Bitter Water

by Ferris, Gordon

  ‘Well?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re upset. Your boyfriend here exposed our selection process.’

  ‘You didn’t have to take it out on David Allardyce!’ said Sam.

  ‘A simple but effective way of discouraging smart alec lawyers. Always looking for loopholes, you and your kind.’

  ‘Everyone’s entitled to proper defence. Like your pal Johnson. I got his sentence reduced, remember?’

  ‘They still put him away! The man died because of you and your kind!’

  ‘You’ll maybe be glad of us. If Davie dies, you’re on a murder charge!’

  The men looked at each other. I cut in.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘More cooperation. From the Gazette. We don’t like being lectured.’

  ‘We don’t cooperate with thugs.’

  Ishmael sighed. ‘Neither do we. We stop them.’

  ‘Who gave you the job?’

  ‘Situation vacant. We took it. The police were doing bugger all. Things were falling apart.’

  ‘And the centre couldn’t hold?’

  Ishmael smiled. ‘Exactly, Brodie, exactly. ’ He capped my quotation:

  ‘Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

  The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

  The ceremony of innocence is drowned.’

  ‘Do you only communicate in quotes? But Yeats goes on to say “the worst are full of passionate intensity.” Is that you, my fine fellow, with your big gun, your trite quotes from the Bible and your liking for exclamation marks?’

  I felt Sam’s hand grip me under the table. She obviously didn’t want me to go on goading him. It was hard. I was furious at being set up like this. Even more furious that these clowns had broken into Sam’s house. Threatened her. Any sympathy I might have had for their stance had evaporated.

  He shook his head. ‘Someone needs to care enough to do something, Brodie. You of all folk should understand that, surely?’

  Sam squeezed my leg again.

  He went on, ‘That’s right. We know all about the Slatterys. The top gang leaders in Glasgow tangled with Major Douglas Brodie, formerly of the Seaforths, and boom, they’re gone. Vanished. You got rid of them, didn’t you, Brodie?’

  ‘They left,’ I said.

  ‘They left all right. This world. Tell him.’

  Ishmael turned to his so far silent sidekick. His buddy stiffened, as though he’d just received an order. When his broad Northern Irish accent started up I knew what was coming.

  ‘Ah’m jist back from visiting the folks in Enniskillen. Ah’ve got a friend who knows someone who knows what happened down by, in Lisnaskea. Knows the weeping widow of Dermot Slattery.’

  He raised a gloved hand, pointed at the table with his index finger and started to pound out the list. ‘Three men gunned down, three burials. A trail of blood to Arran. Another two men seriously wounded. Gerrit Slattery missing in action, presumed dead. Four men dead at your hand. Yer a feckin’ murder machine, Major Brodie.’

  ‘You can’t count. You’re forgetting the priest the Slatterys hanged and the mother and four children they murdered. Not to mention five other kids abused and slaughtered for kicks. What – do – you – want?’

  Ishmael replied, ‘I see you don’t deny it. We understand you. They deserved their punishment. You’re one of us, Brodie. Join us. Help the cause.’

  ‘I’m nobody’s man except my own. And I don’t like causes. The last guy with a cause died in his bunker after wrecking Europe. What’s your excuse for beating up folk and robbing them?’

  ‘It’s not robbing. Call it a fine. We have to eat. Or do you want us to steal dog food like poor bloody Johnson?’

  ‘Bullshit. You’re enjoying this. You’re not punishing people, you’re torturing them.’

  The raging blue eyes hardened. ‘And what’s five years’ hard labour in Barlinnie?’

  ‘It’s called the law. Someone breaks society’s rules and gets society’s punishment.’

  Ishmael shrugged. ‘Sounds like what I do – what you did – right enough.’

  ‘The difference is a fair trial based on evidence.’ I told them off one by one, on my fingers: ‘Procurator Fiscal, defence counsel, fifteen-man jury, judge, executioner. You’ve stolen all the jobs. You’re just another egomaniac with a gun and a sideline in sadism. There’s a man in a coma in hospital right now just for doing his job!’

