by Caro Ramsay
‘Pietro? No Paolo. It’s Paolo and he’s not here yet,’ the carer said. ‘It’s Sandra ready to take you through for your afternoon tea, time you had something to eat. Come on, sweetheart.’
‘O, Pietrino mio! Perche non vieni a trovarme?’
‘No Paolo, now come on, pet.’
The old lady spat out something in Italian, the finger jabbed at Sandra.
‘Sorry, Duchess,’ corrected Sandra with automatic false diffidence. They were all the same these old dears. Sandra had found it quite funny at first but then Paolo cornered Sandra and asked her to apologize for the ‘sweetheart’, explaining that he had hoped their relationship had gone beyond client and carer and that the Duchess was very old, very Italian and should be treated with respect. Sandra pretended to be mortified, when in reality she couldn’t give a stuff and resorted to calling the Duchess all kinds of names under her breath. The old woman couldn’t live forever so all Sandra had to do was keep Paolo onside. When Paolo was around, Sandra always appeared to go that extra mile. And she made sure he noticed. Today, as well as the Italian cake, she had made a bit of an effort on herself, mascara, eyeshadow lifted from Superdrug.
If there was one thing Sandra was done with, that was living in her tiny council flat alone in Govan and being skint. Well that was two things. Two things at the start of a long list.
She wouldn’t be left here, not like this lot. The residents here now lived a life of bottoms needing to be wiped, false teeth needing to be scrubbed. Their past might have been that of film stars, singers, actors, comedians; on stage receiving applause after applause, bowing for the curtain call. Well, it was all over for them now. And they’d never had to wait until seven thirty to buy the groceries at their sell-by date for half price. They were waiting for their big final curtain, their swan song. They were all standing still. Waiting for death.
‘Paolo’s not here, not yet,’ Sandra whispered to the old lady for the third time, a harsh whispering that might have sounded threatening. But then she relented, a little. At the end of the day the Duchess was an old rich woman with a single son. ‘Come on now, Paolo has his own life. He can’t be running around after you every two minutes.’ She smiled at the creased, painted face. ‘Not that he wouldn’t want to.’ She held the smile, feeling like a children’s TV presenter. The Duchess looked right through her to the door, looking for Paolo.
Sandra glanced at the big silver clock. ‘He’ll be along later.’ She checked the Duchess’s dress was clean, no crumbs, no stains. The Duchess hated her clothes to get soiled. Funny how some residents were so perjink when others took great delight in smearing egg yolk all over their faces. Bloody Kilpatrick always had a dribble of something escaping from the side of his mouth.
The Duchess however, wasn’t for settling. She was pointing, her eyes scanning the room as her red lips pursed and loosened.
Sometimes it was easier to do what the old bird wanted. ‘Do you want some photographs?’ Sandra said, picking up the memory book.
The Duchess shook her head violently, her lips muttering something in Italian that sounded very rude.
Sandra lifted the wooden case with the big storybook in it. The fracture site in her wrist gave a sharp twinge. ‘Would you like to hear the story again? The Enchantress?’
The Duchess held her head still, and blinked, nodded slightly. The thin crimson lips bent into a sad smile, downturned, the creases in the old face deepened. She pointed a bent arthritic finger, reaching out to the back of Sandra’s sore wrist and gave it a gentle scrape with her taloned nail, as if the pain had registered in her subconscious. The book was heavy, Sandra was slim built. For a moment they looked at each other. Just because Sandra never got the big breaks, it was no reason to hate those who did. She smiled at the old lady, her eyes drifting off to the pearl earrings. There was a choker to match them somewhere.
‘I’ll read it,’ she said loudly, adding under her breath, ‘as if there was any other poor sod here.’
Sandra settled herself on the fluffy stool that normally sat under the dressing table. She slid her feet out her Crocs, the sweaty stink drifted up. She had been in a bit of a hurry that morning and hadn’t showered. It was very hot. She wiped the sticky soles of her feet on the woollen rug. If part of her job was reading out loud in bad Italian, then so be it, it wasn’t difficult and there were loads of pictures to help. And she had no difficulty in imagining herself as a princess.
