by Caro Ramsay
‘What’s going on?’ asked Irene. ‘Do you know that girl?’
‘Yes, I think we do,’ said Wyngate. ‘We need to wait until the boss comes back.’
Anderson walked to the window in the corridor and said, ‘Claire, we need your help. Did you come across a young man, light brown hair, long sleeved black T-shirt at the—’
‘Zeitgeist Café,’ offered Claire, struggling to be heard over the rabble of the crowd. She talked on. He couldn’t hear it all, but he caught enough.
‘OK, look, Claire, this is important. I want you to stop what you are doing and go to the nearest police officer you can see. He’ll get you in a car … yes I know it will look as though you are being arrested …’ Her voice interrupted. ‘Yes, I know you can walk it in ten minutes but I want you here in two. Buzz when you get to the door. I’ll let Graham know to bring you up here.’
He cut the call and phoned Graham downstairs to get a car out to her ignoring his protests that nobody was going anywhere at the moment.
‘Who is that girl?’ asked Irene, on her feet the minute he walked into the room, her face right up at his.
‘Her name is Claire. It would seem that your son ran into my daughter. Twice.’ He carefully sat Irene back down. ‘Can I have a word?’ He gestured at Wyngate. ‘Outside.’
Once in the quiet of the corridor, Anderson spoke in muted tones. ‘Claire thought the boy had some kind of fit and presumed the other woman was his mother. The woman took him away. Can you phone the QE, ask them to check again if a teenager was admitted? If he had a fit, he might have no memory. The woman might have given her details and they also might have presumed that they were related. These things happen. We will look bloody stupid if he has been in the hospital all along.’
‘And what do we tell Irene?’
‘As little as possible,’ was all Anderson said.
‘OK, so the boy walks in the forest. He is sad and alone. The sun goes down and he gets lost. He climbs a tree to eat the single apple. He leans on a branch to reach the apple and he falls. He can’t walk and lies down among the leaves on the forest floor.’ At this point Sandra turned the book to let the Duchess see the stunning drawings of the stylized woodland animals that turned up to watch over the boy as he lay, dying. The animals were not Disney beautiful, not cute. More realistic than that, but somehow not real. Hyper real. The last picture was a magnificent stag leading the princess to the little boy; the princess to the pauper. She plucked an apple from a tree and gave it to him. They fell asleep in each other’s arms, cuddling into each other against the deep, cold snow. The boy perished from cold, but the princess survived. At this point the Duchess started to cry and Sandra began turning over the pages until she got to the bit where the Enchantress appeared, a weird goblin-like fairy with gold gossamer wings who flew through the air and brought the boy back to life. They stumbled together through the forest, through the snow, following the lead of the Enchantress. As they walked, the forest became green and the snow was replaced by beautiful flowers. Sandra presumed the deep part of the forest was under some spell to make it dangerous and inhabitable. She knew bits of Glasgow like that.
In this version, the king and the queen were waiting on the return of the princess and they make the poor boy a prince, marrying him off to the princess who spent the last few pages looking out the window, combing her hair. She was gazing beyond the forest, to billows of smoke on the horizon.
‘And so the princess married the poor boy and they lived in the castle. Look there, look at her beautiful wedding dress.’ Sandra turned the book again for the Duchess to see. It was a stunning dress, the drawing detailed to the extreme; a golden gown, layered in diamonds and silver thread. The pauper stood by in his shining armour. The Duchess pointed a quivering single finger out to the picture of the Enchantress, ethereal looking now, high in the dark cloudy sky above the wedding feast, soaring on her gossamer wings. The finger moved from the princess to the Enchantress and back again.
‘So the Enchantress is the princess?’ Sandra asked, totally confused.
The Duchess’s eyes watered up a little. Then she moved her wrist, her shoulders too stiff to move, and lifted her hand to the window. For a moment Sandra saw her in profile, thinking that she must have been truly beautiful once. The old lady’s eyes stared into the cloudless blue sky, looking for an Enchantress of her own.
And she cried.
Despite herself, Sandra put her hand on the thin, bony shoulder and gave it a little squeeze. The Duchess might be a right old cow, but she was a human being and she was hurting.
‘So the Enchantress makes everything OK?’
The old lady gave a tearful nod.
‘That was very charming,’ said a voice from the door. It was Paolo.
Sandra reddened. ‘Sorry, I never saw you there.’
The Duchess turned immediately at Paolo’s voice. She cried tears of joy and shook her head in thanks. There was a lot of Italian hugging and kissing, they were worse than the Irish for that.
‘You did fine. Do you want to go home now, get some rest? It’s nearly tea time. Oh, do you know who this belongs to?’ He showed her a brand new Samsung phone, holding it out, his forearm nicely tanned, the old watch round his slim wrist.
She looked at the phone he held in his hand, then at the watch. She knew it was an eighteen carat gold, Patek Philippe watch, probably from the 1950s. So it said on the auctioneer’s website, worth five grand if it was worth a penny.
Sandra looked again at the phone, her mouth intervened. ‘No, have you been treating yourself?’
‘I found it out there.’ He looked at her. ‘There were a lot of people out there earlier, at the incident. Somebody dropped this.’
Sandra looked wistfully at the watch, and then went into nice mode. He had to learn to trust her. ‘Maybe you should take it to the police, I can stay with the Duchess if you want, you know, until you get back.’
‘No. No, I will sit with her and take this round later, when she has fallen asleep.’
He looked at his watch again and Sandra wondered how anything that old could be so valuable. Then she thought of the Duchess, she was worth a bob or two. She tried to think what a nice person would say. ‘Somebody will be missing that. Kids have their whole life on their phones these days.’
‘I’ll walk round later. Take me fifteen minutes max.’
‘Oh.’ Sandra seized the opportunity. ‘But you gave me that car as a little run-around so I could be here for your mum. I could drive you to Partickhill Station, or you take the car,’ she added, hoping to be in his company for a little longer, then regretted it when she recalled what was in the boot.
Paolo smiled at her, a genuine smile that crinkled his Paul Newman eyes. ‘In that traffic, I don’t think so.’
And she felt stupid.
‘Thank you but no. I’ll enjoy the walk. I’ll get her dinner brought up here.’ He pulled a tissue from the mother of pearl box on the dressing table and dabbed the tears from the Duchess’s cheek. ‘You know, Sandra, you do so much for us, here at all hours. And I know you work much more than you get paid for.’
‘I like her. I like my job,’ she lied.
‘But you should go out, enjoy the weather, go to the festival. There’s a great atmosphere out there. Meet some friends.’
Sandra smiled what she hoped was her best smile. Was that a hint, a wee fish for information? ‘I haven’t any friends here at the moment. And I have something to get finished.’ She added, trying not to sound like Sandra No Mates.
He nodded, that dismissive way he had. And she left.
Once alone, Paolo started to undress the Duchess, putting his arm round the back of her shoulders, helping her to her feet on her wheelchair and then he wheeled her to the wet room. They were listening to Carmen, one of the Duchess’s favourite operas. She would smile and nod her head slightly in time with the ‘March of the Toreadors’, then close her eyes at the aria, ‘Habanera’, enjoying it, losing herself in it. He kne
w that the hearing was one of the last senses to go, and that she was fully aware of the music. Every day, another bit of her slipped from him. He would do all he could to keep her with him for as long as possible.
He helped her into her wet chair and turned on the shower. He used oil on her. She held out her limbs for him, lifting her feet so he could wash, cream and powder them. Then he rubbed cream into her hands and arms, massaging her stringy muscles as he did so. Not caring about the time it took. He did this every day.
Then he would do her hair. In her wheelchair, she was aware that people looked down at the top of her head and she saw no reason why that should not be as immaculately groomed as the rest of her, so every month he dyed what little there was left black, and then painted it with a thickening agent so it looked bountiful as it sat on the top of her head, in the style of an opera diva. Paolo would not have people seeing her scalp. After doing her hair, he would wrap her in a pure silk dressing gown with a feathered border, placing it carefully around her as if she was fragile and valuable, lifting up each arm and slipping them into the sleeves as if they were beyond value. He then sat her in the wheelchair and took her out of the wet room and into the bedroom, sitting her in the warmth of the sun so she wouldn’t catch a chill. She looked into his eyes, her hand resting on his head as he knelt in front of her and slipped each foot into her slippers, then lifted them onto the footrests.
By this time he was always very wet so he took a shower himself. He then changed into his clean dry clothes and packed the old wet stuff away in the laundry basket with the Duchess’s old nightdress and her clothes from the day before.
He tried to ignore the slight hesitancy in her breathing, that wheeze with every breath in, louder with every breath out. She was in the early stages of her illness. The doctor kept mentioning it as if trying to prepare him for something that he could never accept; one day the Duchess might not be here.
‘David Kerr’s phone has been switched on.’ Wyngate pointed at the blue dot on the computer screen. ‘Wait a minute. Yes, yes, it is very close to here.’
‘Close as in we can get there?’
‘Are you wanting to send out uniform? Because I can do this by phone,’ said Wyngate, matter of factly.
‘Then why the hell are we still sitting here? Anderson can get Costello to sit in on the interview with Claire. Protocol dictates that somebody needs to be there when he speaks to his daughter, and with Kirkton taking such an interest he needs to be squeaky clean, so Archie Walker can do that. He’s been hanging around all day like a bad smell. Come on, let’s get out of here.’ Mulholland already had his jacket on. He scribbled a quick note for Anderson and grabbed his car keys.
‘But Claire will be here in a minute, we might be better to wait,’ argued Wyngate, knowing where his allegiance was best placed.
‘But she’s not here yet is she? And that phone is on the move right now.’
Wyngate walked, head down, eyes constantly on his phone as he navigated the crowds by keeping very close to Mulholland’s shoulder. He noticed the rhythm of the limp of his colleague, the hurl of some pipes in the distance and the smell of hotdogs in the air, but he was concentrating on his phone.
Once they were in the car, Wyngate changed the screen to show the street map location. ‘It’s on Prince Albert Road.’
‘We can’t get down there.’ Mulholland drove forward keeping one eye on the phone that was now fixed on the dashboard. The blue dot moved, making its swirly way through the West End, but moving very slowly.
‘Is he driving or walking?’
‘Difficult to say in this traffic.’ Mulholland swung the Audi round in a sharp U-turn.
‘Slow down a bit. He’s coming towards us, he’s on Hyndland Road.’
Mulholland pulled in.
‘He’s going past us right now, he’s driving.’ Wyngate looked out the window. The traffic was snarled to a standstill but the dot was still moving. ‘No, he’s on foot.’
They watched the crowds go past, he could be in there anywhere. The blue dot on Wyngate’s phone turned up the street they had just turned out of. Wyngate was watching a slim young man, jeans and suit jacket, stride out across the road with a worn leather satchel swinging round his shoulders. Mulholland pointed at a slightly older man, walking more sedately, but with determination, a plain shirt, jacket held in his hand, sleeves rolled up, going about his business.
‘I have a dreadful feeling that I know exactly where he is going,’ murmured Mulholland.
‘Where?’ asked Wyngate.
‘Up to the station to hand the bloody thing in.’
Anderson and Costello waited for Claire and watched the CCTV film, frame by frame, time and time again. Anderson was watching David, Costello was watching anything that went past, anything she thought was a little odd. Graham had been called up from downstairs, he was at the controls, stopping to take a screen shot every time they thought they saw something that might warrant closer attention. Archie Walker was sitting beside them, notebook in hand, thinking of the media fallout that this might precipitate. Be prepared was the law of the fiscal.
Anderson had asked Graham to wind the film right back to where Claire had said she had bumped into David, before he made it to the Zeitgeist Café.
