Burnout

by Claire MacLeary

  ‘Like?’

  ‘The usual: didn’t I think running a detective agency was an unsuitable occupation for a woman?’

  Wilma rolled her eyes. ‘Sounds familiar.’

  ‘How was I getting along with my “friend”? That’s you.’ She gave Wilma a gentle nudge. ‘Weren’t there any “proper” jobs I could get? It was all I could do not to run screaming into the snow.’

  ‘Ah, weel,’ Wilma assumed a grave expression. ‘That’s a big hurdle over, Maggie – your first Christmas on your own. And your ma will come around. Just like Ian,’ she joked, unable to stay serious for long.

  ‘What about me?’ Her husband turned his head from the television.

  ‘I was just saying,’ Wilma teased. ‘You’re okay now. With the agency, I mean.’ End of. She could still recall how dogmatic he’d been, way back, when it was just a notion in her head.

  His face darkened. ‘“Okay” just about covers it.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ Wilma pouted. ‘We’re celebrating.’

  He drew his brows together, pursed his lips in a thin line. ‘If you say so.’

  She cosied up. Smiling, she tickled him under the arms.

  ‘Steady on.’ He backed off, balancing his drink so it didn’t spill. His face bore a troubled expression, Maggie saw. Still and all, his eyes were twinkling.

  In that moment, she envied her neighbours their moment of intimacy, wondered if she’d ever have that again.

  II

  Justice for George

  ‘Right.’ Maggie cast an eye over the files stacked on the table. ‘Now we’ve got Christmas and New Year out of the way, let’s see where we’re at.’

  ‘Fair, fat and forty,’ Wilma joshed, thrusting out her boobs. ‘Time I was back at the gym for starters. The pounds have been fair piling back on.’ She grabbed a handful of flesh from the waistband of her jeans. ‘All them feckin mince pies.’

  ‘I know,’ Maggie agreed. ‘Not to mention the booze. It’s high time we sobered up.’ She threw a stern look in Wilma’s direction. ‘Got back to concentrating on the job in hand.’

  ‘Don’t give me that look.’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘The I’m-Head-Girl-and-you’re-only primary-one look.’

  Maggie drew herself up. ‘Don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Force of habit,’ Wilma muttered.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Innocent face. ‘How are the financials?’

  ‘Ticking over. Apart from a couple of late payers, the bread and butter stuff is doing away. And,’ she brightened, ‘the Innes Crombie account has given us a bit of wiggle room. If business slows down, that should see us through January and February.’

  ‘Things okay on the domestic front?’ Wilma asked guilelessly. She knew how proud Maggie was, grabbed the chance to slip the question in.

  Maggie seemed not to notice. ‘The mortgage is less of a worry since I made the arrangement. I’ve managed to keep up the payments. Not that it isn’t a struggle, what with Colin’s school fees and Kirsty’s uni accommodation, and that’s before the household expenses. But,’ she made a face, ‘I manage.’

  ‘At least your kids don’t give you any grief.’

  ‘No.’ Colin’s last school report showed a marked improvement in his grades and a near-perfect attendance record. Kirsty, too, was keeping her head down. There had been no more dramas, no repeat of the cutting episode. ‘But, back to business.’ She rubbed her hands together. ‘To kick off, looks like we can firmly close the door on the Seaton business.’

  Wilma sniffed. ‘Was that no meaty enough for you, then? A murder in a graveyard, a bunch of schoolkids at the back of it? And that’s before the drugs and thon alkie childminder.’

  Maggie had the grace to blush.

  ‘Bugger all we got out of it too. All the hours you spent checking out them kids.’

  ‘It was useful surveillance practice.’

  ‘Fair dos. But what about your face-off in that flat with thon maniac, Fatboy? You could have got yourself killed, Maggie.’

  She shrugged. ‘Don’t exaggerate.’

  ‘At the very least got your face disfigured.’

  Maggie grimaced. ‘To go with my skelly eye, you mean?’

  ‘It’s not skelly, just a bit on the lazy side. And you ken fine folk only notice when you’re stressed.’

  ‘That’s pretty much all the time these days,’ Maggie joked.

