“Where did he say he was going?”
“Up north to Thurso, and then south, he said he didn’t know where, but he didn’t sound as if he was in any hurry to come back.”
“Thurso?” spat Peter and Richard, almost in unison.
“Where the hell is that, anyway?” said Richard.
“What’s in Thurso?” said Peter, frowning, looking at Tam. “Why would he go there?”
“Well … the precious thing you were talking about … His daughter.”
“What?”
Richard took one step back, but Peter continued to frown at Tam.
“His daughter?” said Richard.
“Aye,” said Tam, looking from one brother to the other.
“Which daughter is this?” said Peter. “I didn’t hear about him knocking up someone else, although I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Em … I remember, her name was Moll,” said Tam, recalling the bright red tattoo above George’s heart. “Moll, yes, that was it.”
“And how did he knock up someone in Thurso?” said Richard.
“It was a while ago, a girl from Glasgow. I can’t remember her name, but she moved north and—”
“Kathleen Jamieson,” Peter spat. “You’re joking. I heard talk that there was a wean, but … there’s no way.”
“He was fond of Kathleen,” said Richard, turning to Peter.
“Ach, Georgie’s fond of anything in a skirt.”
“That’s where he told me he was going. He was going to ask Kathleen to marry him again and then the three of them would be together,” said Tam, hope buoying under his ribs that this was the information needed and now that it was given, he would be free. “That was what the journalist was asking me about the other day. He was from up north. Sure enough, that little girl’s gone missing and somehow he’d clocked on George.”
Peter nodded, both hands in his pockets. “Are we talking about that kid that’s on the news? Is she not called Molly?”
Tam shrugged.
“I’ll be damned,” said Peter, and shook his head at Richard, whereupon both of the brothers burst out laughing. They laughed for well over a minute, Peter reaching out to lean on Richard’s shoulder when the mirth began to hurt his stomach muscles.
Tam watched, confused, and then deeply relieved, and he began to laugh too: not a hearty genuine laugh, but a laugh of empathy, as when a joke is cracked that one doesn’t understand, but wants to, for the sake of being accepted.
Both brothers stopped laughing at the same time, and suddenly the warehouse was silent and creaking as it had been when Tam was alone. The smile slipped from his lips.
“Nice story. I wouldn’t put it past my crazy wee brother, but now cut the crap and tell us … where’s the fucking money?”
Peter was leaning forward, hissing in Tam’s face, so that he could smell the elder McLaughlin’s quintessence of cigarettes, aftershave, and malice.
“What money?” said Tam, swallowing. “I don’t know anything about money.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” said Peter, still close to Tam’s face so that Tam could barely breathe. “He told you his life story and forgot the bit about nicking the Watt brothers’ hundred grand?”
Tam closed his eyes. He struggled to recollect the night at the bar. He had been drinking, and he hadn’t wanted to hear what George was saying anyway, but he did remember George saying he had “enough to disappear” and that he had “found a bit of money” but that it would be harmful to Tam if he knew where.
Tam’s heart was beating so hard that he thought he might have a heart attack—and he began to wish for it. The stress of being taken, and then the relief that had flooded his veins, and now the deep, thickening dread were all hitting him in waves from inside. He felt sick and his vision was blurring and sweat from his forehead had begun to sting his eyes.
Richard reached out and grabbed Tam by the scruff of the neck. Tam shouted out, and recoiled, as if he had been struck.
“What did he do with the money? Did he take it with him?”
“I think he might’ve,” Tam whispered.
“So you do know,” said Peter, so quietly that he was almost inaudible. “‘I know nothing about money,’ you said a moment ago, but in fact … you do.” He spoke very slowly, so that each word seemed separated by seconds.
“All right, all right,” said Tam, out of breath, his chest heaving. “He told me he had found some money, enough to run away with, but that it was best I didn’t know about it, and so he told me no more. That’s the truth, I swear to God.”
