a suspected fall.

  They are not looking for a third party. Anyone with any information about the man’s identity should contact the following helpline . . .

  Six days now, and no news.

  Somewhere, his family were waiting for him, wondering why he wasn’t calling.

  She thought about the weeping Australian woman she’d seen on the TV news yesterday morning, appealing for information about her husband, who’d gone missing outside Edinburgh in January, hiking in snow. It had made her think of Dad, and how often he’d caught tourists like that wandering haplessly onto Carn Mor Dearg or Aonach Beag mid-afternoon, without hiking survival equipment or even a compass, and turned them back.

  If anyone remembers anything, however insignificant, please call this helpline . . . the Australian woman had said to camera, fighting back tears.

  Her husband. The dead man in Grace’s kitchen.

  Dad.

  All these families, grieving.

  Trapped together in this horrible winter.

  Back in the kitchen, the party hit a furious pace. The floor shuddered as Asha rammed up the volume further. More people arrived. Grace waved at Ewan from last year’s journalism MA course. He was doing some terrible hand-waving dance by the kitchen door, a head and shoulders above everyone else.

  ‘Heard anything yet about the dead guy?’ he shouted down, brushing away sweat.

  ‘Not yet,’ she yelled back, wishing everyone would stop asking. She changed the subject. ‘Heard who your new boss is yet at Scots Today?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Sula McGregor.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Used to be on the Mail. Been away freelancing somewhere and just got back. Shit-hot crime reporter, but a right fucking nightmare, so— Hi, girls!’ Two of Mac’s bar staff, in their early twenties like Ewan, danced close by. Ewan’s eyes strayed. His terrible hand-dance restarted, hopefully.

  Grace walked off, knowing she’d lost him.

  This party was the worst idea Mac had ever had.

  It’ll be good for us, he had nagged all week. Honestly. Trust me, darlin’. We’ll forget the guy was even here.

  It wasn’t good. Not in any way.

  She should never have given in.

  They were dancing on that poor man’s grave.

  A cheer went up. John Brock entered the kitchen door, in a sharp suit, longish dark hair pushed back from his face, holding up a bag of beers. With him was a younger woman, with a snub nose and red hair woven in a plait. Mac pushed through the crowds, and he and John clapped each other’s shoulders.

  Grace turned back to the sink, but it was no good.

  A shout. ‘Grace!’

  John approached, champagne held above his head. ‘Find a place for this,’ he yelled over the music. ‘It’s for you two, not this lot.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she mouthed.

  ‘How you doing?’ he shouted, planting a dry kiss on her cheek. A waft of citrus aftershave.

  She shrugged and mouthed, ‘OK.’

  ‘Still no news about your guy?’

  Not another one. ‘No,’ she yelled over the music.

  ‘Bloody weird, eh?’ John looked serious. ‘I’m sorry for you. But the flat – it’s all right, eh?’

  She reminded herself to be grateful. ‘No. It’s great. Don’t worry, we’ll forget it happened.’

  He grasped her hand in alliance, then walked away, setting off a row of smiles like Christmas lights in the women he passed.

  Grace reached up to put the champagne in a top cupboard.

  A drunk couple jogged her, making her slip off her tiptoes. Reflex made her grasp the granite worktop – exactly where the dried blood had been. She jerked back.

  Air. She needed air.

  Squeezing between the dancers, Grace escaped to the fire escape and rinsed her hand in rainwater.

  Back through the window, Mac danced with Anne-Marie, the pair of them regressing, as they always did, to the lunatics they’d been at high school, as if college and careers, babies and mortgages had never happened.

  As if the dead man had never happened.

  His family still didn’t even know.

  They should have be
en able to come here first. See where he died. Pay their respects in peace.

  Lights twinkled in the high-rise flats that towered at the back of Gallon Street. She scanned the windows, wondering if they were keeping people awake. A faint bluish light drew her eyes down. It was dancing on Mr Singh’s back gate. It pirouetted, shifted, faded; returned, and danced on.

  Where was that coming from?

  Grace bent over the railing and saw the back window of Mr Singh’s shop.

  A pale green glow, now, illuminated the glass, then melted back into blue.

  Somebody was in there.

  If she’d been looking for an excuse, finally she’d found one. Grace pushed inside and motioned Asha to turn down the volume. The thumping beat juddered to a halt. Faces turned.

