The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  With tears now flooding his cheeks and dripping onto his shirt collar, he leaned forward as though hoping the mirror might open up and he could pass through to another place where everyone was still alive. A place where he was respected and not blamed. A place where he could be useful again; just as he had been in his teens and twenties. Where his blood brothers relied on him. How had it come to this?

  Now thirty seven years old, it had been thirty years since he’d walked in to find her cold and dead. Now quiet and restful, her body half draped from the bed onto the floor, he was glad she wasn’t screaming the house down nor threatening him with the tightly gripped upturned chair. There wasn’t much blood; well, not on the rug because it had mostly seeped into the bedcover.

  Though only a boy of seven, he didn’t cry. He just did what he did every day: he dealt with it. In his belly, he’d felt the steely hot courage that must’ve been forged in his blood by his father; whoever he was. Calmly taking the half loaf of bread from the shelf and closing the door on the body, he’d told no-one on the stairs or in the street. He’d simply made the only decision open to him: which was to walk the three miles through the city streets he knew quite well to his aunty Maggie’s house in the Calton. As he pushed open the door, she’d asked after her sister and knew in his silent shrugged response and the way he held that half loaf so tightly that, this time, she’d actually gone through with it.

  It was the best thing to do. There was no doubt about it. How could there be another way? What other explanation was there? ‘Caused’ was the word now on the public record. Of that, he was certain. Old Mrs Jamieson. Wee Pat McPherson and his grandson of just a few months old. What was his infant grandson doing at a meeting of the Calton Residents' Association? Was there no-one else to look after him? Of course there was. But Wee Pat probably wanted his grandson to be able to say in the Calton Bar many years from now that he’d been there when Brogan McLane - yes, Baron McLane of Calton QC, no less - had roused them to arms against Glasgow City Council. A night to remember and brag about in the Calton Bar for many years to come. Except it wasn’t, and it was all his fault. Then there was Bella McLane. Oh dear God in Heaven, sweet old Bella. How could he look Brogan in the face again? The answer to that was easy enough to figure out.

  At the end of the sideboard, standing in its place holding up the few books he’d ever read, the thick black bible stood out as though leading the coloured spines in procession behind the good word. What had it been? Four years? Five? Maybe even six. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d read any of it. But there was that part the school priest used to call out when he came to read to them. Not even as tall as some of the boys, he’d hold up his bony old hand and pause; always he’d pause for effect. How did it go? He didn’t need to try hard to remember. Now was the time to thank that old white-haired priest for his lesson.

  Looking again into the mirror, Arab took a deep breath, held back some tears and began:

  ‘Yea Though I Walk Through The Valley of the Shadow of Death …’

  Sniffling and wiping his nose with the back of his hand, Arab turned away from the mirror and opened the old pantry door. Nowadays he didn’t need a pantry for food; he had a fridge for that. But the old wooden shelves made an excellent place to store his four well-oiled handguns wrapped in their rags and twenty boxes of ammunition. On the next shelf down, stacked in their hand-carved rack were his eight well balanced throwing knives, then under them his four hunting knives. On the bottom sat the lint-free cloth, the bottle of linseed oil and the sharpening block that had served him well for so many years.

  Taking out the largest of the hunting knives, he was oddly proud of its glistening condition. The feel of the ebony handle in his hand sent memories of using this very knife swirling round in his mind. The mere sight of it had ended several finely balanced card games. Then of course there was the time he’d used it to gut that bastard from Govan who raped young Eileen McCafferty. And also of course, last but not least, he’d had it on him dozens of times when watching Big Joe’s back. But Joe could find someone else. They’d be lining up to replace him.

  Placing the sharpening block and the knife on the kitchen table, he looked out of the window at the apocalyptic scene where all was red. Down as far as the gable end of Harrison street, all the way down the Wee Way and in the opposite direction, across the rooves of six streets which, being named after UK realms and territories, were known as the colonies. Holding the knife in his hand, Arab wondered if there might be half a loaf of bread he could eat before he departed. But there was no time for that. There was important work to be done.

