The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  Pushing open the tiny house’s only inner door, there it was. Ababuo’s mouth dropped open: ‘Wow. I didn’t expect that. Can I play it?

  He and Joanne had argued with the School Head that music lessons were a step too far for a girl who was academically so far behind the others. But the Head insisted and she’d been right. In only three months, Ababuo was playing piano without the sound excruciating them and now, after nearly five years, they thought she was really very good. Looking at her father for his silent permission to pull out the stool, Ababuo sat down and opened the lid. After testing both pedals, she straightened her back and began. Watching her play, McLane was certain that no-one who was old enough to have heard his mother play this old thing would ever have heard firstly some Tchaikovsky followed by Eric Satie. The old thing needed a good tune-up but nonetheless, while Ababuo played, to McLane the sound was unmistakably that piano in this old house. Sitting down on the end of his mother’s bed, McLane closed his eyes and wondered what his mother would make of a sixteen year old African girl playing her piano and calling him Dad.

  Five minutes became ten and still she wanted to play, but McLane thought they should be getting back to Edinburgh. Expecting her to push the stool back under, McLane was surprised when in fact she lifted it and laid it on the bed. Crawling underneath, Ababuo seemed to be trying to lift the piano with her back.

  ‘What the hell are you doing, sweetheart?’

  ‘Oh, I could tell when I was playing that the back isn’t straight up and now I see that one of the wheels is on a wrinkle in the rug. If you help me move the piano, I’ll straighten it up.’

  Jumping up and moving her to one side, McLane was quite emphatic: ‘No, please. Don’t. We’ll move it together and I’ll straighten it. OK you pull from the end and I’ll go underneath.’

  When they’d got the thing moved just about six inches, McLane called: ‘OK. That’s enough.’

  Lifting the corner of the rug, he inspected the floor. After Bella’s flustered refusal to allow him to straighten it, all the way back to Edinburgh that night he’d wondered what was under that floor. ‘Just something Jean gave to your mother years ago’ she’d said. But Bella had also said something telling - ‘I don’t want it in the house. When I’m cold in the ground you can do what you want with it.’

  Sure enough, two cuts had been made across one stout old board and there was a gouge where the City Council’s gas pipe fitters had lifted it a few years ago. Waiting at the end of the piano, Ababuo leaned down: ‘What are you doing?’

  He tried getting the board up with his fingernail, but it was no good: ‘Darling, go to the drawer and get me a knife please. Would you? A strong one.’

  Gently levering up the board, McLane was disappointed to see nothing. But he wasn’t done. Still on his knees, he took off his jacket and reached in. On one side, he could feel the bricks of the dividing wall to Jean’s house. Shuffling round a bit to get his arm under the opposite way, his fingertips touched something. Bringing it out, he got up, trying to keep the dirt on his sleeve from falling onto the rug.

  Ababuo had never given it a thought that there might be space between floors, far less that people kept things down in such places. Her birth father kept his best arrow heads buried in red clay but she hadn’t imagined that such things happened here. Curiously, she asked: ‘What have you found, Dad and why is it down there?’

  There was black coal soot which acted as sound deadening all up one arm of his white shirt but her father wasn’t paying any attention to that. His face had gone pale and he looked like he’d seen a ghost. In his hand was a very old tin box about eight inches long, four inches wide and two inches deep with a design and writing on it, albeit covered in soot:

  ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know. It’s just that …’

  ‘What? Just what, Dad? Did you know something was down there?’

  ‘Erm, yes. Well, no. Not really. I … I think I recognise the name.’

  Wiping the top of the box on his other sleeve confirmed his memory. Lightly holding the box in both hands as though he’d robbed a child’s grave, Ababuo had never seen her father so reticent. He was the big confident lawyer. He was the one who earned heaps of money to pay for weekends in London. He was Baron McLane of Calton QC. He was invincible. He wasn’t this man:

  ‘The name, Dad? What name? The name on the box?’

  Nodding and in almost a whisper, he confirmed: ‘Yes darling. Timmy’s. It was a brand of cigarettes. Long ago. My mother smoked them. Everybody smoked them.’