“And did he find it somewhere in that car you both worked on in the garage? The Watt brothers are now convinced it was there, instead of at the bottom of the Clyde. They switched cars. Was it in the tires? Where was it?”
“He told me no more. He said it was best I didn’t know. That’s the truth, I swear to God.”
“You keep saying it’s the truth, Tam, but you have already lied to us, and so that makes me suspicious.” Peter was smiling, teeth bared, his eyes fixed on Tam.
“I swear. I promise that’s all I know. That’s everything I know.”
“I don’t think you realize how serious this is. If our baby brother has taken the Watts’ money, then they’ll be coming to get it back … from us, if they can’t get their hands on him.”
“I understand, but, please … I’ve told you all I know.”
Peter nodded at Richard, and again Tam thought that they had believed him and it was all over. Peter folded his arms and turned his back on Tam while Richard walked to the side of the room and returned with a plastic container, which as he drew nearer Tam realized was full of gasoline.
“Dear God, no,” Tam whispered. He felt his bladder contract and then the warmth of his own urine down his left leg.
“Please … please, I told you all I know.”
“I’m not sure that I do believe you, Tam,” said Peter, as Richard took the cap from the container.
The familiar, heady, heavy scent of gas wafted over to Tam. He had worked with engines since he was a boy, and had always loved the smell of gas. Now the scent choked him. He tried to get up, but Peter put a hand on his shoulder and pressed him back into the chair.
“I wonder if you need your memory jogged?” said Peter. “I mean, you were drinking and all. I wonder if you can remember something else? Should we have a go? Maybe I should light a cigarette and consider it.”
“No, please,” Tam whispered, his voice raw and hoarse—no moisture left in his mouth at all. He remembered again the Portland Arms with George singing on the tabletop, and the sight of Giovanni DeLuca’s wasted hand.
Richard stood with the cap in one hand and the canister of gasoline in the other. He looked to Peter for instruction. Peter shrugged at his brother and held out his hand for the canister.
As Peter took the plastic container and stepped toward him, Tam began to cry. He thought about his wife and his daughter, and if he would see them again.
Peter put a hand on Tam’s shoulder. “There now. Pull yourself together, man. I’m not going to hurt you. We just want to make you understand the seriousness of this. You should have come to us about it from the start. You need to remember who you work for … and you certainly shouldn’t have lied to us just then. We need to know the truth. This is a very serious matter.”
Tam nodded, hands over his face, taking a long slow breath in. He looked up at Peter. “I’m sorry.”
“Apology accepted,” said Peter, with the same bared-teeth smile he had used earlier. “Now, I want you to drink this. All of it.”
Tam looked up at Peter. He considered asking him for mercy.
“Peter, I-I …”
“Do you remember when you were wee, Tam?”
Tam looked at him, unblinking.
“Do you?” Peter raised his voice, just slightly, and the sudden inflection echoed in the large metal space.
“Aye.”
“So do I. Do you remember what the puni
shment was for lying?”
Tam swallowed, the urine cold on his leg, and now he felt that he was shivering all over, his muscles shaking with fear.
“In our house it was washing your mouth out with soap, wasn’t it, Rich?”
“Lying or profanity …”
“Lying or profanity … wash your mouth out with soap. Well, Tam, here we are. This is the next best thing. Go on—drink it.”
Tam had accidentally drunk sips of gasoline in the past—once a large gulp—while siphoning fuel. He had sucked on a rubber tube and it had come too fast and he had gulped it down. He had been fine. His wife had called the doctor, who had told him to drink a glass of milk.
“Drink it,” said Peter, again his voice unusually loud and echoing as if his pernicious authority had grown larger.
Tam took hold of the plastic canister with two hands. It trembled a little in his grasp. It was only about one quarter full. Tam felt his chin drop, and he nodded. He raised the canister to his lips, his eyes and nose stinging with the smell. He screwed his eyes tight shut, took a mouthful, and swallowed, gasping and coughing at the burn in his throat.
When the spasms of coughing subsided, Tam opened his eyes and looked up at Peter, pleading for it to end.
“Go on.”
“It … Peter, it’s too much, please, I …”
“You’ve only had one sip. You’ll drink at least half. Imagine it was that dram you had when Georgie Boy spilled his beans …” Peter showed his lower teeth. “Now drink it.”
Resigned, Tam gulped and gulped again. The fumes made his eyes stream and his throat burned with it and his stomach tightened and lurched, so that twice he retched dry before he was able to continue. He took one more gulp and then Peter swiped it from his lips, spilling some gas on his cheek and his trousers. He handed the canister to Richard, who slowly and carefully screwed the cap back on.
“There now,” said Peter, brushing imaginary dust from the sleeves of his jacket and buttoning up. “All over. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Tam shook his head. His teeth were chattering and he could hear the rattle in his skull.
“Now you remembered your manners, but have you remembered anything else?” said Peter.
Tam could barely speak, but he managed: “P-Penzance.”
“Penzance?”
Tam tried to swallow. His nose and his mouth were filled with the oily burn of the gas. “That’s where he told me he was headed.”
“Penzance? Why there? Whereabouts?”
“A cottage … it was in the family or something,” Tam gasped.
“I don’t know of any cottage.”
“He said …” Tam screwed his eyes tight shut as he tried to remember George’s words in the bar. “Between Sennen and Porthcurno … It’s all I know, I swear, I swear.”
“Very well,” said Peter. “You relax now.”
Tam felt ill and weak. He sat back in the chair, watching the brothers.
“You did well,” said Peter.
Richard returned the canister to the side of the room, turned, and walked toward the door. Peter buttoned up his jacket, and put a hand in his pocket.
“You take care now, Tam,” he said, turning.
When he saw each of their backs walking toward the door, Tam buckled over and cupped his face in his hands, feeling hot new tears of relief against his palm.
From inside his fingers, he was aware of the smallest sound: scrape, scrape, scrape … like a blade sharpening against stone.
He opened his eyes just in time to see Peter frowning into his fingertips, as if trying without success to click his fingers. The flame of his lighter finally took and he tossed it down on to the floor.
CHAPTER 20
Margaret Holloway
Saturday, December 21, 2013
IT WAS VISITING TIME ON THE SATURDAY BEFORE CHRISTMAS, and Margaret had returned to Ward 19 at the Royal London Hospital. The children were both at friends’ houses, Ben was working on an article, and Margaret found herself at the hospital once again.
It had been twelve days since she had seen Maxwell: nearly a fortnight, yet she had called almost daily to ask about his progress. Walking to the ward, she wondered if he would be awake when she arrived—if the doctors had brought him out of his coma. The thought of talking to him—meeting him properly—filled her with excited trepidation.
Maxwell Brown was still unconscious, in a private room, and, according to the nurses, he had had no visitors apart from Margaret since he had been admitted.
She sat down at his bedside. Christmas was only a few days away, yet already she felt deadly tired. The kids were both excited, but Margaret’s temper had been shorter than usual. She had snapped at the children once or twice since they had been off school—filling the house with mess and noise. She had also been distant and withdrawn from Ben. It was as if she couldn’t contain what was happening inside her and now the ones she loved were starting to suffer for it.
Margaret leaned over the bed and took Maxwell’s hand. It was surprisingly smooth. She had been sitting staring at him for some time, wondering who he was and if his family was missing him. He wore no jewelry; he had no watch nor a ring on his finger, unless the medical staff had removed it.
A nurse Margaret was unfamiliar with came in to change Maxwell’s urine bag and she stood aside as the nurse drew the curtain and slipped behind it. The nurse talked to Margaret from behind the curtain as she worked.
“Nice to see he has a visitor. I know he’ll appreciate it. Are you family?”
“Em … just a friend,” said Margaret. She found that she could no longer talk about the crash to others.
“Well, you may not think it, but I’m sure he’s grateful.” The nurse’s voice sounded as if she were bending and then stretching. Margaret could see the shape of her body move along the inside of the curtain.