  ‘Regardless, we got nothing out the end of it. No money, and that Weegie bastard took all the credit.’

  ‘If you’re referring to Inspector Chisolm…’

  ‘Och.’ Sly grin. ‘You’re his number one fan now, are you?’

  ‘Not at all. But you’ve got to give the man credit. It was Chisolm took the case forward.’

  ‘It was you did all the work.’

  ‘Not all, exactly.’

  ‘Near as.’

  ‘No matter. For the time being we need to keep a low profile.’

  ‘How? I thought we were meant to be promoting the agency.’

  ‘We are. Only that whole saga resulted in adverse publicity.’ Maggie was still smarting from her ordeal in the witness box when Fatboy came to trial for dealing drugs. ‘We don’t want to attract any further attention.’

  ‘Like what, for instance?’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t look good if the details came out. Having my,’ Maggie cleared her throat, ‘unorthodox methodology splashed all over the papers. I mean, running surveillance on a bunch of wee boys, and me charged with their care. Detaining them in my car without parental authority. Gaining entry by subterfuge to that flat in Esplanade Court. I could lose my Seaton job for less.’

  ‘Well, it’s not as if you did anything illegal.’ Arch look. ‘You didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Not like you, is that what you mean?’

  Wilma responded with a mischievous grin.

  ‘Wil-ma…’ Exasperated voice. ‘I can’t stress enough that private investigation isn’t a game. If anyone gets wind of your escapades, we can wave goodbye to our licence.’

  ‘Come off it, Maggie. The SIA have their work cut out policing them heavies call themselves doormen to be bothered about two wee wifies like us.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but we’ve served our apprenticeship now. It’s time for the agency to begin a new chapter. A strictly professional one.’

  Oops! Wilma turned her head away. She’d been going to fess up to the GPS tracker she’d recently ordered online. It might prove useful to them both, after all. Now, she thought better of it. Turned back. ‘There you go again,’ she chided, ‘on your high horse. You’ve a face on you like a slapped arse. Thought you were going to lighten up.’

  ‘And I thought you were going to stop treating the investigation business like a…a…TV game show.’

  ‘Ooh,’ Wilma rolled her eyes. ‘Get you! Did you have a particular one in mind?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ She was so tired tears swam in front of Maggie’s eyes. ‘Forget I said that. Only our results are based on hard slog: hours spent sitting at a computer, fact-checking, taking down witness statements, you name it. A bit like police work. And that demands a rigorous approach. I know you’re doing your best, Wilma, but I worry that one of these days those shortcuts of yours will sink the ship. And that would be a tragedy, don’t you see? For you. For me. But more importantly, for George.’

  ‘I get that.’ Stricken face. ‘Only…’

  ‘You’re doing great,’ Maggie moved to reassure her friend. ‘We’re doing great. Overall, we’re more incisive in tackling our caseload, quicker to tie things up.’

  ‘And get the invoices out,’ Wilma came in like a flash.

  ‘That too.’ Wry smile. ‘We’ve demonstrated we’re learning our craft. The agency’s grown from a struggli
ng start-up to a sound enterprise. And it has every chance of continued growth. But, Wilma,’ Maggie extended a hand. ‘In our efforts to grow the business we mustn’t lose sight of the bigger picture. We’re doing all this for a reason.’ Her face clouded. ‘A very serious reason. A man has been gravely wronged. And none of this will have been worthwhile if we don’t achieve our primary goal. And that’s justice.’ Tears welled in Maggie’s eyes. ‘Justice for George.’

  Get Them Off

  The Bide-a-Wee in Bucksburn was Aberdeen’s go-to venue for strippers. The management brought them up from Newcastle, Wilma had been soberly informed when she’d made discreet enquiries of a local entertainment agency. Strippers in latex, strippers with snakes… You name it, they could source them. Sexy girls, the promoter said. Best in the business.

  But it wasn’t girls Wilma was interested in. Wednesday was ladies’ night at the Bide-a-Wee. Her quest that evening was for something more, shall we say, macho.