  With a spot of oil on it, the blade slipped across the sharpening block like a champion skier down a run he’d skied a thousand times. With only the slightest friction, he only needed to hold the handle with the strength of a toddler - Oh fuck! That poor bairn! Three months old and I fucking killed him! You stupid bastard, Arab. You deserve this up the fucking arse, not through the heart like a man. Quick. Get on with it. Wee Bella’s waitin’ to plunge this into your fuckin’ stomach, you stupid bastard.

  Swishing, across the stone; once, twice, three times more. A few more and it would be ready. The blade had to be perfect. At least he could do something right.

  Back again in that moment when he pulled closed his mother’s old front door, descended those three flights of stone stairs for the last time, Arab saw himself walk out into the street. In his stomach, he again felt the fear of facing that three mile march into the unknown and began to sob. Cursing himself for allowing tears to hit the blade, he shoved it harder and harder across the stone. Who cared if it was perfect? Who’d remember? No-one! That’s who.

  Crying the tears he’d kept bottled inside for thirty years, Arab stood up and shook his head as the wind blew clouds of red dust against the window pane. Holding the handle tight in his right hand, he uttered ‘Yea Though I Walk Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death… As the window pane let in less and less red street light, so his mind’s eye saw more and more of the leaping red flames of the fires of Hell.

  Breathing more heavily now, Arab felt the tip of the blade pierce his shirt and the pin-point pain as it sliced his skin.

  Bang Bang Bang! Bang Bang Bang!

  ‘Arab son! Are ye in? It’s me. Jean. Arab, are ye in? I can see the light under the door. What’s goin’ on? My Joseph’s been tryin’ to phone ye for half an hour. Brogan says he needs you in the Calton Bar.’

  When he opened the door, Jean’s face fell. White as a sheet, to her Arab looked exactly like the child who’d come to the Calton three decades before; frightened and alone, unsure of his future and with the look of a lost child on his face. Seeing the blood on his shirt, Jean flung herself at him:

  ‘Oh Arab, my wee boy! Son, son, son. All this wisnae your fault.’

  Hugging him as close as she would her own son, Jean Mularkey whispered up into his ear: ‘Don’t blame yourself, Arab son. This was the work of something evil. Evil, I’m tellin’ ye. Now will ye put down that knife and I’ll make ye a wee cup o’ tea. Would ye do that for me. For me, Arab son. Do that for yer auld aunty Jean.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 39

  A pall of grief wider than the sky hung in the dark afternoon air above every cold chimney pot and wet roof slate in the Calton. Young medics wearing white zipped-up suits and gloves were going to every door handing out packets of face masks, blocks of carbolic soap and a leaflet warning the occupiers not to light fires or warm their houses in any way. The elderly and the children should be wrapped in several layers of freshly washed clothing. Adults should be careful not to engage in kissing or other bodily contact with anyone else until further notice. Even shaking the hands of the bereaved wasn’t recommended. About every twenty minutes, the helicopters would come back with sirens blaring before they dropped more tons of dark red disinfecting powder over every tenement building, street and even bits of spare ground. On the radio and TV, the soothsayers were spreading the idea that this wa
s God’s revenge on these fenian heathens. If you mark Cain then you will be smitten seven-fold, sayeth the good book; leaving out the fact that the people of the Calton, and a two-week old baby in particular hadn’t smitten anyone.

  Cochrane street, Gloucester street and Hoey street had been evacuated by police calling with a megaphone from a helicopter. Many of the grieving women cried as they left every material possession behind them; even their clothes and shoes as they were herded away wearing white nylon suits into vans running to and from the Cleansing Unit which Professor Graeme MacIntosh had set up in the Glebe Street Public Bath House. Only wedding rings and other such personal jewellery were exempt. After each one passed through showers of disinfectant mixed with a solution developed in his lab only hours before, Professor MacIntosh personally tested each naked man, woman and child before they were met by smiling Oxfam volunteers standing in front of huge cardboard boxes full of clothes, shoes, spectacles and toys.

