by Louise Welsh
'Is that for the stage?'
'Aye.'
She smiled apologetically.
'Then you’ve another flight to go yet, access is through the back stairs.'
Archie smiled at her.
'Never mind, dear.' He nodded towards me. 'This one could do with the exercise.'
Archie and I manoeuvred the box up the final staircase, and through a door that led straight onto the stage. We lowered it gently to the ground just as Eilidh came in behind us.
Archie ran his hand over his head as if he’d forgotten he no longer had any hair and looked around.
'I remember my grandda talking about the music hall, but I’ve never been in it myself.'
Eilidh smiled.
'What do you think?'
'Aye, some place.'
The Panopticon was small by modern theatrical standards, a long room overhung on its left and right by high wooden balconies that I guessed used to house the cheap seats. Some old fruit machines, casualties from the amusement arcade below, stood sadly along the far wall looking like the Daleks’ more frivolous cousins, their single arms raised in a greeting no one wanted to return. The building’s eaves showed through its fractured ceiling, slanting into a peak that reminded me of an upturned boat. They gave the place a vaguely jaunty feel at odds with the otherwise Victorian atmosphere. The walls were the sallow brown that you find on the naked walls of old flats when you manage to peel back years of wallpaper. The floor was scuffed and unvarnished. There were no seats in place, but some metal chairs that looked like they would begin to pinch after a while were stacked along the back wall next to the fruit machines, waiting to be set in line.
It was clear that the Panopticon had been neglected for some time now, but there were signs that it was coming back to life. A pianola sat below the stage and a couple of glass-topped display tables containing artefacts from the music hall’s heyday were pressed along the entrance wall. Above them hung old posters, playbills and programmes advertising forthcoming attractions that had taken their last bow a hundred years ago. It was far away from the sequinned edginess of Schall und Rauch, but I liked it that way. Something up on the balcony caught my eye; I started, then pointed towards it, saying to Archie, 'Someone you know?'
He followed my gaze.
'Jesus Christ.' Archie turned to me. 'You bugger.' Two more Victorian mannequins, a man and a woman, stood silhouetted in the gloom of the balcony. 'Give me the bloody heebie-jeebies they things.' He looked at Eilidh. 'I bet there’s a few ghost stories about this place.'
'One or two.' She nodded down to the old pianola. 'Apparently George down there has been known to start playing all by himself, and a young soldier in a uniform from the Boer War has been spotted up on that balcony.'
Archie nodded his head sagely.
'Oh, come on,' I said. 'It’s no wonder folk think they’ve seen a ghost with those waxworks up there. They’re like something out of a Hammer Horror. The eye plays tricks on you, especially in an old place like this.'
'When you get to my age you begin to realise there’s more in this world than can be explained.' Archie looked at Eilidh and me as if imparting some ancient wisdom. 'People don’t just vanish when they die, they’re all around us and sometimes we catch sight of them.'
A cold finger pressed into my neck bone then ran the length of my spine.
Eilidh said, 'Do you really believe that?'
'Aye, I do dear. You should go to the spiritualist church up on Berkeley Street sometime. It’s amazing the messages that come through.'
'It’s a pile of mince.'
I was surprised at my own vehemence. Archie bridled.
'We’re all entitled to an opinion. I go there every Tuesday to see if the wife’s got anything to tell me. It’s a comfort.' He gave me a defiant stare, then turned to Eilidh. 'Do you mind if I go and have a look at your display, dear?'
'You’re welcome.'
'Thanks.' He stropped off the stage muttering something that sounded suspiciously like superior wee cunt as he passed me.
When Archie was out of earshot Eilidh said, 'Poor old soul, he’s lonely.' She gave me a compassionate look. 'How are you, William?'
I felt like saying lonely but settled for, 'Fine.'
Eilidh hesitated as if there was something else she’d like to add, then thought the better of it and said, 'I’ll leave you to get on with things, while I make a start on setting up the chairs.'