  Now, the compère – a Slick Willie in a too-tight tuxedo – flashed his toothpaste smile. ‘Tonight, ladies,’ emotionless blue eyes swept the audience, ‘we have a mega treat in store. Straight from the London Palladium…’ Pregnant pause to let this sink in, ‘…the Bide-a-Wee brings you the Biggie Boys!’

  Aye, right, Wilma thought. For ‘Biggie’ read ‘Mr Average’. As for the London Palladium, the ‘Hull Hippodrome’ more like.

  ‘But before the boys strut their stuff…’

  Wilma’s ears pricked. The main attraction would be scheduled last, that was the way it worked: a big name to draw in the crowds, the programme padded out with a comedy act to warm up the audience, a bit of local talent – whoever was available. And cheap. Wilma said a silent prayer this would include her man.

  Her mouth puckered into a peeved moue. Here she was working her socks off while Maggie wasted time on that nutter from Milltimber. Once a snob, always a snob, she thought sourly.

  The agency’s workload was supposed to be split down the middle. As the more academic of the two, Maggie would concentrate on their corporate clients: business that demanded scrupulous attention to detail and, above all, consistency. Wilma, with her gung-ho personality and short attention span, was happy to take on whatever else came their way. Pick and mix, she jokingly called this scatter-gun approach, but if she was honest, she enjoyed the variety.

  After some early setbacks, mostly involving divorce cases, she’d opted to concentrate on fraud. The market was large, and growing. Time was, you wanted something, you earned the money to pay for it. Not anymore. This night’s subject was a case in point. Wilma had heard word that the claimant – a wannabe professional footballer feigning an ankle injury – had turned to stripping. She’d already drawn a blank in several pubs, hoped tonight she might get lucky. Wasn’t worth putting in more man hours if she drew a blank.

  Listen to you, she chuckled inwardly. Proper pro!

  Sure enough, on came the warm-up guy. Talk about warm! The weather outside wasn’t bad for mid-January but, packed solid with under-dressed women, the function room was like a sauna. Wilma could feel perspiration pooling in her armpits and between her thighs. A jaded sixty-something in a shiny tuxedo and patent leather shoes, the comedian cracked a quick-fire burst of old jokes and lewd remarks, his delivery so un-nuanced he might as well have been reciting the ten times table. Between knocking back their vodkas and Bacardis, the audience heckled and jeered.

  Michelin Mike was introduced next. Mike was a roly-poly, as the name implied. Wilma knew all the jargon. She eyed his trembling layers of fat. They overhung a pair of tiny scarlet Speedos and two stocky corned-beef legs. Christ, she marvelled, the fella would have to be hung like a donkey for his equipment to be visible under that lot. Not that Wilma could talk about weight, not these days. She’d been that pushed this last while, her gym sessions had gone to the wall.

  ‘Show us yer willy!’ The trio at the next table could have been triplets, kitted out as they were in matching lurex tank tops.

  ‘Naw.’ The hen party behind her had already drunk a bucketful, the pink marabou trim of their costumes sticky with spilled Baileys, gauzy angel wings askew. ‘Fuck aff an bring on some real cock.’

  With a nervous backward smile, Michelin Mike scuttled off.

  Wilma yawned her way through a drag act. She’d had two late nights already that week, and the atmosphere in the function room wasn’t helping: a fetid amalgam of cheap scent, alcohol and sweat. Plus, she was bursting for a pee. That was the problem with drinking sparkling water with ice and lemon and kidding yourself it was vodka and tonic. She’d have liked to nip to the ladies’ but, sure as shit, if she did that she’d miss out on the action. Resolutely, she crossed her legs.

  The drag act was followed by Tyrone, a triangulated body-builder with biceps so exaggerated he was a walking advert for steroids. Despite the promising bulge in his posing pouch, Wilma’s eyelids wilted.

  ‘And now,’ the slime-bag compère was back. ‘It is my great pleasure to introduce…’ Roll of drums.

  Wilma’s eyes jolted open.

  ‘Aberdeen’s answer to The Full Monty. Our home-grown… Our very own…Ding-a-Lings!’

  She strained forward in her seat. Watched as, one by one, five scruffy blokes shuffled onto the stage. Kitted out in jeans, ripped T-shirts and builders’ boots, they sported enough tattoos to camouflage an elephant. With bashful faces, they formed an untidy line.