  The maniac’s mouth tightened, then he forced a grin. ‘That’s where you can help, Brodie. If you won’t play an active part, you can provide the balance. You can send out a message to all those flouting the law. It’s verra simple. Mend your ways or feel my wrath.’

  ‘Whose? Yours or the Lord’s? Or are they synonymous in your mind?’

  ‘Hold your blasphemous tongue!’ He slapped the table and took a deep breath. ‘You’ve got a rare wit on you, Brodie. It will get you killed one day.’

  ‘Do I take it that I can tell my editor you won’t be repenting of your ways?’

  ‘Only the sinners out there need repent. That’s what I want to see in your paper. Is that clear?’

  I shrugged. ‘It’s not up to me. I’m only the reporter.’

  ‘Like it or not, you’re one of us, Brodie. I’m relying on you. If we can’t, the police will have to re-open their files on the Slattery boys.’

  ‘You’re blackmailers too, then?’

  ‘Call it civic duty.’

  ‘Using the law when it suits you?’

  ‘Any weapon that comes to hand.’

  With that he got up and motioned to his pal. They both slid their guns inside their waistbands, pulled their jumpers down over them and walked casually out of the door. Ishmael turned.

  ‘We’re the same, Brodie. It’s time you admitted it to yourself. This was a warning. Your one and only.’

  We waited till they’d clumped up the stairs and heard the front door open and close before breaking loose. Sam fell against me, shaking. I felt her hot tears on my shirt and held her close and stroked her hair, but only for a moment. She shoved herself back from me and stared at me with maddened eyes. She punched the table. Sheer raw anger was pulsing through her.

  ‘Bastards! Bloody bastards!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Sam. I’m so sorry.’ I thought I was angry.

  ‘How do you do it, Brodie! How do you attract them!’ They weren’t really questions.

  ‘Are you throwing me out again, Sam?’

  ‘You’d better tell me the full story about the Slatterys. If that pair have the details, it’s best I do too. In case anybody asks.’

  It made sense. I told her about tracking Dermot Slattery down to his farm in the Fermanagh countryside. How it was kill or be killed when I confronted his two bodyguards. And the hound. But I hadn’t shot Dermot; he’d rammed his own stone gatepost trying to get away. He’d died with a steering column in his chest. She knew about Arran. She was there when I attacked the house. I’d wounded the two men who’d been guarding her captor, Dermot’s younger, psychotic brother Gerrit. As far as I knew the two thugs had survived – more’s the pity – albeit with some scorch marks from hot shrapnel. She knew I’d fought Gerrit on the boat, and that Gerrit hadn’t made it back to landfall.

  ‘For six years I learned to get my shot in first. Do you think I handed back the reflex with the uniform?’

  She studied my face for a while, then said, ‘What do you think? You were a policeman.’

  ‘And you’re a lawyer, sitting on the fence.’

  ‘I’m on your side. But the law is blind.’

  ‘And deaf and dumb. You think I’ve got a problem, though, don’t you?’

  ‘Depends on witnesses. You said only old Mrs Slattery could testify, but it’s easy to buy some others. How would you view it, wearing a blue uniform?’ she persisted.

  ‘I’d have needed proof of any criminal activity. Proof of deaths. Proof that I was there. It’s a long way to—’

  ‘—Tipperary?’

&nbs
p; ‘Might as well be. Enniskillen. The bad lands of the IRA. ’

  ‘So, you should relax.’

  ‘I should, shouldn’t I. Why can’t I?’

  ‘Conscience?’ She kicked back the chair, got up and went to the sink. She slapped water on her face and dried away the tears. She put the kettle on, clattered the crockery and spoons for a bit, then reached inside a cupboard and pulled out a tin. Something rattled.

  ‘Should we call the police about our uninvited guests?’ I asked.

  ‘Probably,’ she said and flung something bright at me. I caught it. It was a key. ‘In the meantime, you know where the gun cupboard is.’

  TWENTY

  ‘This is great stuff, Brodie. A scoop! “Gazette reporter held hostage at gunpoint”.’ Eddie wrote the banner headlines in the air in front of his desk. ‘We’ll do a front page. All the trimmings. Your personal account, of course. Some added words from me about putting our reporters’ lives on the line for the sake of the truth. Maybe a photo of your sobbing girlfriend . . .’

