Glasgow Kiss

by Alex Gray

  He’d imagined this moment over and over again, remembered Jamesey’s words. Pit the heid in him, he’d told his wee brother, grinning. Wee half-brother, Kyle reminded himself. Not a full-blood relation. And he knew he could do it. Knew he could take the man on, hold him back and smash his own head against that girning face. In his mind he could hear the crunch of bone as Tam Kerrigan’s nose met the impact of his head: a real Glasgow Kiss. He could almost smell the blood, see the look of surprised anguish in those piggy little eyes as he stood back, triumphant over the man at last. He knew he could do it.

  ‘Whit’s goin on?’

  Kyle looked up, his reverie vanished in an instant. Da stood there, hands by his side, a belligerent expression on his unshaven face.

  ‘Whit’s a this?’ Kerrigan pointed at the luggage on the floor.

  ‘I’m going to live at Gran’s,’ Kyle told him, standing up, surprised at how calm he felt now that this moment of confrontation had actually arrived.

  ‘Oh, aye? An who says you can?’

  ‘I do,’ Kyle replied, watching the man before him. Was that a look of uncertainty in his eyes? He’d been taught to look for signs of weakness in an opponent and he could see plenty right now. Tam Kerrigan’s awkward stance, the looseness around his jaws that spoke of recent hours at the bottle, but, above all, a sort of wariness in those bloodshot eyes as if he was seeing something in Kyle that hadn’t been there before.

  And Kyle knew in that moment exactly what that was. He no longer feared this man, no longer felt the need to give him the grudging kind of respect due to a father. And somehow that sense was being conveyed to the wiry little man who stood licking his lips, clenching and unclenching his fists.

  He just needed to come at him. Just once. And Kyle could smash him, finish him for good, leave him with the taste of blood and defeat in his mouth.

  ‘Whit’s a this aboot? Ye’re leavin yer faither?’

  Kyle shook his head. ‘You’re not my father. You’ve told me that often enough, haven’t you?’ He took a tentative step towards the man and had the satisfaction of seeing him raise his fists protectively. ‘D’you know what? I’ve been up to the registry office to collect my birth certificate so I know you’re not my father.’

  Kyle was panting now, the adrenalin coursing through his body.

  Just one lunge, one sweet Glasgow Kiss . . .

  ‘Ye wee toerag!’ Kerrigan made a move towards him and in a flash Kyle had him by the wrists, forcing him back, feeling the feet slip against the linoleum floor until he had him pinned against the bedroom wall. Kyle felt the strength ebbing out of the smaller man as he held him there, forcing him to look into his eyes.

  ‘You-are-not-my-father,’ he said, gripping the skinny wrists in his hands and glaring into a pair of watery eyes that belonged to a stranger. And in that moment he sensed Tam Kerrigan had known it all along, years of resentment building up, making him lash out at the unsuspecting boy. And for a brief moment he felt pity for this old man, pity mixed with a feeling of disgust.

  Kyle let him go and stood back.

  ‘You will never lay a finger on me again. D’you hear me?’ Kyle asked quietly.

  Kerrigan nodded, speechless now, rubbing the places on his wrists where Kyle had grabbed him, then looking away from those piercing grey eyes that had held him every bit as effectively as those strong boxer’s hands.

  But it gave him no satisfaction to see the older man flatten himself against the wall, cringing as Kyle bent to pick up his bags and head out of the door.

  As he walked out of the close, wee Tracey-Ann from downstairs was sitting on a faded blanket, rocking her dolly to sleep.

  ‘Ur ye goin yer holidays, Kyle?’ she asked.

  ‘No, hen,’ he told her. ‘I’m away for good.’

  ‘Aw.’ Her little face crumpled for a moment as she looked at his suitcase. Then the child gave an exaggerated sigh, something she’d seen her own parent do a million times before. ‘Ta-ta, then, Kyle,’ she said and smiled up at him before turning her attention back to the dolly in her arms.

  ‘Ta-ta, wee yin,’ Kyle replied, swinging the duffle bag over his shoulder and heading down the street for the last time.