  Wilma fished in her handbag, checked out a photo. Bingo! Her guy was second from the left. She snorted. Puny specimen he was too.

  For long moments the five stood, stealing sideways glances at one another.

  From the audience there were wolf whistles, shouts of ‘Jordan’ and ‘Shane’.

  The latter nodded acknowledgement. The former scratched his balls.

  The music started up. The line lurched into a too-predictable routine. There were titters, the occasional catcall: ‘Give us the fuckin Chippendales.’

  The women waited, inebriated and restive. Then, ‘Get them off!’ a voice screeched.

  Off came the T-shirts.

  Wilma reached for her camera. Leapt to her feet. Dashed off a few shots.

  ‘Off! Off!’ The audience rose as one.

  With a series of staccato rips, the Velcro fastenings gave and five pairs of customised jeans fell to the floor.

  All around, over-excited women were jumping up and down, screaming at the top of their voices. Wilma tried to get a clear sight of her quarry, but the crowd obstructed her view.

  Dammit! She clambered onto her chair.

  ‘Christ’s sake!’ All around her, women jostled for a clear view.

  The music grew louder.

  The Ding-a-Lings were down to their Y-fronts now. Correction: Y-fronts and footwear.

  Wilma sensed a stirring in her groin. Way before Uggs came into fashion, she’d had a proper fetish for big calfskin builders’ boots.

  With a nicotine-stained forefinger the nonagenarian seated at the table to Wilma’s left adjusted her false teeth. ‘Poofters,’ she spat.

  A gob of mucus traced a trajectory through the fetid air and landed on Wilma’s shoe. Distracted, she paused mid-shot, lost her balance and toppled sideways. There was a loud crash as the table tipped, sending drinks glasses flying.

  To a chorus of four-letter words, Wilma struggled to her feet.

  She looked towards the stage.

  The Ding-a-Lings stood, open-mouthed, legs spread, hands cupping their privates.

  She ventured a quick shufti over her shoulder.

  Two beefy bouncers were threading their way through the throng.

  Bugger! It was yonks since she’d been to a ladies’ night and she’d grudged the hefty entrance fee. Now it looked like she’d miss the main attraction.

  Still, she rationalised, as she dusted herself down, she’d put in a good night’s work:
that Ding-a-Ling bastard wouldn’t be pursuing his disability claim for much longer.

  Ros

  In Old Aberdeen, two couples sat around a dinner table.

  ‘Happy Birthday!’ Smiling, Ros raised her glass.

  ‘Cheers!’ Nic joined in the toast, his voice flat.

  ‘Thanks.’ Cath Munro, his mother-in-law, beamed from ear to ear. ‘It was lovely of you both,’ her glance flicked from one to the other, ‘to invite us.’

  ‘Lovely of you guys to come. Bearing gifts to boot. I thought the catering was our prerogative. Not that I’m objecting.’ Ros took a sip of her wine, swirled the liquid around her mouth. ‘This is delicious. And two bottles?’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Way too generous.’

  Cath shrugged. ‘Don’t look at me. That’s your dad’s department.’

  ‘Pushing the boat out, aren’t you?’ Nic reached for the bottle. He scrutinised the label. ‘There must be a tenner’s worth here, at least. I don’t know how you can afford…’

  ‘On a pension?’ Phil Munro quipped. ‘An old stick like me?’ He grinned. ‘I’ve a few years to go yet. But you’re right, Nic, I can’t afford this, not for everyday drinking. Usually make do with a four quid bottle of Chilean Merlot from Aldi. But this is a special occasion and,’ he cast a loving look at his wife then turned to Ros, ‘your mum is worth every penny, don’t you agree?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Ros concurred. She lifted the lid off a casserole, releasing a steaming cloud of herb-scented sauce. ‘Now dig in.’ She gestured to the serving dishes of vegetables. ‘It’s not like you don’t know us well enough.’

  I wish! As she watched her father carefully fill her mother’s plate, Ros reflected on the lead-up to their visit. It was November. She and Nic had been ensconced in their old Ikea sofa, dinner digested, dishes washed, baby bedded, when: