Bitter Water

by Ferris, Gordon

  Still, the columns of the church didn’t tremble as I entered, and the words of the hymns didn’t stick in my throat. It was a long hot service. All I was aware of was the dust drifting through the sunlit shafts from the stained-glass windows. I was a boy again in my Boys’ Brigade uniform, bowed over my bible, looking reverential, but in truth reading dirty bits from the Song of Solomon.

  We walked home to Bonnyton and ate the potted herring and boiled tatties she’d saved. As a Sunday treat she fried up a slice of clootie dumpling. We had it with cream from the top of the bottle. While she was in the scullery I left her two ten-bob notes under the clock on her mantelpiece. I gave her a kiss and headed back to Glasgow on the late-afternoon train.

  THIRTEEN

  I was outside the front door of the Western Baths Club as it opened first thing Monday morning. Two other men were hovering with rolled-up towels for an early-morning treat. We nodded to each other and wished each other a good morning in that focused way of men about to go over the top. An hour later I came out starving, but convinced that there were no problems that couldn’t be solved by thirty laps of a tiled pond.

  The sense of well-being sustained me right up to the moment I found two blue uniforms waiting for me as I walked into the newsroom. They were in Eddie’s office and were surely suffocating from the smoke. I tried to sneak past but that’s why Eddie’s office is positioned where it is. His door bounced open and a gust of foul air blasted out, followed by Big Eddie himself.

  ‘Mister Brodie! Just the man. Come right in.’

  I squeezed into the already jammed room. Eddie climbed back behind his paper fortifications and faced the two policemen sitting in cramped chairs opposite. They hadn’t got up as I entered. I stood with my back against the wall and weighed up the boys in blue. The last time we’d met had been over the injured body of Alec Morton. One was the baby-faced sergeant, clasping his old-style pointy helmet in his lap as though hiding an erection. A copper’s notebook lay open in front of him. The other was Chief Inspector Walter Sangster in full dress uniform. To impress me? His flat cap with the Sillitoe check round its circumference was perched on a wobbly pile of Eddie’s documents. He held both of the letters in his gloved hand.

  I nodded at them. ‘Chief Inspector Sangster, nice to see you again.’

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Sangster, Mister Brodie.’

  ‘Mazel tov. What can I do for you, gentlemen?’ I wondered if Duncan reported to him? And why hadn’t he brought Todd along?

  Sangster eyed me up and down. ‘It seems you have a talent for attracting bother, Brodie.’

  If anyone else told me that, I might start to believe it. I raised an eyebrow and waited.

  ‘What’s your connection with these vigilantes?’ he asked.

  ‘They commit crimes. I report them.’

  His thin mouth tightened. ‘I mean why are they writing to you, personally, Brodie?’

  I noted we’d dropped the Mister pretty fast. ‘I get fan mail. Maybe he likes my column.’ Out of the corner of my eye I noticed warning frowns from my boss. I ignored him. ‘What exactly are you insinuating, Sangster? That I’m somehow in cahoots with these characters?’

  His sergeant – still unidentified apart from the number 71 on his shoulder – stuttered into life with a high voice. ‘They haven’t written to any other paper. Isn’t that a bit strange?’

  ‘Maybe they want the publicity? It was the Gazette that exploded the Donovan case. You’ll recall? The innocent man you got hanged?’

  Sangster coloured and took a deep breath to release the apoplexy that was threatening to melt his handful of brain cells. He raised his hand to stop his sergeant saying any more.

  ‘An unfortunate business, Brodie, no doubt. Bad apples. But here’ – he waved the letters – ‘we’ve got a group of men on the rampage, taking the law into their own hands, and we need to know all we can about them.’

  ‘Everything we know, you know. It’s all in the paper.’ Except for the nom de guerre of the leader and reference to missing fingertips.

  ‘So you say, Brodie. But I can read between the lines.’ He waved the letters at me.

  ‘Ah, that would be the invisible ink.’

  ‘Don’t be funny, Brodie.’

  ‘And what are you finding between the lines?’