  ‘So? Does it still have cigarettes in it? Why don’t you open it?’

  Now quite pale and looking like a man who’d taken two steps beyond the point of no return, McLane gave his teenage daughter the adult answer:

  ‘Because darling, I’m frightened of what I’ll find inside.’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 53

  Stepping out of his brand new black G Wagon and walking straight across the street without a word to anyone caused tongues to wag. Everyone knew that if Big Joe Mularkey had one quality, it was something he’d inherited from his father and that was civility. He loved the old Calton and never passed anyone without a kind word. He may have arrived in a car that cost unimaginable money, he may have worn a suit that cost six months wages, but his left lean that gave him his signature rolling gait was old school Calton. Even from behind, there was no doubt who this mountain of a man was. What everyone wanted to know, was why he and McLane would soon be together up the same old stair in which they’d grown up.

  His loud rough call of ‘Oh-pen’ up the old stone stairway took Ababuo by surprise and made her turn. Patting her on the forearm, her father’s face re-assured her: ‘Don’t worry. That’s just the old way of coming upstairs. You shout ‘Oh-pen’ and when your family hear it’s you, they open the door. It comes from the old days when there was only one key to each house.

  To Ababuo, the two of them embracing in the doorway seemed to fill the whole house. She knew the story of how her father got the fading cross on his right palm, but she’d never seem them grip each other like this; as though the rest of their lives depended on it.

  Big Joe Mularkey must have weighed several times what she weighed, but his gentle manner couldn’t have been softer. With a big kiss on the top of her head, Mr Mularkey’s cuddle was as comforting to Ababuo as a high harbour wall against a big storm:

  ‘Hello sweetheart. How you doin’? Eh?’

  ‘I’m fine Mr Mularkey. It’s nice to see you.’

  Looking at her father straight in the face, to anyone else, Big Joe’s gruff ‘Where is it?’ would've sounded like a threat. But between them, it was just urgency.

  ‘It’s still on top of the piano. In light of what Bella told me, I thought we’d … you know, open it together.’

  Furrowing his brow and opening his mouth, Big Joe shook his head: ‘You’ve not opened it?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I was waitin’ for you. This might have as much to do with you as it does me. In fact, it might have nothing to do with me. I don’t know, so I didn’t think it was my place to make the move.’

  Sighing and letting out all his breath, Big Joe nodded: ‘OK, I see what you mean.’

  Nodding to the dividing wall, Big Joe lowered his voice before saying: ‘She’s in, by the way.’

  ‘Oh I know. I’ve heard her shoutin’ down to old Mrs Cairey in the back close. She must know we’re here. Ababuo was playing the piano.’

  ‘OK. Let’s see this thing.’

  As McLane lifted the box from the top of the piano, Ababuo reached out: ‘Dad. Would you mind if I did it?’

  ‘You? Why do you want to open it? It could be anything.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But since I got here today, I’ve felt something. My mother … that is my mother in Africa used to talk about it. Connecting with the old ones. I think as I’m here, this might connect me with the old ones. Even though I didn’t know your mother or Bella very well and they’re not really blood.
I just thought that for the future …’

  McLane looked at Big Joe, who only gave an indifferent shake of his head: ‘OK. Here. But do it carefully. That’s been down there a very long time.’

  ‘Actually, I think we should wipe it clean first. Out of respect.’

  Without waiting for permission, Ababuo took the sooty tin box to the sink, carefully cleaned it, wiped it dry and laid it on some kitchen roll on the table. It seemed natural for her father and Mr Mularkey to take the only two chairs while she stood between them. It took four fingernails under the rim before the top gave up its grip.

  As Ababuo lifted off the lid, both men’s heads dropped in anti-climax. Nothing but a single envelope lay inside. It was faded to brown at the corners, made of an embossed paper and clearly quite old. The address had been typed on a typewriter and the stamp was one Ababuo had never seen. It was clean enough and intact:

  ‘Shall I?’

  Both men nodded and Ababuo slipped a nail under the thing. Carefully, she lifted it out, turned it and laid it on the table. The gummy seal had been carefully pulled back. There was no cut in the fold. Lifting the flap, Ababuo picked out the contents and laid them softly on the table.