Despite herself, Sandra enjoyed the story. Page after thick page of beautiful hand-drawn pictures, separated by fine white tissue, each page rimmed in gold like a religious parchment. The italic writing was in indigo ink, complete with the odd mistake blotted out. It transported her to another world where she was a princess wandering through the enchanted wood, looking for her one true love and finding her prince. She liked to run her fingertips over the words, mouthing them if it got difficult. She envied those women with long pink and white fingernails and soft hands. In fact she’d like to have straight teeth, like the princess in the book. Teeth that only money could buy. The long, flowing, caped dresses, she had no idea what style they were? Pre-Raphaelite? She didn’t know what that really meant but she had once seen a dress like the princess’s. It was on Rapunzel in a toy shop window when she was young, so young she was still in her pram and her mum was pushing her down Sauchiehall Street, going out to meet a friend for a cuppa. She wondered what had happened to those years, all the people her mum seemed to know. All gone now. Every one of them. There was nobody left.
Nobody left for Sandra.
That loneliness had eaten away at her soul and led her to make some very bad choices about her life; choices people who bought their teeth, wore silk stockings and bought their biscuits at full price never have to make.
The Duchess placed her cold, bony hand on top of Sandra. It was a gentle minding to get on with the story.
Sandra opened the book, heaving the heavy cover over and letting it rest on her thigh. She knew the story off by heart. The poor boy got lost in the forest and the princess found him and saved him. They fall in love and go back to the castle.
Or something like that.
Sandra got the names confused sometimes, the boys and the girls mixed up. Sometimes it looked like the prince who was lost in the forest, asleep under the tree, and a pauper boy came along and saved him from … well Sandra didn’t know what, but it all turned out well in the end. Sometimes, the blonde princess saved the pauper boy. Sandra was sure she was reading it and that the writer had changed his mind. However, at the end, the princess ended up with the dark-haired, good-looking bloke and she got lots of fab clothes to wear, a nice horse to ride about on and a shitload of pasta to eat. Sandra couldn’t actually read the Italian, but she talked about the pictures, showing them to the Duchess. The Duchess liked the character of the queen. The queen, in her deep pink evening gown and her rolled-up black hair with her tiara – or was it a crown – did bear a resemblance to the Duchess. Sandra wondered idly if there was some truth in the old bint being a duchess, a real life duchess? She had seen a programme on Channel 4 when she’d been too rat-arsed to reach the remote. There had been loads of minor royalty displaced during the war, maybe there was something in it. So there might be a duke somewhere, but the old photographs looked like a normal family. Sandra traced her nicotine stained fingertip over her favourite picture of the princess. Either dressed for bed or dressed like a slave or a Roman goddess, she was standing at the narrow arched window of the castle, looking out into a fairy-tale woodland beyond as if she knew that her true love was out there somewhere. She cleared her throat and made herself comfortable, imagining that she was reading this out loud in front of an open log fire and Paolo had gone out to chop logs. There was a nice meal in the oven, a bottle of good wine in the fridge for them to enjoy once the old dear had gone to bed. Well, the old dear would already be in bed and … Sandra allowed her imagination to run riot, feeling the base of her third finger. Empty. She wished she could feel a band of
gold on there. The Duchess could be on her death bed, and it would be a matter of hours. Sandra would be caring and lovely, staying up to nurse her while thinking about what holidays to go on with the money. Getting out of Scotland, going somewhere hot. She looked at the picture, wondering if that was an idea of what Italy was like. Beautiful Disney castles on the top of green pastured mountains? She could suggest to Paolo sensitively that they could go back to the Duchess’s homeland, to bury her. Even if she wasn’t dead.
She cleared her throat to begin the story, her stubby finger pointing at the words under the picture. ‘One fine day, Paolo …’
The old lady hit her on the knee, deep angry furrows on her forehead.
‘Sorry.’ Sandra put her hand over her mouth and felt herself redden at the Freudian slip. She wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. But then she heard a polite little snort, and the Duchess was laughing. The old lady reached out. A curved hand, cold dry fingers touched the side of Sandra’s face, the Duchess’s eyes travelled over her face, finding some pleasure in it. Then she sat back in her chair and clicked her fingers, wanting the story to go on.
Irene Kerr was brought into the small section of the interview room, her crooked elbow cupped in the hand of the faithful Maggie. She was a ghost of the feisty woman who had struggled with Costello only a few hours before. Maggie guided her to a seat and she collapsed into it.
‘Do you recognize this man?’ Anderson held out a print of the screen shot.
She nodded again, enthusiastically. ‘That’s David,’ she said.
‘We have found some CCTV footage. I want you to be prepared for it.’
She nodded. A long deep breath of control.
‘He’s sitting at the Zeitgeist Café.’
‘Yes, I know that place.’
‘We’d like you to watch the film, and tell us anything you think might help us. Anything at all. Are you OK with that?’
She nodded keenly. They pulled her chair in front of the screen. Maggie sat behind her, to help if it all got a bit unpleasant.
DC Wyngate was at the mouse, his fingers flicking back and forward. ‘Watch this.’
Anderson was going to watch the film. Mulholland, who had sourced the tape, was on the opposite side, watching Irene’s reaction.
Anderson sat down.
The film itself was quite clear, occasionally they had a good view of the boy sitting at the corner of Byres Road and Vinicombe Street, outside the Zeitgeist Café on a wrought iron chair enjoying the sunshine. One foot parked up on the other thigh, his head back, taking the occasional sip at a can that they knew was Appletiser, and the occasional bite of his granola bar.
‘That’s him, that’s him.’ Irene’s fingers flew to the screen, her son’s slightly fuzzy image smiled at something. His mother smiled back, entranced.
The camera swung slowly away, catching images elsewhere. Untidy rows of a marching pipe band that were heading towards an assembly point. Among the black and white shades of grey images, it was only really strong colour which stood out, making it a weird one-point colour world. Wyngate moved the tracker ball to get the best picture, then enlarged it to fill the screen without distorting the image. The view was hindered constantly by the crowd on the pavement passing, making their way up to the start of the parade. The movement of people from right to left and the camera occasionally moving up and down, gave the impression of a boat on a heavy swell. It wasn’t easy to get a good full view of David. Every time he appeared on the screen Wyngate halted the video.
‘People watching? Or is he waiting for somebody? He wasn’t meant to be meeting his friends until eleven,’ said Irene.
‘Maybe he’s waiting for somebody else,’ hinted Anderson.
‘So what happened to him?’ Irene looked round at the faces of Wyngate and Mulholland, knowing they had seen it. Her eyes searched Anderson’s face for answers. She got nothing back.
‘Watch please, we need you to keep your eyes on the screen.’ Anderson was polite, then added, ‘It’s the best thing you can do. Give us any answers you can.’
She nodded, turning her eyes to an image both hypnotic and repellent.
Wyngate moved the CCTV film on, the pipes passed, the drums passed, there was a space about 09.08 where David was clearly visible doing nothing much of interest. A teenage boy taking time out, relaxing, drinking his Appletiser, casually checking his phone. Wyngate slowed the tape down as a waitress went past carrying a bin bag. She held it open for him to put something in it, the empty granola wrapper. A laugh and a few flirtatious words passed between them before the waitress walked round the corner to take the bag to the bins.
David lifted his phone again.
‘He’s not texting or taking a call, he’s checking it,’ Mulholland said, transfixed by the footage.
‘All kids do that, Vik, they look at their phone a hundred times a day. He puts the phone back down on the table beside him,’ Anderson said.
David was sitting with his back leaning against the wall of the café, then lifted his head as if somebody had caught his attention.
Irene was sitting up, energized suddenly, full of hope, an excited expression on her face.
A woman moved into view, her back to the camera but she was close to David. Her white trousers stood out on the film. She wore a bright silky top so beautifully cut it drifted as she moved. Her striking figure glowed in this monochrome world. She was pulling something behind her, like a shopping trolley or a case but the body of it was obscured by others passing by and she herself obscured the view of David as she passed in front of him. Then she hesitated, stopped. His arm was seen, outstretched so his hand appeared from the other side of her body. The universal language of giving directions. The woman seemed to lean over towards him, one hand cupped to her ear to hear better over the noise of the street. Then she raised her hand in thanks and walked away, crossing Vinicombe Street to carry on to the bottom of Byres Road. She strode out of view with confidence, now she was sure where she was going.
‘In the direction of the University Café,’ muttered Irene.
They watched as David turned his head to watch her go, a handsome young man, caught in profile, rubbing his upper arm against an unseen chill. The look on his face was slightly puzzled, querulous.
‘Do you know that woman? Difficult to tell seeing her from the back, but do you know her?’ Wyngate stopped the film, Irene’s son’s face was frozen on profile. The quizzical look etched on his features. ‘It looks as though he might, or he thought he might.’
‘But she was only asking directions, wasn’t she? And I couldn’t even see her face. Is that it? Please tell me that you have more than that?’ Irene looked at Anderson, hands out, pleading.
Wyngate looked at Anderson.
‘No, there’s plenty more. Are you OK to go on?’
She nodded. The film restarted.
‘It goes on for about five minutes. David is just sitting. The Irish dancers walk past with their band following and then the characters from the Woodland Theatre. You’ll see a few mice, rabbits and squirrels walk up, plus a very convincing Mr Fox. David is watching, not paying much attention to anything or anyone. We see glimpses of him here and there. Then there’s this. Nine thirteen.’ Wyngate slowed the film down, another figure appeared at the edge of the shot. They appeared to be standing in the doorway of the Zeitgeist Café. A female in jeans, long hair twisted into a clip, thin, vest T-shirt, bracelets round her wrist. There was a large camera hanging round her neck. A can of Diet Coke came into view as she lowered her arm. She leaned over to him, her back to the street-mounted camera. A can of Diet Coke was placed on the table. They saw it wobble as the table was then pulled jerkily to one side. Anderson moved his seat forward, transfixed by what was now unwinding on the screen.
‘Can we get a better view on that, Gordon?’
Wyngate looked round at the use of his first name, ‘We can once we send it to be enhanced, but I thought that we needed to see this straightaway.’
Wyngate paused the film. David was sitting on the pavement, eyes open, almost laughing as if he had fallen off his seat.
‘Oh my God, what has happened to him? What did they do to him?’ Irene’s hand was at her mouth, her voice trembling. Maggie was staring at the screen this time as well, fixated by the drama.
Anderson nodded to Wyngate; move it on.
As they lifted him up, a glimpse of the side of their faces came into view. The older woman helped David up and onto the chair and then onto his feet. She began to walk him away. Her arm through his, giving him some assistance. The second woman, much younger, called after them, skinny arm outstretched as she takes two steps to catch them up, holding out the phone that he had left on the table. For a moment their hands meet, and grip. The time on the film was 09.17 a.m.
‘It looks as though he knows that girl, the one with the bare arm and the bracelets …’ And the camera round her neck.
‘Do you know her?’ asked Wyngate. ‘He seems to know her.’
‘And the blonde woman was pulling something the first time she passed. She’s not now.’ Maggie pointed out, clearly puzzled.
‘I don’t know her. Oh my God. What happened to him? Who are these people?’
Anderson ignored her. ‘Stop the film.’
Wyngate jumped.
‘Right there, stop it,’ said Anderson, pulling out his own mobile phone, and swiping the screen once. He left the room, leaving the door to close slowly.
Wyngate looked back at the film, and then Mulholland looked at the T-shirt, the camera swinging free. Older. Curvier. Long dark hair pulled back in a ponytail. Now they knew.