  ‘I’m finding that you’re in correspondence with men who claim to have carried out at least two major acts of grievous bodily harm. I even saw for myself the extent of the burns on this poor fellow . . .?’

  ‘Gibson, sir,’ said the sergeant.

  ‘Aye, him. This could make you an accessory after the fact, Brodie, if you’re holding anything back.’

  ‘Oh spare me, Sangster. I’m a reporter. I’m doing my job. Isn’t that right, Mr Paton?’

  ‘Eh? Oh, aye, right enough.’

  ‘Who’s this man Johnson then?’

  ‘You’ve a short memory. Just another innocent man hanged in Barlinnie. This time by his own hand. Remember the case of Sergeant Alan Johnson? Three weeks ago? Sent down for five for upsetting the Chief Constable’s sister?’

  Sangster’s mouth screwed up. He let his bird-of-prey look flick between Eddie and me as if wondering which one to pounce on first. Suddenly he was on his feet. ‘I’m keeping these.’

  ‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Eddie, leaping to his own feet and knocking over the pile of papers with the chief inspector’s hat. Sangster’s minion grappled around on the floor to retrieve his boss’s headgear while Eddie spluttered apologies. I tried not to laugh. Sangster finally eased out of the door murmuring not very veiled threats about the consequences of failing to report crimes or withholding information about crimes about to be committed.

  I turned to Eddie. ‘You were very cooperative.’

  ‘Fuck me, Brodie, what was I to do? I had to hand over the letters.’

  ‘They like throwing their weight about. We need to stand up to them.’

  ‘Oh aye, it’s OK for you to talk, Brodie. But it’s my ba’s that get kicked first. Besides, we have a useful relationship with the polis. Something we have to cultivate.’

  He even winked at me.

  FOURTEEN

  Sam called me back on Tuesday morning and we met for a drink after work in Sloan’s off Argyll Street. It was her suggestion, and it was, by a long way, more salubrious than any of the bars I frequented with my partner in crime-reporting. Polished wood panelling and tiled floors, etched glass divides and glittering lighting. We met in the lounge bar below the smart restaurant. I promised myself a meal there when my pay packet caught up with my aspirations. Maybe I needed a second job? A paper round, perhaps.

  I rose from my seat as she appeared. She looked every inch the professional lawyer. Hair sleek and trimmed, make-up accentuating her eyes behind the inquisitorial glasses. She wore a dark blue business ensemble that would have got nodding approval from the fustiest judge. My shiny secondhand suit felt dowdy by comparison. Under her arm she’d tucked a slim black briefcase. To an onlooker it could have been a meeting between a top lawyer and her down-at-heel client. The only giveaway was her nails; still near the quick but filed instead of savaged.

  I smiled. ‘We should do this more often.’

  ‘Let’s see how this one goes,’ she said, smacking me into place. Coolness personified. I still didn’t know how it had come out this way between us. Not after what we’d been through together. Not after – well, not to put too modest a point on it – I’d saved her skinny backside. Within a few days of getting her back to her grand house in Kelvingrove, and making her endless cups of tea, she’d asked me to leave. Need some time; it’s not about you, Brodie; just want some peace for a while; think things through; try to forget, etc. etc. Admittedly Sam had been chloroformed, abducted, beaten up and generally badly treated by a psychopathic child abuser, but I thought our shared horrors would have brought us together. Women are unfathomable. But, still, she was here.

  We bantered for a bit while drinks were brought.
Sam had a sherry; I had a lemonade. She looked at me and my drink sceptically, then drew out a foolscap jotter from her briefcase. She laid it down between us, sideways to us both. It had a list of the names I’d given her. Against each, in her elegant writing, were three columns. She reached over and pointed with her fountain pen.

  ‘These are the dates in the last two months when these men came before the court. These are the offences they were accused of. These are the verdicts.’

  All of the nineteen names had court dates and accusations against them. Sixteen were found not guilty. Three, not proven. The two I’d taken grapes to at Glasgow Infirmary had been found not guilty a month ago.

  I whistled. ‘Are these details available to the public?’