  A Polaroid photograph, a clipping from the Irish Times and a post card on which was written; ‘Thank you for sending us this photograph and a relayed story through Mr Thomson. We now return the photograph to the address we were given along with a clipping of the article we printed. We don’t think much will ensue from our article but we wish you well for the future. Yours sincerely pp for Mr Michael O’Donnell, Editor.’

  ‘What does it mean? Who are the people in the photo, Dad?’

  McLane was already reading the old newspaper clipping and didn’t answer. Big Joe had picked up the photo and was staring into it. Looking over her father’s shoulder, from the bold headline and the sub lines, Ababuo got the gist of the story. Covering her mouth with her hand, she momentarily stopped breathing. Laying her hand on her father’s shoulder, she took a deep shivering breath. Patting the back of her hand, McLane kept reading. When he’d finished he handed the folded old clipping to Big Joe who swapped him for the photo. Joanne had said it several times before and now Ababuo saw it for herself. When push came to shove, they really were like twin brothers.

  Big Joe sat as though in a kind of trance, staring out of the window. McLane clutched Ababuo’s hand on his shoulder and she laid her head on his. Someone at school had once titled a project ‘It takes a village to raise a child.’ Only now, here in the Calton and officially over sixteen years old, did she really begin to feel what they meant. Wiping away a few tears, she stood upright and whispered: ‘Is this when it’s time to make tea?’

  Both men sort of snorted with laughter, which she took as permission to light the gas and fill the kettle.

  Perched on one end of the table with her hands wrapped around her hot cup, Ababuo wasn’t surprised to see Mr Mularkey slip a flat half bottle of whisky from his inside jacket pocket and pour several big glugs into the other two teas.

  Touching rims, the two men slurped down their teas like grateful freezing road diggers on a snowy day:

  ‘Mr Mularkey?

  ‘Yes, sweetheart.’

  ‘In the photo. Is that …?’

  ‘Aye, it is. She must’ve been only eighteen or nineteen then. I don’t recognise the place though. There’s a stone building behind them but it’s not here. Actually, I thought the red sandstone might be the West End but the windows are nearly down to the ground and I’ve never seen a building like that here.’

  Shaking his head, McLane agreed with his blood brother: ‘Me neither. I don’t know. I’m getting’ a bad feeling about all this. Do you think we should maybe just put all this back where we found it, or …?’

  Big Joe laid his palm flat on the table: ‘No way. Absolutely not. This all calls for an explanation. I’ve seen one of the girls before. The one on my mother’s right. But I’m pretty sure I don’t know the one on her left. In fact, I’m sure I’ve never seen her before. What about you, Brogan?’

  Shaking his head, McLane agreed: ‘No. She’s a stranger. What’s odd is that Old Father Flaherty is sittin’ with his hands flat on his knees with the three girls around him. None of the girls is looking into the camera and if you ask me, they don’t look too happy.’

  Big Joe widened his eyes to their fullest and tilted his head: ‘Well, if what it says in the article is true, that wouldn’t be a surprise.’

  Shifting into gear and easing away in lawyer mode, McLane looked towards Big Joe and asked: ‘I’m wondering if this should be done here or do you think it would be best at yours?’

  Nodding slowly, Big Joe like that idea: ‘Aye. I’d like Molly to be present. But what about Joanne?’

  ‘Well, they’re probably still together. We’ve only been here about half an hour. I’ll call her and ask.’

  Way ahead of them, Ababuo had slipped out her phone. As she listened, far away she could see those wrinkled toothy old women sitting in a circle on the red dirt around the bread fire, pounding on the grain and singing the song about how it takes a whole village to raise a child. Turning away from their gaze to speak to her mother, Ababuo could sense with a growing feeling of certainty that when this old story was told there ought to be more women present than men.