  A glance exchanged between Mac and Asha. ‘What’s up?’ he said, pushing towards them.

  ‘Mr Singh’s downstairs,’ Grace said. ‘He must be doing a stocktake or something. We need to call it a day, anyway, Mac. It’s after two.’

  Mac held out his hand. Unable to refuse in front of all these people, she took it and let him lead her into the hall.

  ‘Did I tell you you look gorgeous, by the way?’ he whispered. ‘Listen.’ He cupped her cheeks with his hands. ‘I know you’re having a hard time, darlin’. But it’s a house-warming. Mr Singh’ll understand. Want me to get him up for a drink?’

  ‘No,’ Grace said, placing her hands over his. ‘I don’t. I just want this to stop right n—’

  A bass beat crashed across the kitchen like a sonic boom, drowning out her last word.

  ‘No, Mac!’ she yelled, the dancing restarting en masse. ‘I want everyone to go home. Now!’

  In his eyes, she saw a struggle about who to please. ‘Darlin’, John’s just got here. Come on. Have a drink and relax and—’

  ‘No!’ She pushed him away, ran into the bedroom, slammed the door, and crawled under the duvet.

  She knew he wouldn’t follow. He couldn’t. His boss was here; their friends were here.

  Asha bloody what’s-her-face had given up a paid gig to be here.

  The music thumped through the bedroom wall, and she clutched a pillow round her head, saying sorry to the dead man’s family for letting this happen.

  It was wrong.

  Everything right now was wrong.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Downstairs, the man sat on a stool watching a documentary about a shark. The shark could detect prey miles away from faint signals.

  Music pumped through his ceiling. Heels clattered on the floor and laughter shrieked from the fire escape above.

  With a growl, he clenched his fists, and climbed on his stool to look at the back gate.

  He shut his eyes, imagining climbing over it and heading for home.

  The music increased in volume, making the beams above his head judder, and he punched the wall.

  What did it matter now, anyway?

  His lips parted, and all those days and weeks of holding everything in erupted into a mighty yell.

  The force of it propelled him backwards off the stool.

  Three months later

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘OK, Shona, look at the camera for me, please – head up, chin down. Maybe do something with your hands. Like this . . .’ Grace motioned the subject by the window to turn, and took a few shots.

  The woman’s facial expression had settled somewhere between discomfort and the required appreciation for this free makeover. She rubbed her modest mouth, unused to the sting of the greasy lip-plumper. Her newly reduced curves were temporarily hosting a beige-and-purple geometric wrap dress the stylist had talked her into; six-inch nude heels stretched out what she nervously joked her father called her ‘rugby player’ calves. Her dark hair was glued into a painful-looking chignon that lifted up her neck hairs.

  ‘Right. Just hold that for me . . .’ Grace fired off four more shots. Then, knowing the diet and fitness magazine down in London would want an alternative, said, ‘OK, super. Let’s do one in the garden.’

  The woman hobbled outside like an injured horse. Grace watched her go with sympathy. She’d rather have photographed her an hour ago when they’d arrived: smiley, and natural, her round face creased with laughter lines, dark hair soft and glossy, comfy in her jeans, playing with her dog. By the time the magazine had PhotoShopped Grace’s image from today, there would be nothing left of the original woman at all.

  The May sky above Edinburgh was blue today, and filled with soft nets of clouds. After the shoot in Stockbridge wrapped, Grace headed on foot to Scots Today to her next job, to edit the shots she’d taken last week of the newspaper’s new gardening correspondent. She forced herself to avoid the mortuary on Cowgate, as she had for the past month, and turned up past the volcanic hulk of the castle on Castle Terrace, calculating. If the Scots Today picture editor was happy, this would be her last freelance job till John’s restaurant opening on Sunday night.

  There would be time to finish a few jobs in the flat.

  As usual, the Scots Today office was buzzing with tapping keyboards and the high-energy chatter of a daily newsroom. She waved at Ewan on the news desk, and headed to the Picture Department. She and the picture editor had just made a final decision on the new gardening correspondent headshot when a ball of paper hit the back of her head.

  ‘Oi,’ she said, turning round. A second hit her on the chest.

  ‘Scot-taayy. What you doing here?’ Ewan said.

  ‘Working,’ she said, chucking it back at him. ‘You should try it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m hiding,’ he said, crouching down beside her, his long legs folding like a grasshopper’s under the chair.

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Her.’

  A door flew back and a tall woman emerged from the stationery cupboard. She had wild bird’s-nest grey hair, black glasses, skinny jeans and a leather jacket. She walked like a gunslinger entering a saloon.

  ‘Oh God. Is that her?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Aye. Fuckin’ terrifying,’ Ewan said.

  ‘Serves you right.’

  ‘You know she smokes in there?’ he said, indignant, ‘and nobody says anything.’

  Grace made a horrified face.

  He dug a finger in her leg. ‘So what are you up to?’

  She pointed at her gardening correspondent headshots. ‘This. Then I’m finished till Sunday. Mac’s away on a golf trip with his dad, so I’ve got the flat to myself.’

  He sighed. ‘Lazy fucking freelancers. When are you gonna pitch us some reportage ideas, then, eh?’

  ‘Too busy.’

  He tutted. ‘Those crappy mags pay you too much. Well, hurry up. We’re waiting.’ He stood up. ‘Hey. I saw your DI Robertson at a police conference yesterday. Still nothing on your dead guy at Gallon Street?’

  Her smile vanished. ‘No. Heard anything here?’

  ‘Nothing on the news desk. I’m listening out, but . . .’

  A shadow fell behind them.

  ‘Ewan, what you doing?’

  It was his new boss. Her accent was Glaswegian. Her demeanour suggested a general lack of tolerance for mucking about.

  ‘Grace,’ he said, starting back, ‘this is my new boss, Sula McGregor, senior crime reporter. Sula, Grace Scott, freelance photojournalist. Grace was a mature student on my journalism MA last year – though some might say that was debatable, eh? Ha!’ He laughed nervously.

  Sula hooked pale yellow-green eyes into Grace, like an eagle spotting a rabbit. Grace ignored Ewan, and held out her hand. Behind Sula’s back, Ewan shook his head, mouthing, ‘Nooo!’ She dropped it.

  ‘Poor you,’ the woman said, holding out a digital recorder. ‘Right, Ewan, hurry up. I need this transcribed.’

  ‘Yes, master,’ he said, trotting away, deflated, mouthing, ‘Help me,’ at Grace.

  Back at Gallon Street, the flat was quiet with Mac away. Grace stored her camera equipment, turned on the kettle, and opened the rear door to let in the afternoon suns
hine.

  Next door’s magnolia tree was in full blossom, its delicate pinky-white petals blowing into Mr Singh’s yard. Her gaze rose to the eighth floor of the Crossgate high-rise flats as a curtain drew back. The naked man she saw most days stretched and yawned. She had been tempted to snap him and post the photo through his letterbox anonymously, but suspected he might relish it.

  She made tea, then wrote a list of jobs for this afternoon. The first was to open and put away the last few wedding presents; the second was to order bedside lamps; the third to frame and hang her photos from their Thai honeymoon in the hall.

  From the original three towers of gift-list wedding presents, only ten or fifteen boxes remained now, stacked against the kitchen wall. The rest had been unwrapped one by one, and squeezed into the airing cupboard, the tiny second bedroom-cum-box room where they kept their bikes, and the new cupboards and shelves they’d had built last month in the sitting room and dining area of the kitchen.

  These last gifts would have to cram into whatever space was left. She started with the small boxes on the top, unwrapping Sabatier knives from Auntie Marjorie, photo frames from Mac’s cousin in Ullapool and a plastic carriage clock from Dad’s old neighbour at the flats. A thin, rectangular package made her laugh. It was a photo Anne-Marie had had blown up on canvas of Grace and Mac on the beach at Lower Largo. They were about sixteen years old, jumping off a rock holding hands, peroxide hair obscuring his face, hers screwed up like a troll, both in their skinny Britpop jeans and lumberjack shirts, her with a badly cut Justine Frischmann bob.

  How the hell could that be nearly twenty years ago?

  Next, she started on the bottom row. The first large box was a microwave from Mac’s gran. The second was heavy and flat.

  An envelope was tucked inside its white ribbon. GRACE SCOTT, it said on the front.

  Grace removed it, wondering why it was addressed to her and not Mac. The envelope was already torn across the top, and empty inside. Whatever had been in there had gone.