The House_Dark Urban Scottish Crime Story

by John Mayer

  Letting go of Tucker, Big Joe turned his attention to the seriousness of Tucker’s tone; now remembering that whatever Tucker wanted, it was important enough that he’d sent a message to McLane’s Chambers Clerk in Edinburgh asking McLane not to go home but to come directly to the Calton Bar.

  ‘Sure. Bella’s it is. But surely Jean will hear us. Is that a problem?

  Shaking his head wildly, Tucker was emphatic: ‘Oh no! Actually, I think Jean should come in. This mornin’ I was in the city tryin’ tae find her auld pal Elsie Tanner when I think I found somethin’ out. It could be big. So I thought you two and maybe Jean should decide if I’m right. Now I’m not sayin’ I am right. The reason I asked you two to come to the Calton Bar was to tell me if you think I’m right.’

  Looking at each other, McLane and Big Joe nodded. They’d never in their lives seen Tucker this agitated. Laying his hand on Tucker’s shoulder, McLane spoke softly: ‘It’s OK, Tuck. The drive over from Edinburgh is nothing. Don’t worry. You did the right thing. Come on, we’ll just walk. It’s not far.’

  With Tucker the only one seated, standing around the kitchen table with the photocopies laid out for all to see, Jean had her hand over her mouth, her Joseph had wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulder while McLane leaned in for closer inspection. The shock was palpable. No-one even blinked. Only McLane tilted his head this way and that, running over a question in his mind. The evidence Tucker had uncovered was undoubtedly valuable: but the question was: ‘to which side?’

  All of McLane’s legal sensibilities told him he was getting close to being satisfied; but he’d made that mistake before, so before giving any kind of opinion, he made a few more enquiries: ‘This clerk … you say she was very experienced and she said she had no idea how that could’ve happened. Were those her exact words, Tuck?’

  Turning and looking up at McLane, tight lipped, Tucker nodded: ‘Aye. Her words precisely, Brogan.’

  ‘Well my first thought is that, from a legal point of view I can’t actually see anything wrong with these. There’s nothing untoward ‘inside the four corners’ as we say. I think there’s only one explanation that makes sense, don’t you Joe?’

  ‘Aye, I do. And I don’t think you have to be a Parliament House Advocate to work it out.’

  Looking up at them all, Tucker let out what he’d been dying to say all day: ‘It was when I saw Elsie Tanner’s marriage certificate and her son bein’ adopted as William Randal … and the year fitted too … I thought that was all too much of a coincidence. What d’ye think Brogan?’

  ‘I think you and Joe are both right. It looks extremely likely that Elsie Tanner came back from Ireland with her baby boy. As old Ma Sorkin said to Jean, she came back, but not for long. It appears that she met this William Randal guy and married him; hence moving out of the Calton. What troubles me is that he was a big time protestant in the Loyal Orange Lodge … and by the way, that was good work on the computer Tucker; without that piece the picture is incomplete … and she’s a wee catholic girl from the Calton wi’ a child by a priest. Why? Why, oh why, would they get married? Anybody?’

  Heads shook and no-one offered an opinion. Eventually, Jean offered that it might’ve just been love. They didn’t seem to have any more children. At least, none that Tucker could find. So maybe it was love across the Protestant / Catholic divide. It had been known to happen. Big Joe speculated that it might’ve been because he didn’t know she was a catholic. McLane chipped in that Tanner was a neutral name and maybe she told him lies about her background. Jean substantiated that by saying the girls who came back from Ireland often did lie about their past; or at least the last year of it. Lastly, McLane picked up the Supplementary Entry and looked at it again:

  ‘This is the adoption part. She said the writing was in a hand she’d never seen before.’

  ‘Right. And when she was checking the other Entries in the box, every single one I saw was typed. You know, on an old fashioned typewriter.’

  Stroking the side of his face, McLane bobbed his head from side to side:

  ‘Well, there’s no law against hand writing an Entry in the Register of Births Deaths and Marriages. So long as the Registrar himself is satisfied that it’s legible. But why would it be hand written? That’s the big question.’

  Closing his eyes for a second, Big Joe turned to McLane: ‘Oh Christ, Brogan. Are you thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?

  Nodding, McLane dropped the copy onto the table: ‘Yip, I think I am, Joe. I think Randal … that’s the father, not the guy who now runs Glasgow City Council … I think the father knew it all. He must have. That’s why he used his influence to have the Register handwritten by none other than? … his Brother in the Loyal Orange Lodge who must have been the Registrar himself. OK. If that’s right, then why is this boy who was born to Elsie Tanner in Ireland … the natural son of Old Father Flaherty and whose name was changed to William Randal when has was adopted … God, it’s all so hard to believe. You’ve done well, Tuck. Very well. But I ask again, what’s his beef? Why is he trying to demolish the whole of the Calton? What’ve we ever done to him?’

  Still with his arm around his mother, Big Joe Mularkey dropped his head as slowly as though he was dying. Turning and taking his hand, Jean asked if he was alright. McLane laid his hand on Joe’s shoulder but neither got any response. Big Joe looked to be asleep standing up and was lost to the world. In his head he was consumed by those soft well-educated tones, that immaculate garden square outside and the way she let her loafer hang on her toes. Shaking his head almost imperceptibly slowly, Big Joe first began to whisper but got louder and louder until he was uncontrollable: ‘They what? They what? They took a fuckin’ blade to a card game? He pulled it on Sean? Are they fuckin’ crazy? If Brogan hadn’t saved him …? Oh the bastar …. I’ll fuckin’ kill them all. Every fuckin’ one o’ the bastards. Come on ye’ fuckin’ whore’s bitches. I’ll get every fuckin’ one o’ ye’. I swear I’ll …’

  Trying with all her strength, Jean was powerless to hold him and burst out crying. Tucker leapt up to assist McLane in holding him. But whatever had taken control of Joe’s mind, it was now locked down tighter than a submarine hatch. Whirling and throwing punches at the air, Big Joe flayed about the tiny house for several minutes until the door flew open and Arab - every inch as big and strong as Joe - leapt in and tripped Joe to the floor:

  Turning on the tap as fast as he could, McLane filled his hands with water and flung it at Big Joe’s face. Kicking out, he’d broken a chair leg and broken the curved 1950s glass in the kitchen cabinet, but Arab had now pinned him down and the water was beginning to do the trick. Falling to his knees and gripping Big Joe by the head, McLane appeared to Joe to be upside down:

  ‘Joe! Man! Come back! Joe! Look at me. Look at me!’

  Breathing so hard that the air burned in his throat, Big Joe slowly started to come back. With Arab now among them, the tiny house was packed. Getting Big Joe up and into a kitchen chair, McLane held his hand:

  ‘Dear God, Joe. We saw something a lot like this with Ababuo in the early days. Man you scared us. Has that ever happened to you before?’

  Pouring a glass of water, his mother laid it on the table. Big Joe shook his head as he swallowed: ‘Nope. Never. Sorry, Brogan. I don’t know what the Hell got intae me. I really don’t.’

  ‘Jesus, man, it was scary. But for what it’s worth, I’ll tell you what I think. OK?’

  ‘Go ahead. Dae ye’ think it was a fit, or somethin’?’

  Shaking his head, McLane was emphatic: ‘No. That was no fit. That was what Professor Byres would call a ‘recollection’.’

  ‘A what? That’s the word I said to her. I thought I was dreamin’. Are ye’ sure?’

  Somewhat confused that Big Joe even knew who Professor Byres was, McLane nevertheless continued: ‘Fairly sure Joe, yeah. The giveaway was in what you were saying. Ababuo used to do that. Sort of shudder and talk and shout at the same time. In fact, she did it quite a lot,
in the early days. She’d scream about guys called Mbara’s men. You see, she was reliving the horrific event in her village which eventually led to her leaving. Well, being dragged away is more accurate. Now I think, because of what you said, your event was what happened to Sean. The slashing. You got every one of them. I know you did. But Joe, man, you can’t go on feeling that amount of hatred for the rest of your life. Joe! Are you listening to me?’

  Big Joe had been listening to McLane, but he was now back in a kind of dream. Silent and still, his eyes betrayed that he wasn’t even conscious of his surroundings:

  Snapping his fingers in front of Joe’s face, McLane shouted: ‘Joe!

  Turning his face towards McLane, Big Joe Mularkey cracked the smallest of smiles: ‘I did, didn’t I? I got them all. But I remember now. While we were watchin’ their routines … God! Tuck! You reccie’d them all for me. Do you remember?’

  Tucker’s face had gone white and he obviously hadn’t a clue what Big Joe was asking: ‘Err, a wee bit, aye. I was busy back then. What is it you’re remembering, Joe?’

  When Big Joe snapped his fingers, to McLane Big Joe had all the demeanour of a witness who was now in a safe place and was telling the whole truth: ‘There were four of them at the game. Plus some other guys and Sean. Right, Brogan?’

  ‘You mean that card game? Yeah. Four strangers. The four you … sorry, Jean.’

  ‘Aye, that’s it. Tucker had come to me … you remember Tuck … you said the guy who was at the university had a wee cousin who was only sixteen. He wasn’t at the game but the oldest one … the university one who cut Sean .. he was with that wee cousin throughout that summer. Stuck like glue, you told me. I was gonna do the five of them till Tucker told me that the younger cousin wasn’t there. So I let him off. I remember now. I left the last one wi’ two slashes from ear to ear - two Second Prizes - and just for good measure I broke his legs and his knees. But I waited to see if anybody would try to help him. I knew they couldn’t. He was lyin’ at the bottom of that lane a cripple for the rest of his life: cryin’ and moanin’ for help ‘Willie, Willie, help me. Help me Willie.’

  With his eyes to the ceiling and his mouth wide open, McLane finished the story: ‘The boy. Willie. He must be the William Randal who Tucker’s just found. The four boys … strangers, every one of them … who sat in that card game were all Protestants. I remember that very clearly. I tried to warn Sean about playing with strangers when he was only a beginner, but he wanted to play and I just let him. He was older than me. Sorry Jean.’

  Raising her hand and waving away his boyish mistake, Jean was more concerned about the son in front of her than the one in the Calton Bar telling stories.

  Going over to the sink, McLane gripped the old porcelain sides and looked out. Lost in his own thoughts, he stared into the distance. If he hadn’t been the dealer? Well, someone else would’ve been and Sean could be dead. If he’d insisted Sean wasn’t skilled enough to play? Well, he did insist and Sean still wanted to sit in anyway. If he’d … if he hadn’t … if he’d just … if he hadn’t. Turning to the people in the house, McLane could hardly say the words:

  ‘Dear God, it’s all so long ago. But I’ve been thinking. On this evidence, we’re fairly certain that the William Randal who now runs Glasgow City Council is the same William Randal who was the cousin of the guy who cut Sean and whom Big Joe here … later went to … to visit. So what’s behind all this is revenge. Pure and simple. That would account for the obvious damage on the model of the houses where we grew up. Me as the dealer who protected Sean and you who took revenge. That’s why nobody … not Peggy, not Big O, not us … nobody could put their finger on why this idea to demolish the whole of the Calton might be said to be focused on us; you and me, Joe. You and me.’

  Falling back into the kitchen chair, Big Joe slapped his open hand onto Bella’s old wooden table: ‘Revenge. Ah fuck, it’s just all about revenge. The old ones are the best, eh Brogan? Revenge. All these years he’s waited for revenge. And now he sees his opportunity to get revenge not only on us, but the whole of the Calton. Fuck me, that took some dedication. I mean, ye’ have to take yer hat off to that. It must’ve been his whole life.’

  McLane too had relaxed but there was another question in his mind; one even more important than the one they’d just answered. It was Jean who saw the glint in his eye and asked: ‘Brogan, son. There’s somethin’ else on yer mind. I can tell. So, out with it. What is it?’

  Had he been in Parliament House, McLane might have had the opportunity to think this through a little more. Seek an adjournment or rise early for lunch. But the people now packing Bella’s little house wouldn’t wait that long, so he just came out with it:

  ‘OK. Consider the evidence. On the one hand, we have the photo, the article and the postcard; which are all perfectly clear in their terms. We also have a living witness who is of course Jean. We know the …’

  At that, Jean interrupted: ‘Two witnesses, if Elsie Tanner is still alive.’

  ‘Right Jean, thanks. Potentially two witnesses. Right. Now the circumstances of the card game over thirty years ago and the err, repercussions, gives us a motive for this powerful guy in Glasgow City Council to push through Statutory Compulsory Demolition Order GLW/CAL/DEMO 2018. Now, thanks to Tucker, we also have a motive for that.’

  Dropping her open hand onto her breast, Jean shook her head in awe: ‘My God Brogan. The way you can do that, son. It’s amazin’. No wonder you’re awfi’ good in that court in Edinburgh. Brilliant.’

  Reaching over and squeezing her hand, McLane blew her a kiss: ‘Thanks Jean. But I’m sorry to say that knowing all that would still take us nowhere in Parliament House. If I started to talk about personal revenge for something that happened over thirty years ago, Pembroke would object saying that was irrelevant, and he’d probably be upheld. But there is one question, the answer to which might be the key for us.’

  Big Joe furrowed his brow and pushed his head forward the way he used to do in class when he didn’t quite follow the teacher: ‘The key? Dae you mean, like somethin’ that would help us win? Win outright?’

  Throwing up both hands, McLane tightened his lips and shook his head: ‘No! I can’t go that far. I’ve thought all along that Glasgow City Council backed up by the Government in London would get their motorway extension. So not a one hundred percent win. No. But enough, maybe.’

  Now it was Tucker’s turn. Scratching his head and cupping his face, for the life of him he couldn’t work out the one question and its answer which might save the day: ‘Brogan man, I’m sittin’ here burstin’ to know. What’s the question?’

  Taking a deep breath. McLane chuckled a little: ‘Yeah. The old ones are the best, right enough.’

  Standing and throwing open his arms, McLane began to laugh out loud: ‘On this evidence, we can’t tell if William Randal actually knows that Old Father Flaherty was his biological father or not. If he knows, then we’re finished. We have no sting. But if he doesn’t, then I have a feeling that those Swiss bankers sitting in their Loyal Orange Lodge in Zurich will soon be dropping William Randal and backing someone else. Don’t you think?’

  ~~~o~~~

  Chapter 57

  On the top deck of the bus, Tam Fraser looked out of the window and couldn’t help but think that although he was sitting in the same seat position and this was just fifteen minutes before his usual bus, the city outside looked oddly unfamiliar. The sun hadn’t come quite so far up so some buildings were still in shadow. The bus was less crowded and the streets less congested. Maybe it was because he’d rushed his breakfast or nicked his neck when shaving. Whatever it was, he hoped these nerves in his stomach would soon pass. All the way from Bridgeton to George Square, he tried to keep his mind away from the big embossed envelope bearing the Parliament House stamp he was gripping inside his folded newspaper.

  Stepping off the bus and crossing the road, he took extra care. Although Big Joe Mularkey had only been half-kidding when he said
‘Don’t get run over and drop that.’ Tam took him very seriously.

  Only when he opened the door to the servitors’ mail room did he begin to breathe easily: ‘Empty! Thank God.’

  With no other mail servitors yet on the move, no-one noticed him go straight up to Mr Randal’s office. Hurrying along the corridor, the wheels of his cart began to squeak causing Tam to bite his lip. At the door, he checked both ways before slipping in the key. The pile of mail wasn’t unusually large or small. After placing it where he always did, Tam checked the corridor again. ‘Still empty. Good.’

  Before sleep the night before, Tam had gone over his next move a dozen times. ‘Prominent but not too obvious, if possible.’ was Mr McLane’s instruction. Carefully standing the envelope against the damaged corner of the model, Tam was sure it was steady. Heaving a deep sigh of relief, he closed the door, grabbed the handle of his cart and made straight for the servitors’ lift.

  After hanging up his hat and coat, just as he did every morning, William Randal put one finger in the slats of the blind and scanned the floors below. Across the Quad, the ever dutiful Miss Roylance was of course at her desk and although he never knew it, every morning she could see that blind being twitched reflected in a picture frame on her desk.

  It must have been a full four or five minutes before, out of the corner of his eye, Randal saw something white amongst the red of the model. Laying down a Memo from the Secretary to the Finance Committee, he got up to see what it was.

  Lifting the envelope, he disregarded the Protocol that any suspicious mail should be reported to the front desk Security Officer. It didn’t weigh much and was as flat as a pancake. It bore no stamp, so whatever this was, it obviously hadn’t come through the Royal Mail. And it had one other feature which was very unusual: the name and address had been written by hand in ink in a style he thought showed obvious traces of a quill pen. But the name? The name was a puzzle.