  All day, locked in a virtually empty Calton Bar, McLane had been glued to his phone with Nadia Suilleman on the other end. The viral strain was indeed a new one. Quite why it had mutated in the unusual way that it did, was likely due to the rat involvement; but that still wasn’t certain. Because of possible contamination on the handle, Lenny had locked the double front doors and was insisting that the three of them use the back door.

  Pacing up and down for the umpteenth time, McLane at last paused. The look on his face said there was some good news:

  ‘Great! Oh that’s a relief.’

  Putting up a thumb, he covered the phone and said: ‘The rest can leave their houses.’

  But his joy was short-lived. On the other end, Nadia had said something so immense that McLane just didn’t know if the people of the Calton would go along with it. For something like this, McLane thought they’d fight the police, the army or whoever was sent to enforce her order. He just didn’t think this was reasonable. Turning away from the three pairs of eyes watching him on the phone, he lowered his voice:

  ‘But Nadia. Surely! Surely they’ve been through enough. Are you certain? I mean, can’t we talk about this some more?’

  At the end of the call, McLane nodded sideways to Big Joe Mularkey and took his blood brother to the back of the Bar. Watching from the middle of the Bar, Lenny and Tucker said nothing to each other; but their thoughts were precisely in parallel. Not during the time he was out on bail when that slimeball Lord Aldounhill was found murdered. Not when the Lord Advocate was doing his malicious best to deport Ababuo. Nor even when his innocent client Tina Kelly was sent down for thirty five years, had they seen McLane look so weak and dispirited. After discussing whatever it was for a few seconds, Big Joe had obviously asked a final question and McLane had just shrugged his reply. Seeming like they were only running on half their size and power, the two men turned and came back to their friends. Big Joe spoke first:

  ‘Whiskies Lenny, for the four of us. Big ones.’

  All four men lifted their glasses and touched their bases to each other’s. It was Big Joe who led the toast:

  ‘Slange!’

  ‘Aye. Slange var. To all of us.’

  All downing them in one, Big Joe growled: ‘Fill them up, Lenny! We’re goin’ to need them.’

  With four more full whisky glasses on the bar, it was McLane’s turn to raise another toast:

  ‘The dead!’

  Looking McLane in the eye, Big Joe Mularkey spoke for the whole of the Calton:

  ‘Aye. Our dead among us!’

  Being locked in the Calton Bar for so long, the men hadn’t realised the extent of just what had happened up the streets and back lanes. When Lenny opened the front door, the sight which met their eyes was more Sodom and Gomorrah than the Calton. A thick film of red dust lay on every roof, window sill, lamp post and pavement. It smelled too. Of something close to aniseed, they first thought, or treacle toffee mixed with carbolic soap. Whether through bravery or just childish naivety, a gang of local kids was out on their bicycles: which gave McLane an idea. The police still had the Calton in lock-down, so there was no traffic. Every kid with a bicycle was given three street names and sent to knock on as many doors as he or she could; with the message to assemble in the empty street outside the Calton Bar.

  Leaving their footsteps in the dust behind them, they marched like some modern four horsemen of the apocalypse through the empty eerie streets for six blocks until they arrived at the front door of the Chapel where Young Father Flaherty was standing waiting holding a mask over his face.

  In under half an hour, there was assembled upwards of a thousand people; all wondering what this was about. The TV was giving bulletins every quarter of an hour, as was the radio. So what could Brogan have to tell them that they didn’t already know?