They had viewed the second half many times. David sitting with his Appletiser. The image being blocked by the passage of a high-sided vehicle going up to the start of the parade. They had scrutinized the early morning crowds, watching as they meandered around, looking for a nice place to have breakfast, enjoying the sun and the aperitif of the street entertainers. They had noted and traced who David had spoken to: the waitress with the bin bag, a man who asked directions before he and his wife went off on their way, a younger man texting as he walked and tripped over David’s legs; there was a charismatic smile, an apology, a bit of a laugh between them. David had waved his hand; Oh don’t bother about it. Heads turned, listening to something coming down Byres Road. The Glasgow Gospel Choir singing ‘Proud Mary’, a straggly bunch; singing and dancing with no real cohesion, just enjoying themselves.
A few people gathered in front of David, a dark-haired girl came into view. Colin thought he recognized one of Claire’s school friends. Well, maybe not a friend. Definitely not a friend. Costello kept her head down, making notes. Archie Walker was looking at the screen, frowning slightly, some vague recognition trying to come to the front of his mind.
Anderson fell very quiet as the stilt walkers, stilts over their arm, came into view. They carried some rolled-up banners high, others scattered red paper high into the air.
‘They were promoting that new nightclub. Kenny Fraser had trouble getting planning for it so they are six months behind. It’s still being refurbed. Insanity,’ said Walker.
‘What? Advertising it now when it’s not opening until Christmas?’
‘No, the name of the nightclub is Insanity.’
‘Kenny Fraser, not exactly a pillar of the community, is he?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment,’ said Walker, which was fiscal speak for yes.
Anderson asked for the tape to be wound further back.
From the distance of the camera, it looked as though they were scattering thick confetti but the close up showed they were casting red paper flowers that soared like birds into the sky. They floated down to the empty street, pattering the road with red petals. The small crowd were clapping. They couldn’t tell from watching if the tune had changed but the dancing was different, a bit less Motown and a bit jazzier. Two girls were caught in the upper right of the screen Charlestoning in the gutter, falling over and laughing.
Claire came into view, a small figure in the upper left of the screen. She reached out and caught a rose in her palm with balletic grace.
‘Where is she?’ asked Anderson, looking at his watch.
‘She’s in the doorway of Papyrus, I think.’
Claire retreated out of view and three girls immediately obscured the picture. Her ‘friends�
� from school, including the one with the purple streaks. Anderson watched closely and the room fell silent. There was a bit of horseplay. Claire appeared, words exchanged. She took a few steps back, one hand behind her to steady her against the wall of the shop as she gripped the camera. Then Claire retreated further into the doorway.
They could see the dark-haired girl turn and say something to Claire, now visible again. Claire’s head whiplashed as if she had been slapped, pulling the camera up a little to help cover her face, creating a barrier between them.
The other girl was quite clear. She didn’t spit at Claire but words shot out her mouth, insulting and demeaning. There was a gang with the bully, one against three. Her two accomplices walked away. The dark-haired one hung back, grinding her shoe into the pavement, made a final parting comment and swaggered away. Claire stood quite still, chin up, poised, dignified in her defeat. The others walked out of the upper corner of the screen and Claire gave a little look of relief over her left shoulder, making sure that they were gone. Anderson twitched slightly in his seat, wishing that he had been there, that he could have done something.
The room was quiet.
Walker glanced at Costello, telling her to keep quiet.
Anderson sat back on his seat, his eyes narrowed. He was very angry. He recalled Claire coming in from school, month after month, just going straight up to her room, sneaking upstairs. Unseen, like she didn’t exist. The psychologist had told them to watch out for a return to this destructive pattern of behaviour, a pattern that had its roots on the banks of Loch Lomond, when she had got caught up in a horror that nobody could fully explain. His daughter was a happy person by default, she had good parenting behind her. Maybe not the most conventional of family set-ups, but she had never been hurt by them. Everything that hurt her had been external. If she was starting to veer down that path of self-destruction again then something definitive had triggered it. And he had picked up that signal in the spring. He had the strangest feeling he had just witnessed the reason.