  ‘Stop, stop. Not a chance, Eddie. For one thing she’s not my girlfriend and for another she’s been through enough without having her face plastered over the Gazette. She’s an advocate, remember. She needs anonymity!’

  ‘OK, OK. But that’s an effin’ great angle.’ He poked the scrap of paper. ‘Just one thing. What were they talking about: “Your secrets are out”?’

  ‘It was just a diversion. To make me take the bait for the meeting at the pub. Raking over the Slattery stuff.’ I changed the topic. ‘What about making his point? Why not send out a warning to the public: “repent your sins or face the mad Highlander”?’

  ‘We could.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘We’re not the effin’ mouthpiece of a pair of bampots trying to put the fear of God into our readership!’

  ‘I thought we were? Fear and anger sells newsprint, you said.’

  ‘It does. But I’m buggered if we’re gonna jump to the crack o’ his whip.’

  It was good of Eddie to be brave for both of us.

  Eddie enthused on, ‘So our line is the bampot one. These are nutters who need to be opposed. We have a justice system. It’s not perfect but it’s the effin’ bedrock of our civilisation. No one gets to play God except God.’

  Eddie was now leaning across the slew of papers on his desk, jabbing his finger at me. ‘We’re on the side of the law. We reject, utterly, demands by gun-waving eejits! Write it!’

  I did. But without mentioning the Marshals’ attempt at blackmailing me. On balance, they’d have a job proving my bloody deeds and I was willing to call their bluff. For one thing, why would the police listen to a bunch of homeless ruffians?

  Sandy polished the piece – as in eviscerated and rewrote – and here’s what went out on Friday morning as an editorial:

  GAZETTE REPORTER CONFRONTS HOSTAGE GANG

  Gallant Gazette reporter Douglas Brodie was taken hostage yesterday by the self-appointed Glasgow Marshals in retaliation for the stance your paper is taking in upholding the law.

  I then gave a colourful report of the so-called hostage event before concluding with:

  There is no room in a civilised society for egomaniacs who want to impose their rule on others. These men are not heroes. They are not Robin Hood’s merry men. They are dangerous crackpots who see themselves above the law and above society. This newspaper for one will give no platform to madmen intent on undermining the very foundations of liberty and justice. We fought and beat Hitler. We will not kowtow to yet another jumped-up petty dictator.

  We say to the men in masks in the language of their own epistles: ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ And again: ‘Repent ye: for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.’

  It hit the Friday morning editions in a big, front-page splash under inch-high capitals. On my way to my desk across the newsroom, I got nods and smiles, even the odd V for Victory sign. I had about half an hour of enjoying the rosy glow before Morag came over to my desk looking troubled. Which troubled me. We’d had a walk and a drink last night but I didn’t recall upsetting her. I told her about my flit but not about Sam.

  ‘It’s the phone, Douglas. A man wants you. He sounded really angry.’

  I walked over to the group of secretaries and took the handset.

  ‘Brodie here.’

  ‘You bloody hypocrite, Brodie! You can sit there and make accusations about us! While your own hands are reeking!’

  ‘I didn’t put a gun to the head of an innocent woman!’

  ‘. . . and to compare me with Hitler!’

  ‘I don’t know you any better to judge. I don’t even know your real name. But you seem to be living in some sort of fairy story!’

  ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you, Brodie? You think you’re dealing with an eejit. That I don’t count!’

  ‘Here’s what I think. I think if you ever point a gun at me or mine again, I will shoot you down like the mad dog you are!’ I realised I was shouting. The rest of the newsroom had gone quiet. Morag and her fellow secretaries were sitting stunned around me. Eddie was marching towards me.

  The line had gone quiet, then, ‘You’ve had your one warning, Brodie. “We have made a covenant with death and with hell are we at agreement”!’

  ‘Oh, spare me your sanctimonious Bible-thumping!’