  From wooden beer crates, Lenny had cleverly constructed a platform on which the speaker could stand with his back to the Calton Bar and hold on to the window sill if necessary. When someone began to ascend Lenny’s strong construction, the crowd was surprised to see that it wasn’t McLane but Young Father Flaherty who got himself up there. Over the heads of the crowd, Young Father Flaherty raised his hand, made the sign of the cross and whispered a few words heard only by those on most High. Clearing his throat, he addressed the assembled multitude:

  ‘Friends - Children of God - we are living through a time which, if told two thousand years ago, would compare with anything the good book records. Looking around me at this moment, with this red disinfecting dust covering your houses, this Bar and my church, it would be easy to believe that the worst had come and gone. But I’m sorry to say, that after all the evacuations, the spraying and the injections, I don’t think it has.’

  As Young Father Flaherty paused for breath, a murmur as loud as any to rival a bad decision by a referee in their other holy place, Celtic Football Club, spread around the crowd. However, it took only a wave of the priest’s hand to quell them. Pointing down at McLane, he continued:

  ‘Brogan here has been on the phone all morning doing sterling work on our behalf. It’s a fine thing that we’ve been given the all-clear to leave our houses and congregate as we all want to; but sadly, I have to report that a terrible decision has been made. I have no doubt that it was made in our best long-term interests and those of the rest of the country, but that will not blunt the pain of what I have to tell you.’

  With his voice breaking and his heart bleeding, several people later reported that they saw more than one tear fall from his eye. Crossing them again before continuing, Young Father Flaherty tried but failed to get another word out. McLane looked up, ready to take over, but from somewhere known only to himself and his Maker, Young Father Flaherty managed to speak:

  ‘Oh my dear friends. I see those empty spaces beside you in the crowd. So many of you here have lost someone you love. It’s a terrible thing, I know. And you’ll all want to attend the funerals of your family and friends. However … and God Himself knows it grieves me to say it … but there will be no burials.’

  Aghast and shocked, the crowd moaned as one. Frozen faces looked as though they had been turned to pillars of salt. As tiny gulps of breath were at last drawn, questions began to form. But before they could be asked, with the help of Arab at his elbow, Young Father Flaherty stepped down allowing McLane to address the crowd. With both arms outstretched, he looked down into their identical faces as though they’d all become one:

  ‘I know this is a great shock, but the Chief Medical Officer for Scotland is absolutely adamant that they don’t yet know enough about this virus to say with certainty that it will die with the carrier. So she’s insisting that Professor Graeme MacIntosh retain all the bodies of the dead for special cremation.’

  A few fiery young men began to bawl and shout that this wasn’t on. They’d fight the bastards. Who did they think they were telling families that they couldn’t hold Mass for their mother, their father, their younger sister or brother? Fight! Fight! Fight! was the cry. Putting up his hands as though in su
rrender, McLane waited until they’d emptied themselves of their first fires of rage and had calmed down to mere yelling from the pack:

  ‘I know! Believe me, I know. I lost my beloved aunty Bella, so I feel the grief as deeply as everyone else. Don’t think I don’t sympathise, because you know I do. But I can’t risk a return of this thing. You can’t risk it either. I know many of you will be thinking ‘What about the Last Will and Testament?’ Doesn’t that count for anything? We only bury in the presence of God. We’ve never cremated any of our family and we won’t start now. Can we challenge this in court?’ Well, I’ve thought about nothing else since I heard the news about two hours ago. I have to be honest with you. You know that’s my watchword. So in my honest legal opinion, there is no way any court will over-rule the Chief Medical Officer for Scotland who is ordering this on grounds of public safety. Just no way.’

  A sad note of defeat hung over the now quiet crowd. Heads dropped and arms entwined as they stood en-masse with their hearts grieving and their eyes brimming. Then, after a long silent pause, McLane coughed. Most looked up, but for some this latest news was the end:

  ‘Look, I know the images of seeing your loved ones for the last time through a wall of plexi-glass will hurt until your dying day, but I have negotiated something which I didn’t want to finalise myself. I didn’t think I had the authority to do it myself. That’s why I’ve asked you all to come out to this meeting.’

  Many drew their first deep breath in a while and, after drying their eyes, looked up at the man they went to school with, kissed as a teenager, contributed to his university fund or just counted as a dear friend: