The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  Up on the third floor of their Belmont Circus house, lying in the bed she never left, after he’d been in with the little plastic pill cup and the warming beaker of tea, the dark madness of the day always changed to bright sunlit places. Every night he said the same thing: ‘Come on. Pills first, then some tea. You know what the doctor said.’ What he didn’t know was that after he checked the pills had gone down and tightened the straps, between the top of the drapes and the ceiling, her companions the clouds would come to sing goodnight. Sometimes they’d bring their friend Mr Moon to see her through many a happy hour until he’d come in again with the porridge, to open the drapes, loosen the straps a little and put on the television.

  In the vestry, lying flat on his back in bed, Young Father Flaherty lay wide eyed looking at the icons on his walls, wondering what troubles his predecessors might have been worrying about while looking at these very same icons. Did they pray? Surely they did. Did they worry? Of course they did. Did they ask for help, perhaps from the Bishop? Maybe they did. Did they tell their parishioners what was on their minds or did they decide that discretion was the better part of valour? Whoever knew the answer to that one, knew more than he did. The monthly Missionary magazines were now filled with pictures of whole cities in the Middle East bombed to rubble and people dragging bundles of their meagre possessions to God-only-knew-where. Would the bulldozers do the same here? Here? In modern day Glasgow? Of course they could. But what could he do?

  Up their tenement stairway, across the landing from each other, lying in their beds with the same sliver of moonlight across their faces, Jean Mularkey and Bella McLane lay flat on their backs with their arms closed over their chests; each wondering if they would look just like this on the day they were carried out of some unwanted flat in some newly constructed community to be buried in some far flung Glasgow City Council graveyard among names all unknown. While they lay wide awake with worry, the moon came and went behind the clouds like a traffic light regulating their relentless journey towards oblivion. Neither had ever tried to count the number of times they’d passed from one side of the landing to the other’s open door and walked straight into the house with a pot of hot soup for two or to point to some story in the evening paper. They just carried on where Jean and Agnes left off. What was it Young Father Flaherty had said after only a month or so in the Calton? Oh yes, ‘Kindness is a language that the deaf can hear and the blind can see.’ That’s what he said he felt in his first week of being their parish priest. They’d asked Brogan if Young Father Flaherty had made it up himself or if it was an old saying. Right off the cuff Brogan said it was Mark Twain who’d written the phrase and both women had nodded their appreciation of Mr Twain’s cleverness and wondered if he’d ever been to the Calton. As hour after hour passed, so did the euphoria of the inaugural meeting of the Calton Residents’ Association. Being the centre of attention when he announced that Legal Aid had been granted now seemed like a dream or a lifetime ago and happening to someone else. Tossing and turning, their minds locked every few minutes like little atoms dancing together in quantum entanglement, they wished, hoped, hoped against hope and even clasped their hands in prayer. There was no point in checking the old alarm clock by the side of the bed, because it would only show ten minutes later and not the hour in their heads.

  Up every Calton street, every back lane, every twist and turn leading to this place or away from that, in every bed someone lay looking up at that same moon. Recalling what McLane had said about the prosecutor who wasn’t taking Jean and Bella to court; wondering if what the letter said would really come to pass - it had in other parts of the city; ‘But they can’t tear down the Calton Bar! Surely to God there’s a law against that.’; slowly turning and looking in the moonlight at the spouse lying beside them; they wondered what moving might do to their marriage that had lasted so long only because of interventions from one friend or another who rapped on the door when they heard the shouting, bawling and smashing of plates. Sighing and yawning, more than a few tried to see what lay behind McLane not coming on that first fateful day. Did he know something he wasn’t telling them?

  Miles away from the Calton, in the West End all was quiet. He imagined that the light from his three screens would show through the curtains, but would only be visible to those night owls far across the river who, in any event, would know nothing about him. Playing three games of chess simultaneously came easily to him; the Europeans and the Russians were usually worthy opponents but the Americans were mostly easy meat. As three o’clock approached, his first yawn popped his ears and he shivered at a slight chill in the room. Another hour and he wouldn’t be able to resist. He’d tried to count how long it took to arrive, but it was impossible. Who can measure a dream? It wasn’t any old dream. Every night it was the same. The same room he’d constructed out of his imagination. The same players, wearing the same clothes. The same table covered in the same cards. The same eyes twitching. The same moves and the same result. When his father told him, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to go at all. But his father insisted and so they got into the car and drove to the hospital. As they walked along the corridor, the boy a smaller replica of the man, it was the smell that alerted him, well before they opened the private ward door. The sight he’d seen horrified him for years, but now, after applying the power of a strong mind locked in a single purpose, that horrific scene was now a blur. However, that smell lingered; and lingered and lingered. When four o’clock struck, he moved his last check-mate, flung off his nightgown and got into the battlefield to meet that smell with all the might of a well-thought-through strategy and the iron will of a man living for one thing.

  As the first fingers of day dawned over Edinburgh, McLane lay wide awake while Joanne lay beside him sleeping soundly, deep in conversation with someone in French; she did that. All night long, the dark patches of sky above had matched the sludgy depths of his worried mind: ‘Who? Why? When did this start? Public Private Partnership? That’s going to be London money, foreign architects and civil engineering companies in bloody Geneva or Frankfurt. What’s the point?

  Yawning and tired, McLane slipped out of bed, pulled his big white Moroccan Galibea over his head and dragged himself towards the kitchen. At the doorway, he pulled himself up. There with her back to him and oblivious to his presence, in bare feet and nothing but knickers and a T-shirt, Ababuo was dancing while making herself something at the worktop. The white wires leading up to her ears were slapping against her black skin, her corn-rowed head was in full dance mode and she was snapping her fingers and bopping to her music in a way he didn’t know she could move. She was wearing the Minnie Mouse T-shirt she’d been given by Nikolai’s daughter, Anastasia. McLane could hardly bear to recall how Nikolai’s girls had found her; at the end of the lane leading to the Tranny Hotel in Edinburgh. She’d been flung out of a moving car shortly after being sold to that scumbag Lord Marchion’s brother-in-law and used as a diamond mule in their tax evasion scheme. The thing was now so small on her that, had she turned around too quickly, there might have been an embarrassing moment. Waving his arms, Ababuo saw his reflection in the glass cupboards and turned:

  ‘Goo-oo-d Mor-Ning!

  Bounding over and hugging him, Ababuo kissed her father so hard on the neck that he knew she either wanted money for something or something good had happened that he still knew nothing about. Through another yawn, McLane managed to get out:

  ‘Good morning to you, too. What’s so good about it?’

  Pushing her index finger deep into her cheek, Ababuo pursed her lips and said out loud: ‘Let me see. Hmm, what can I tell you?’

  Lifting her to one side, McLane dragged himself towards the fridge: ‘Well as there’s a Standing Judicial Order against me hearing about boyfriends, you can tell me anything else. So …? Why the bopping at this time of the morning.’

  From behind the teapot, Ababuo pulled a printed sheet of paper and began waving it in the air: ‘Seven A’s and a Bee-ee. Not bad for a poor littl
e African girl playing school catch-up, huh?’

  Glugging down some orange juice straight from the carton - which they both knew Joanne didn’t allow - McLane narrowed his eyes: ‘Wait? How do you know? You only took the … they were Mock Exams. For the Baccalaureate, right? You only finished them a few days ago.’

  Flinging her eyes towards the ceiling, Ababuo shoved one hand onto her waist and dropped a hip: ‘Dad! It’s not the dark ages. They email us the results.’

  Licking his finger and rubbing his eye, McLane nodded: ‘Good. Very good.’

  Sitting across from him at the kitchen table, Ababuo’s face took on a serious look: ‘Mr McNullty the Head of English and Madam de Monval the Head of French both say I have an enquiring mind - they said my intellect is like a searchlight looking into the darkness - and that I ought to be a journalist.’

  Draining the last of the juice from the carton, McLane dropped the thing loudly onto the table and said nonchalantly: ‘Well you’re not going to any bloody war zones. You’ve been in quite enough of them for one lifetime, thank you very much. And you’re absolutely not becoming an Advocate in Parliament House. I’m not having you outshining me …’

  When in unison they said ‘Thank you very much.’ Father and daughter burst out laughing.

  ‘Why don’t you just become a Primary School Teacher and marry some nice young man of whom I thoroughly approve?’

  Placing both palms flat on the table, Ababuo sat up straight and looked more adult than McLane thought he’d ever seen her: ‘No chance, Dad. I’ve decided I’m not getting married until I’m thirty something. I’m going to use my enquiring mind to lighten the darkness.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 19

  Arms outstretched, feet spread to the width of the shoulders and chin up as far as it would go, Mr McLane QC was receiving the ‘last look’ from the gentlemen’s senior Rober when a flash of red silk caught the corner of his eye. Judges’ robes were anathema to this room. How could cases be discussed if there was a chance that counsel’s compromises might be heard by the judge who’d decide the case? The judges had their own Robing Room and very grand it was too. Dropping his arms and allowing his neck to click, McLane looked again, but saw nothing of the kind. Nevertheless sure that he had seen red silk, the penny took a few seconds to drop.

  Now in wig and gown, out in Parliament Hall among groups of litigants and their counsel in wigs and gowns, there was old Jimmy Robertson carrying a Parliament House judge’s red silk robe. Without a word said between them, from a distance of over thirty feet, McLane nodded his thanks for the message of the night before and received a respectful nod in return.

  As they passed each other among the murmur of dozens of whispered negotiations, without so much as making eye contact, old Jimmy lifted his fist to his mouth as though to cough and conveyed: ‘Mr Pembroke, sir.’

  Pushing open the side double swing doors to Court 4, McLane saw a familiar scene: Advocates in the front bench checking their arguments for the last time, their instructing office lawyers in the second row and a group of about forty people in suits and ties in the public gallery: most of whom looked like ‘grey suit’ council officials hoping to get the court order their political masters were seeking. But there was no sign of Heriot Pembroke QC.

  Letting the doors swing closed, McLane checked the corridor. He’d waited at least three minutes, nodding to passing colleagues on their way to the Commercial Court, when he thought he’d best look again at the List. What! Open-mouthed and furrowing his brow, he grabbed the List and tore it off the Board. Where the staple had fixed the last-minute addition there was now just a rough tear in the parchment. Gone was the Note. The List now stopped at case Number 16.

  Wiping the sweat from his upper lip and pinching his chin, McLane tried to think. Was the application of Glasgow City Council withdrawn? No. As soon as the case went onto the Rolls, the Court was seized of jurisdiction and withdrawal would require the permission of the judge in open court. Therefore, the case was definitely not withdrawn. If the application wasn’t withdrawn, was it denied? Again, that would require a judge to rule on the matter and it was still five minutes to ten in the forenoon: so that couldn’t have happened. What the hell was going on?

  From about twenty feet away, exiting from the wide opening leading from the judge’s chambers into the corridor, McLane saw a wig emerge several inches above everyone else. Heriot Pembroke was six feet seven tall and bald as a coot; and therefore, even in his legal wig, unmistakeable over the heads of everyone else. Pushing past a few lost office lawyers, McLane marched apace until he got to within reach of Pembroke’s elbow. Grabbing him from behind, McLane’s red face gave away his anger:

  ‘What the fu …? What’ve you just done?’ In there, with Lord Elmtree?’

  Heriot Pembroke QC simply brushed McLane’s hand off his gown, looked down his nose at this person he’d always resented even being allowed to become an Advocate amongst the ‘quality’ in Parliament House and cracked a false smile:

  ‘Done? What I do is none of your fucking business. Now be a good fellow and just fuck off back to your scum friends in jolly old Glasgow; before I report you to the Dean for assaulting me. Toodle-ooh.’

  Dropping his head, McLane could not believe that Lord Elmtree would do such a thing. Privately grant an ex-parte application by a public authority? No. That wasn’t his style at all. When the Crossroads Clock struck ten in the forenoon, the corridors emptied in the way that school corridors do when the bell rings. Now standing alone in the long corridor, McLane felt a fool. There was only one way to retrieve the situation.

  Pushing open the side double swing doors to Court 4 just a crack, McLane peeked in and saw a familiar face on the bench, but it wasn’t Lord Elmtree. Fat, pompous and pock-faced, Lord Harwich of Houndsward, a distant cousin of the great Baron Bridge of Harwich, sat lazily in his high-backed red leather chair, nodding approval of this legal argument and disapproving of that.

  Bewildered and knowing he had no chance of having the order rescinded, all McLane could do was drag himself back to the Robing Room and be the first to be disrobed. Sloping along the corridor, McLane stopped and even put his hand out onto the wall to steady himself. From somewhere in the depths of his brain, some half remembered conversations in the Reading Room from years ago came back to him. Pembroke was a cousin of Harwich. Well, so what? In Parliament House, there had been legal dynasties since the day the place opened nearly five hundred years ago. However, that wasn’t what made McLane feel sick. Dynasties could be meritorious and many were. No. What made the vomit rise in his throat was that Pembroke and Harwich had, only the year before, been photographed for a newspaper staggering drunkenly out of the Grand Freemason’s Lodge on Thistle Street in Edinburgh both shoving two fingers up to the photographer.

  With his arms only half held out, his feet almost stuck together and his chin tilted to one side, Mr McLane didn’t even notice the looks of the two Robers who were trying their best not to cause him any more distress than he was obviously feeling.

  Behind the wheel of his Range Rover, with the miles flying by and still half in oblivion, all McLane could see were their faces; his Aunt Bella, Jean Mularkey, Young Father Flaherty, Big Joe Mularkey and all when he told them that the ground they’d all seen consecrated had been returned to being a junkies’ paradise and that they’d have to think again.

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 20

  Everyone in Glasgow could tell, even from a fast moving bus, when they’d left Parkhead and crossed into the Calton. The same was true coming the other way, from Bridgeton. It wasn’t something anyone spoke about or even gave a second thought. It was just the way it was and always had been. Maybe it had something to do with the terms of the original deed of sale of the land; but then again, maybe not. No-one seemed to know why the Calton had been built with better quality stone than other parts of the city. It just had. Anyway, where the neighbouring tenement districts were built of soft southern red sandstone
and had long ago shown signs of wear, mostly from driving hail and rain, the Calton was built of a much stronger grey stone; some said from a Highland quarry.

  The shop windows, of course, changed with the fashions. On the corner of Green Street and Bank Chambers, up on the first floor, above what used to be the drapers and was now a phone shop, the dentist’s window had a neon sign flashing a website address. So slowly did these changes happen that they just passed into the consciousness of the locals without being noticed. However, as McLane swung the Range Rover off the Trongate and into the Gallowgate, the latest mark of change was unmistakeable. Two lime green arrows perpendicular to datum lines had been spray painted on both the side wall of the Rocky Road Pub and the pavement. Ugly and unwelcome, these were the first sign that some Glasgow City Council workman had been ordered to cut the first scar of this battle into the face of the Calton. Two hundred yards further on, there was another. And another. By the fourth, McLane remembered that these were the signs made by UK Ordnance Survey, now an Agency of the Highways Department, and used to plot points on maps which could be connected to form a journey or boundary.

  By the time he pulled into the car park he used when staying at Big Joe’s penthouse for the night, McLane had lost count of the number of those lime green marks he’d seen. Crossing the street, he carelessly slowed to gather his thoughts and was nearly run over by a truck. Putting up his hands to the white-faced truck driver, McLane was full of apologies. All he could think about was that someone very high up in Glasgow City Council was pushing this scheme quite hard. But who?