  The line went dead. Big Eddie was staring at me wide-eyed. A long column of ash tumbled from the fag in his mouth and left a trail down his waistcoat. The whole newsroom was transfixed like refugees from Madame Tussaud’s. A lone phone was ringing. I gave the handset back to Morag. She looked scared; not for me, of me. I turned to Eddie. I flicked the ash from his front.

  ‘I think we’ve just lost a reader.’

  I worked with Sandy to prepare Monday’s front page. It would save us both coming in on Sunday. We’d follow up our hostage edition with a report on the vigilantes’ reaction. This time we could include his quote in full. The moment he’d hung up I’d jotted down in my improving shorthand every word he’d said before I forgot them. It took Elspeth no time to find the reference. ‘It comes from Isaiah, chapter 28, verse 15: “Because ye have said, We have made a covenant with death, and with hell are we at agreement; when the overflowing scourge shall pass through, it shall not come unto us: for we have made lies our refuge, and under falsehood have we hid ourselves.”’

  ‘He’s a big fan of Isaiah, then.’

  She shoved her blonde mop back. ‘Isaiah was one of the early prophets. Eighth century BC. A bit of a rebel too, speaking out against the aristocracy on behalf of the people. A sort of early shop steward.’

  ‘So our man likes the comparison?’

  Elspeth looked at me gravely over her glasses. ‘It’s in the nature of fanatics. They’re selective in their reading. And their quoting.’

  ‘Thanks, Elspeth.’ I left her to return to her well-thumbed copy of the Mahabharata. In the original Sanskrit.

  TWENTY-ONE

  On Saturday morning after my swim, Sam and I checked her house from top to bottom. We found they’d got in through a second-storey window, having climbed off the roof of the outhouse. We went round locking windows and empty rooms.

  After breakfast I freed up her father’s guns and checked the ammunition. I sat at the kitchen table with the Dixon shotguns laid out like salmon, glinting blue and grey against the leather table cover. I set up my cleaning brushes and cloths and took up the first weapon, cradling it in my arms. Sam sat watching me, supping two-handed at her tea. ‘You love them, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s a funny thing to say. They’re just guns.’ But she could see I was lying. And I’d be lying to myself if I ignored the thrill I got from handling them.

  ‘It’s how my dad looked. The way he touched them. Like babies.’

  Now I really was embarrassed. ‘They just need cleaning.’

  ‘So does the porridge pot.’

  ‘All right, I admit it. They are the most beautiful weapons I’ve ever
held.’

  ‘It’s OK, Brodie. I understand. I’m glad. Give me the other one.’

  I stood and handed it to her. She took it, broke it, clicked it shut and aimed down the sights at the kitchen door. She looked handy.

  ‘My dad taught me. Before the war when we used to go to Arrochar. He showed me. There’s a couple of old whisky barrels full of buckshot lying by the shoreline. I had bruises for a month.’ She rubbed her right shoulder. ‘Then I learned how to take the recoil. Mum hated them. Hated me learning to use them.’ She shrugged. ‘But it was fun and it was something to share with him. I once took a deer.’ She frowned at the memory.

  ‘Like my father and me. But fish, not monarchs of the glen. You should have seen the flies he made.’

  For a moment Sam and I smiled at each other and shared the smiles with the younger Samantha Campbell and Douglas Brodie. Until the phone went. Sam went upstairs into the hall and took it. I heard her voice start formal then soften. She came back down. Her face was fixed.

  ‘It’s for you, Douglas. It’s your mum.’

  I was on my feet. ‘Is she . . .?’

  ‘She’s fine. She wants a word.’

  I’d given her Sam’s phone number when I moved back in. I never expected her to use it. For her phones were transitory mediums compared with a well-crafted letter that could be reread. She had a point.

  ‘Mum, are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course, Douglas. What a nice young woman. Does she live in the close too?’ Her voice was loud, almost shouting. It was a long way to Glasgow.

  ‘Sort of. Why are you calling, Mum? Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘It’s nothing to worry about. I just thought you should know.’

  ‘Know what? What’s happened?’

  ‘A man came by yesterday afternoon. Said he knew you. An army connection. Said to pass on his regards.’

  There was something in her voice that put me on guard.

  ‘Oh aye. What was his name?’