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 54

  Always a little uncomfortable in this huge mansion of a place her Joseph had bought and still a little shaky at having this photo back in her hand after nearly fifty years, Jean Mularkey dropped it onto the coffee table, downed another mouthful of brandy, sighed heavily and looked at Ababuo, who was the only one in the room still standing. Choking on her words, she patted the sofa beside her:

  ‘Ya poor wee thing. After all you went through as a kiddie, you must think that getting’ upset about an old photo makes me a wee bit soft. Well aye, maybe I am gettin’ soft in ma auld age. Anyway, come and sit beside me.’

  With her arm linked through Ababuo’s and her sturdy daughter-in-law on the other side, Jean felt nearly ready to start the story everyone wanted to hear. ‘The boys’ as she still called them, had taken a big chair each and weren’t pressing her, but she knew very well that they were as keen to hear this as the women. Looking down at the photo once more, Jean bit her lip and seemed to McLane to be recalling things she’d suppressed for nearly half a century:

  ‘Aye. The old times, eh? I think I should start by telling ye’ all, that this photo was taken in Ireland.’

  Immediately, Big Joe burst in: ‘Ireland? When were you in Ireland?’

  From the other side of the wide fireplace, McLane put up his hand to mediate, but got no further. His mother just gave her Joseph the kind of look she did when he was a boy. From about age fourteen, he’d been as tall as her, stronger and had become known, even in districts outside the Calton, as a fearless fighter; but she could control him with one turn of her head; the way a circus trainer does with a well-trained mountain lion:

  ‘Aye, Joseph. Ireland. Ye’ see, you were a wee bit wrong earlier when ye’ said that was me with you in my arms. Actually son, it wasn’t you.’

  Dropping her head, Jean Mularkey sniffed and felt the comfort of Joe’s Molly, a grandmother herself now, to one side and that beautiful child the McLanes had adopted to the other. Handing her a hankie, Molly gave her mother-in-law a few knowing nods and squeezed Jean’s hand. Turning towards Ababuo, Jean felt that telling her what she had to say, might make things a wee bit easier:

  ‘Ye’ see, wee one, things in the Calton were a lot different away back then. We had nothing … well you’ve seen Bella’s … I mean your father’s house now. We thought people like the school teachers, the police and definitely the priest … I don’t know really the best words tae use tae tell ye’ … well, we thought they were all better than us. High, high above us. The teachers could use big words and the police could throw ye’ in the jail for anythin’ they wanted. Anythin’ at all. And every Sunday, often
twice on a Sunday, the Chapel was packed to the doors. Can ye’ understand what I’m sayin’?’

  Holding tight to her fleshy upper arm, Ababuo looked into the face of this woman who seemed to radiate generations of suffering in exactly the same way as the old toothy women around the bread fire did:

  ‘I think I do, Mrs Mularkey.’

  Old Jean touched the side of Ababuo’s head with hers and kissed her on the face:

  ‘Oh my wee darlin’ ye. Ye’r nearly a wummin yersel’ now. So you must call me Jean and I’m gonnie call you Abby. I can never say yer African name. I get all tongue tied. OK?’

  Ababuo’s eyes now brimming with tears, she nodded half a dozen times. Holding tight to Molly’s hand, Jean continued:

  ‘Ye’ see, it happened a lot back in them days. I mean, I heard whispers about it from other lassies we met in the cafes up the town and on the bus comin’ home. Ye’ know, just chit chat. But when it’s you, ye don’t think ye’ can do anythin’. Ye’r kind of … well, at their mercy, if that’s the right way to put it. Aye, I think it is. ‘At their mercy’ is actually a good way o’ puttin’ it.’

  Letting go of Molly’s hand for a moment, Jean picked up the photo:

  ‘Now. Sitting in the middle there, that was our priest at the time. Old Father Flaherty we called him, though really he wasnie very auld. I think he was in his 50s there. But anyway, everybody called him that, but never to his face, mind you. That was always just ‘Father’. Now of course, that’s me standin’ behind him with my Sean in my arms. Ye’ can just see his wee head. It was a nice sunny day in September. The south of Ireland can be nice at that time o’ the year. Anyway, to my right, that’s Frances McCarney wi’ her Maria. We were really good pals. Not as close as Agnes and me … your father’s mother. We were like sisters. But Frances was a good lass. A great dancer and really good lookin’ wi’ all her long red hair.’