I followed Archie’s gaze as he watched Eilidh make her way to the back of the hall, then I went down to make amends.
'I shouldn’t have said that just now. You’re right, what do I know?'
'What does anyone know, son?' He gave me a sharp, shrewd look. 'Have you lost someone recently?'
My heart executed the familiar dip between fear, pain and shame, but my voice remained neutral.
'What makes you ask that?'
'Just a feeling.'
I kept my own counsel and handed Archie what I owed him, plus the promised extra.
He counted it and smiled, tucking the notes safe in his jeans.
'Look at all this stuff.' He pointed to a tray in the cabinet filled with small objects, cigarette packets, buttons, ladies’ brooches, a couple of rings, a silk commemorative poppy, old newspapers and programmes. 'See they old Woodbines?' He smiled nostalgically.
'That’s what I used to smoke when I was a boy.'
'It’s true they stunt your growth then?'
'Cheeky bugger. They found all of this under the floorboards in the gallery up there.
Can you imagine it? Some poor woman loses an engagement ring or a fella drops a full pack of five, got to last him the whole night most likely, and that’s that until a hundred years later.'
'I never realised you were interested in history, Archie.'
'Get to my age and you’ve got to be, son. What you call history’s sometimes just yesterday to me.'
'Oh get off it, you’re not that old.'
'Aye well, what I’m saying is, nothing vanishes for good. There’s still traces of it somewhere, so don’t close your mind. The dear departed often come back.'
'Like a packet of Woodbines?'
'Just don’t close your mind, that’s all I’m saying.' He grinned, showing me his missing teeth. 'She’s a bit of all right that one; you could’ve been in there.'
'You’re a dirty old man for a mystic.'
'That’s the only reason I’m no trying to get in there myself, son.'
'Anyway you’re wrong, she’s married.'
'Ah.'
Archie gave me a look that said it wouldn’t have stopped him in his prime.
'Her wee girl’s one of the kids I’m doing the benefit for.'
'Ah right, I see.'
'And her husband’s a friend of mine.'
'Aye, and you’re an ugly scunner she wouldn’t look twice at. Here,' Archie took a fiver out of the money I’d just given him. 'Put that in the pot for the weans.'
'You don’t have to.'
'I know I don’t bloody have to. They get a hard deal they Down’s kiddies, it’s amazing what they can do given the chance.'
'Aye, I guess so.'
'I mean look at you. Bet your ma was told you’d never make it out your pram and here you are now.'
'Chatting to a turnip heid.' I shook my head and took his money. 'Cheers, you’re a good man, Archie.'
'You’ll not be saying that if I’ve got a ticket. I’ll be back up these bloody stairs afore you can wave your wand and say izzy fucking wizzy.'
After Archie had left I went up to the back of the hall where Eilidh was setting out rows of folding chairs. I had things to do but I dragged over a fresh stack and started to give her a hand.
'I thought I might catch Johnny today.'
'He’ll be sorry to miss you. He’s up to his ears in work, it’s that time of year.'
'Exams?'
'Exams, essays, assessments.'
'It must be difficult to find time to spend together.'
'It’s what you expect with a new baby.'
'And benefits to organise.'
Eilidh smiled.
'It’s not the best timing but you know John, he deals with things through action. Has to feel he’s doing something.'
I picked a collapsed chair off my stack and hit its seat smartly with my hand, unfolding it and starting a new row in front of the one Eilidh had already begun.
'Looks to me like you’re the one doing all the work.'
Eilidh paused; she looked straight at me to give her words emphasis.
'I’m not put upon.'
I placed a new seat next to the last.
'I never said you were.'
'You had that look, poor Eilidh all on her own again.'
I set another seat on the ground and held up my hands.
'Eilidh, I hardly know you and before I met you both in the pub that night it was years since I’d last seen John. I’m in no position to make assumptions.'
We worked without talking for a while, the only sound the scraping of chairs against the rough wooden floor until Eilidh said, 'The last time I saw you I said that every time we meet someone behaves badly. I guess I just proved my own point, sorry.'
I set up another chair.
'You must lead a pretty sheltered existence if you call that bad behaviour.'
'Perhaps I do.'
Eilidh unfastened another chair and wiped a hand across her face.
I hesitated then asked, 'Are you OK?'
'Yes, just a bit tired.'
'And staying up all night with fuck-ups like me probably doesn’t help.'
'It’s my job. Anyway, it’s only part-time.'
'I was hoping you’d say I wasn’t a fuck-up.'
She laughed.
'Well, you’re looking a whole lot better than you were a week or so ago.'
'I’m trying.'
It was my turn to look away.
Eilidh put her hand on my arm.
'What I mean is I don’t think you’re a fuck-up. Far from it.'
I asked softly, 'What do you think I am?'
'I think you’re a bit of a chancer.'
Our eyes met. My lips tingled with the thought of what would happen if I kissed her. I thought of Johnny. Then there was a sound from the back of the building. I looked round and saw Eilidh’s mother come through the door with a small child in her arms.
'Mum, you should have buzzed my mobile. I would have come down and got her.
William, this is my mother, Margaret.'
Margaret’s voice was on the edge of politeness.
'We’ve already met.'
'I was just giving Eilidh a hand with the chairs. Is this Grace?' Suddenly I felt awkward.
'I’ve not seen her yet.'
Margaret cradled the child close, her hand supporting its head.
'She’s just dropped off.'
'Give her here, Mum, she’s getting too big to carry any distance.'
Margaret kissed her granddaughter’s crown and for a moment I thought she was going to refuse, but then she passed Grace to Eilidh.
'There was no way I could manage that buggy up the stairs, I told you when you bought it that it was too heavy.'
'I wanted something sturdy.'
The two women had the same strained look round the eyes and the same sharp defiant chins. There was no doubting they were mother and daughter. I said, 'I’ll nip down and get the buggy for you.'
Margaret looked like she’d rather reject my offer, but Eilidh smiled gratefully.
'Would you mind, William? Then I can put her down in it.'
'No problem.'
When I returned, Margaret was sitting in one of the far rows of chairs with the baby on her lap.
'Thanks, William,' Eilidh’s voice was low and amused. 'They’re both knackered.'
We chatted a while about arrangements for the gig and then I said, 'Do you remember I asked you about old evidence?'
Eilidh nodded.
'Of course.'
'Well, if you had something like that who would you go to?'
'My lawyer, which in your case is me.'
Eilidh smiled. I thought again how beautiful she was and was tempted.
'I’d rather keep you out of it.'
'Then it’s obvious, the police.'
'Sure, but is there anyone in particular? Especially if it was something a bit unusual.'
Eilidh raised her eyebrows.
'You’re intriguing me, William.' She thought for a moment. 'You’d want someone experienced, but with a bit of imagination. After a while there’s nothing policemen won’t believe given the right evidence, they’ve seen so many odd things, but sometimes you find they can’t be bothered. They’ve burnt out.' She paused. 'I’d probably go to Blunt, the guy who interviewed you the other week.'
'Why would I want to deal with that cunt?'
Margaret was too far away to hear our conversation, but maybe some instinct alerted her to the nature of it, or maybe she could lip-read swear words. She looked up in her chair and called over, 'Eilidh, have you almost finished?'
'Just a minute, mum.' Eilidh turned back to me. 'He is a cunt but he’s a straight cunt.
Take your lawyer’s advice. If you won’t show me, show Blunt. I happen to know he’s back on nights this week.'
The voice came again from the back of the hall.
'Eilidh.'
'Whoops.' She took the buggy from me. 'I’d better go. Good luck.'
And she turned and ran towards her mother and child.
I waited a long time until Inspector Blunt walked into his local. He was alone, wearing the same tired suit and weary expression he’d worn the last time we’d met. He stepped up to the bar without looking at me, though I knew I’d been marked as soon as he came in. The barmaid set Blunt’s drink in front of him without waiting to be asked. I let him have his first swallow then joined him at the bar. Blunt looked at my not-so-fresh orange juice and asked, 'You signed the pledge?'
'No, I’ve made a resolution. No strong drink till after 8.30 in the morning.'
Blunt raised his pint to his lips.
'Aye, well, some of us have already done a full day’s work.' He sucked the froth from his moustache. 'Been bedding down with any winos lately?'
'No. You?'
'Only the wife.' He pulled out his cigarettes and lit up without offering me one. 'I thought I said you weren’t welcome round here.'
'If I listened to everyone who told me that I’d never leave the house.'
'That might not be such a bad thing.'
I lit my own cigarette.
'I’ve got something that might be of interest to you.'
'So come and see me in shop hours.'
'It’s a bit delicate.'
'There are days I feel like a nurse at the clap clinic. Everyone wanting to show me their sores.' He looked at me through the smoke of his cigarette as if trying to make up his mind about something. 'Jesus Christ.' The policeman shook his head. 'OK then, what’s the worst that can happen?' He laughed and I wondered if this was his first stop on the way home or if he had a bottle in his locker to ease the pain. 'Just give me a chance to order my breakfast.' Blunt leaned across the bar. 'Mary, goan throw us a packet of dry roasted over.'
'Not fancy a nice fry-up on the house, Mr Blunt?'
'Naw, hen, the wife’ll have mine waiting when I get back.' He put the peanuts in his suit pocket, and straightened up muttering, 'Will she fuck.' He looked at me. 'Remind me of your name again.'
'William Wilson.'
'That’s right. Down-among-the-dead-men Wilson. Right then, Mr Wilson, show me what you’ve got.'
'Can we go somewhere a bit more private?'
'As long as you promise not to slip into something more comfortable.'
We settled ourselves at a table with the kind of logistics favoured by teenage dope smokers, out of sight of the bar and away from the gents and the puggy machine. Blunt took another inch off his pint.
'Right,
' he spanned his hand from the bottom of the glass to where the dark liquid ended. 'I’ll give you this long.' I calculated it as two and a half seconds at his current rate of drinking, but there was no point in arguing. I reached into my pocket, took out a transparent plastic bag holding the envelope containing Montgomery’s photographs and put it on the table. Blunt looked at the envelope, but made no effort to pick it up. 'Tell me about it.'
I started to regret not buying myself a short, but I took a deep breath and began.
'Twenty years ago a woman named Gloria Noon disappeared under mysterious circumstances. She never turned up, neither did her body. Her husband was chief suspect, but nothing was ever proven. This is a photograph that shows him with a guy who was then a junior officer and is now a recently retired chief inspector in the Met. They’re standing next to what I believe could be her grave. The policeman is married to the sister of the murdered woman.'
Blunt snorted.
'I don’t know what I expected but it certainly wasn’t that.'
'Will you look at them?'
'Hold your horses. A few questions first.' I nodded, trying to keep a lid on my impatience. 'Question number one, why land them in my lap?'
'I asked around, you’ve got a reputation for being straight.'
Blunt rubbed a hand over his face.
'And this is my reward I suppose? OK, question number two, what makes you think it’s a gravesite?'
'I don’t know, the look of the place, the two men standing there holding an edition of the newspaper from the day after she disappeared. That and…'
'And?'
'And the policeman in the photo is extremely eager to get a hold of it.'
'Oh lovely. Is this documented evidence?'
'No.'
'And how did you come across it?'
'I’d rather not say.'
'I see.' He paused, staring at me as he had probably stared at hundreds of men across tables in police interview rooms. 'OK, we’ll come back to that if we need to. Why aren’t you giving it to this eager detective?'
'I think it implicates him.'
Blunt looked at my untouched orange juice.
'Are you going to drink that?'
The sour liquid looked set solid inside the glass.
'No, probably not.'
'Well, get yourself a proper drink and another one of these for me while you’re at it.'
I looked at the envelope and he said ‘Leave that here, it’ll be safe enough for the meantime.'