“He’s technically in a coma?”
“That’s right.” The nurse dragged the curtain back on its rail, and smiled at Margaret. “He was put in a medically induced coma. He seems to be stabilizing now though, so the doctors will likely bring him back in a week or so …”
“Really?” said Margaret.
“I think that’s the plan.”
“Can he hear me?”
“Well, we don’t really know, but I’m sure on some level he can. You could read to him or something. I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear your voice.”
“Thank you,” said Margaret. “I will. I read to my kids all the time. I have a book in my bag.” She took the novel she was reading from her handbag and placed it on the bed.
The nurse left and closed the door. Once again, Margaret took Maxwell’s hand. The room was warm, and he was stripped to the waist as he had been the last time she visited. She could see his ribs underneath his scarred skin as his chest rose and fell. He looked thinner, his head turned away from her and his chin down, making him seem vulnerable and alone. Looking at him now, it was difficult to believe that this was the powerful man who had saved her.
Margaret cleared her throat and spoke in a low voice. “I just popped in to see you before Christmas. It’s good to hear that you’ll be waking up soon. I’d love to meet you properly. I’m so, so grateful to you. I think you’re an angel.” Margaret smiled and let go of his fingers. She felt silly, talking to an unconscious man as if he could hear her.
There was no blind on the window that looked out on to the nurses’ station, but when Margaret peered through it, she could see that the nurse was seated at her desk with her back to Maxwell’s room, doing paperwork.
She bit her lip. She was desperate to know more about who Maxwell was. No one had come forward to claim him. He had to have a history, and a life that was waiting for him.
There was a long cupboard beside the bed and Margaret opened it. It was a wardrobe with shelves at the bottom. On the bottom shelf were the brown boots that Maxwell had been wearing in the crash—dirty and unpolished. Above were the clothes he had been wearing, neatl
y folded: brown corduroy trousers, a T-shirt, and a checked shirt; and—hanging—a heavy brown jacket.
Margaret peered through the window at the nurse again, but she was still bent over her desk. Instinctively, she reached into the pocket of the jacket. She was not sure what she was looking for, but the pocket was empty. She slid her hand into the other pocket. She felt a coin and then a piece of paper, which might have been a receipt.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that the nurse was now on her feet, talking to one of the doctors.
Margaret took the piece of paper out of the pocket. Before she was able to inspect it, she saw the doctor and nurse walking together toward Maxwell’s room. She crushed the paper in her palm and closed the cupboard door. She knew nothing about Maxwell other than his name and his date of birth. She was desperate to learn anything she could about him. The flap of the cupboard sounded loudly as it closed, and the room door opened. Margaret swallowed, feeling embarrassed and guilty, but the doctor, a tall Asian woman with dark-rimmed glasses, only smiled at her.
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” the doctor said. “We’re going to send Mr. Brown up for another MRI. Visiting hour’s nearly over anyway, but I’m sorry to rush you off.”
“Not at all,” said Margaret, picking up her coat and her bag. “I was just leaving. You’re thinking that you might bring him out of the coma soon?”
“We’ll know more after the MRI.”
“He had bleeding in his brain?” Margaret frowned, trying to understand the extent of Maxwell’s injuries. She wondered if he might have sustained brain damage.
“That’s right, an extradural hematoma.”
“It sounds so serious, but I was with him on the motorway. I knew he had hurt his head, but he had so much strength. He saved my life.”
The doctor adjusted her glasses on her nose. “That’s right. With EDH, patients can be lucid for periods of time—sometimes days—before they lose consciousness. He did the right thing to come in.”
“He broke his hand saving me. He smashed the window of my car.”
“Yes, we heard Mr. Brown is a hero. But that broken hand maybe saved his life.”
Margaret touched Maxwell’s arm before she left the room, then watched through the window as the doctor checked his chart and the nurse began to lower his bed in preparation for moving him to the MRI scanner.
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