  ‘At the court offices.’

  ‘But none of yours?’

  She flushed, the freckles round her nose fading into the pink. ‘No. I’ve not . . . I’ve not been that busy lately. Been having some time off. But to tell the truth, none of mine was found innocent.’

  I leaned over to her and put my hand out to hers. She drew it back as though I was a fully charged lighting rod.

  ‘Sam, you’ve had a rough time. Take it easy.’

  Her eyes glistened. ‘Damn it, Brodie. It’s been four months! It’s stupid!’

  ‘It’s not.’

  ‘Look at you! Not a care. A new job. Everything going for you. And I’m glad. I mean it.’

  I took out my cigarettes, gave her one and lit them both. It steadied us both. I shook my head.

  ‘You were right at the weekend, Sam. I’m drinking too much. Hardly surprising, working alongside Wullie McAllister.’ I pointed at the untouched lemonade. I grinned and got a small smile in return. ‘The booze helps me sleep. Sometimes. The stuff I dream about!’

  ‘Good! No, I’m sorry. I mean it’s good that you’re not immune. That you feel . . . something.’

  I lowered my voice and leaned closer to avoid being overheard. ‘It’s not guilt though.’ I wanted her to understand. ‘Maybe war blunts the conscience. All I know is that Gerrit Slattery was going to kill you. And me.’ I didn’t mention the other blood on my hands. Sam knew there had been violence at Dermot Slattery’s farm in Fermanagh but I’d never told her the details, and she’d never asked.

  ‘Like this lot?’ She tapped the paper in front of her.

  I sighed. ‘That’s the thing, isn’t it? Who am I to talk?’

  Her mouth turned up. ‘You should be in the clear. Ishmael’s work is cold and calculating. Premeditated. Whatever happened between you and Gerrit was self-defence. I’m worse than you. I wanted those scum dead. What they did to those wee boys . . .’

  ‘And you, Sam. And you.’

  I had stomach-churning picture of her pale face with far-off eyes, lying in the bottom of a boat as she was carried away from me. The same image must have passed through her mind. Her eyes filled. She waved her hand.

  ‘He didn’t rape me. I’m not dead. I just wish I could get on. I’m sure I’m already getting a reputation; if you want to get a conviction, pray that Sam Campbell is the defence lawyer. I’m getting fewer instructions from Glasgow solicitors. My stable in Edinburgh has been dropping hints that maybe it’s time to close this particular outpost. Bring me into the fold. Keep an eye on me, more like.’

  The prospect of her moving to Edinburgh seemed like a terrible idea. ‘Rubbish, Sam. Do you have anyone to talk to about it? A doctor?’

  ‘And say what? My doctor said it was nerves. He gave me some pills. They made me throw up.’

  ‘Friends?’ She’d mentioned girlfriends before.

  ‘Oh, I’ve had them all round. Maggie Dalrymple, Moira Rankin. The gossips. Sorry, that’s not fair. They’re old pals and they’ve been kind. Moira even stayed a couple of nights to make sure I didn’t swallow my whole prescription at once. That, and nosiness. Wanting to know all about Douglas Brodie, scourge of gangsters and corrupt cops.’ She gazed at me with a furious intensity, as if daring me to laugh.

  ‘They say talking helps.’

  She shook her head. ‘Not when you can’t discuss it all. Not when there are some things that can’t be said.’

  I wondered how much she did know, or guess? She suddenly stubbed her fag out and took a couple of deep breaths. She took off her glasses, rubbed the bridge of her nose and focused her limpid blue eyes on me again.

  ‘Brodie, how’re your digs?’

  I blinked at the change in topic. ‘They’re fine. I mean the landlady gives me a hard time about taking my turn cleaning the stairs. And the gas meter eats shillings. But it’s fine.’

  I didn’t tell her it was a top-floor hovel up a spiral of worn concrete steps and falling plaster. That I looked out on a barren back close with a midden heap in one corner. That the ground-floor houses seemed to be occupied by a large number of over-made-up lassies who had visitors at all times of day and night.

  ‘Because if you needed . . . I mean if you ever had to . . .’

  ‘Sam, what are you saying? Spit it out.’

  She pushed back from the table, eyes blazing. ‘My house is so bloody big and so bloody quiet and so bloody empty it’s driving me bloody crazy and I can’t talk to anyone else about what happened and I hate drinking alone . . .’ She stopped, took a deep breath, then, ‘Do you want your old room back?’

  I hid the smile that threatened to split my face. ‘Well, I’d need to give notice. And I couldn’t afford to pay much . . .’

  ‘Don’t you play hard to get with me, Douglas Brodie! Unless you’ve got a rich benefactor who’s putting you up at the Ritz, this is a great offer. Hand over your ration card and two pounds a week and it’s a deal. I’ll feed us. I might even get a woman in to clean for us, like I used to. The place is like a tip. We split the whisky. Not that we’re going to be drinking much.’ She stared contemptuously at my glass.

  ‘How could I refuse?’

  I hadn’t had such an offer since basic training when my sergeant major asked me if I’d mind terribly much doing a further twice round the assault course with full pack for failing to get back from two days’ leave on time. Irresistible. Except of course for one thing: wee Morag. What was I going to do about her? Sneak her back to my bedroom past my new landlady? Why not? It wasn’t as if the landlady in question was offering me anything other than a roof over my head.

  ‘Sod you, Brodie, if you don’t want to . . .’

  ‘Sam, Sam, nothing would give me greater pleasure. Would this weekend do? I won’t need a van for the flitting. Nor even a barra’. Why are you crying?’

  ‘I’m not.’ She dabbed at her eyes, sniffed and pointed at the list of names. ‘Good. That’s settled. So what are we going to do now, Sherlock?’

  I liked the use of we. ‘See Big Eddie.’

  FIFTEEN

  I found Eddie in his den behind his ransacked desk.

  ‘Murder and havoc, Brodie! Don’t you enter these sacred portals unless you have a tale of gore and outrageous effing depravity.’

  ‘I’ve got an angle, Eddie. On this vigilante case.’

  ‘Spit it oot.’

  I told him about the match between the victim list and the acquittals without mentioning Sam’s role; she didn’t want any limelight.

  ‘. . . and I’d like to put a column out that shows this connection.’

  ‘Bloody brilliant, Brodie! I can see how you did well in the polis!’

  ‘I’ll write it up. I also want to make sure we’re the only paper he talks to.’

  ‘He?’

  ‘He or they. But as far as I can tell, no other paper’s getting those charming epistles. We want to keep it that way.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’d like to offer them a chance to go into print themselves. Make a personal appeal inviting them to write a letter to the Gazette agreeing to give up their evil ways.’

  ‘You think they will?’ Eddie looked disappointed.

  ‘Not a chance. But that’s not the point. They’ve twice contacted us. We s
hould respond directly. Make this a dialogue. They’re looking for publicity and we can control it. I’m also scared that unless someone reins them in, people will die.’

  I watched his face. His eyes scuttled round his office, then: ‘Ah’ve had nothing from McAllister for days. We’ll do yours as an editorial. Write it. Show me.’ He yanked out his watch. ‘Two hours. Go.’

  It took me an hour. It was already in my head. But it was as though someone else was writing it. Amanuensis or mild schizophrenia? The dark side of me kept asking why I was trying to put a stop to an effective, if irregular form of crime reduction. But the saner part had control of the typewriter. After a sharp and educational encounter with Sandy’s blue pencil, this was what went to press on Wednesday:

  VIGILANTES STALK GLASGOW COURTS

  Today, the Gazette can reveal that self-appointed law enforcers are prowling the Scottish Courts of Justice. Where these malcontents disagree with not-guilty verdicts, they take the law into their own hands and administer brutal punishment to innocent people. For let there be no doubt. In the eyes of the law, if a man has been found innocent then he is innocent. No one standing outside the law has the right or authority to overturn a legal judgment, far less inflict illegal chastisement. That is the slippery slope to barbarism.