  He knew exactly where he was going. Hadn’t he seen it often enough in nightmares? The darkness that would always swallow him up until he woke, trembling and lathered in sweat. William Lorimer had known and despised his weakness, this engulfing claustrophobia, this thing that had haunted him since childhood. They’d left him there, deep within the tunnel and run off, laughing as he’d stumbled on, going the wrong way until he was crying with fear, huddled against the wall, terrified of the train that was going to screech towards him, its huge metallic bulk crushing him to death.

  He had emerged whimpering at last, the daylight never more welcome, to find the big boys had gone and he’d had to make his own way home, snot-nosed and tearful. But the incident had left its mark and Lorimer could still not enter an enclosed space without an elemental sense of terror.

  The grass around the tunnel’s mouth was flattened on one side as if something like a large stone had been removed. Looking around, Lorimer saw it: rolled away against the wall, its flat top perfect for someone to sit on. Stooping down, the detective saw a glint of silver. Instinctively he drew out a handkerchief and picked it up, examining the folded piece of paper. It was the inside wrapper of a stick of chewing gum, folded and refolded then shaped into a circle. Lorimer could just imagine the tall blonde man sitting there, running the metallic paper round and round his finger. He recalled the reports from Russell’s neighbours, confirming what the police had feared: Adam was a man with problems, one fellow had said. He’s got a medical condition, another had whispered, touching the side of her head. Solly’s profile of a man with psychopathic traits seemed to be emerging from the shadows at last.

  Some sixth sense told him that he was in there. Waiting.

  Heart pounding, Lorimer took a step towards the tunnel’s gaping mouth then began the long walk away from daylight into darkness.

  Breathe in, breathe out, he told himself, taking a gulp of sooty air and counting to four, then exhaling on a count of eight. Relax, breathe, relax, breathe, the rhythm of his inner voice soothed the trembling that lay somewhere under the surface; the trembling that threatened to break loose and overwhelm his body in a full-blown panic attack.

  It was not long before the light disappeared completely and he had to feel his way forwards, one hand on the wall to his left, taking careful footsteps, making no noise except for these breaths that seemed unnaturally loud.

  He stopped suddenly, the rumble from the Underground train rising, screaming like a banshee somewhere close at hand, its vibration forcing Lorimer to cringe against the wall. Then it was gone, brakes screeching and some moments of silence before it set off again, its rattle disappearing into another underground tunnel.

  He could imagine them for a moment: ordinary people marching up the steps, away from the cold tiled walls curving overhead, the draught of air billowing at coats and skirts as they climbed up and up into the daylight at street level. And somehow they gave him comfort, these nameless, ordinary people. Wasn’t it his job, after all, to protect them from places like this and from the sort of danger that lurked somewhere just ahead?

  Then he heard it. A single sound magnified by the darkness. A foot scraping against the metal rail.

  So, Russell was in the middle of the tunnel. And coming towards him. Had he heard Lorimer’s own footfall, sensed another human being inside his hiding place?

  Instinctively Lorimer reached into his pocket, feeling the shape of his mobile phone.

  Then a sudden image came to him of how you lost a signal whenever the Glasgow to Edinburgh express entered a tunnel. It would be of no earthly use down here, would it? He’d be unable to call for back-up and he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. And what if Russell had a weapon of some sort?

  Lorimer waited for the panic to begin but nothing happened.
Instead he stood waiting, ready for the man who approached him, unseen in the blackness, his sense of hearing heightened by the loss of his sight.

  On and on he could hear Russell coming, his feet sliding now on the rails, a curse muttered under his breath. And in that moment Lorimer knew that he was still an unknown factor in this man’s reckoning. If he kept perfectly still, hardly breathing at all, Russell might come right up to where he was standing.

  Adam could feel the place where he had secreted the torch batteries, a space in the wall where a few bricks had been dislodged, feeling the place with his hand, a blind man searching for a familiar shape. He’d counted the number of sleepers along the track, stopping when he came to the thirteenth. Thirteen bits of timber between the gap where he slept and the place where he kept his stash: thirteen, his lucky number.

  Then he screamed, an echoing wail that filled the blackness as something large and heavy fell on him, forcing him down.

  His face struck the edge of the rail, teeth smashing against the metal, and then another kind of darkness began to descend as he heard a voice somewhere far away calling his name.

  Lorimer sat outside the tunnel, waiting. It had taken all his strength to drag Russell’s inert body out into the daylight and now he was lying on the grass next to the DCI. His face was a right mess, streams of blood pouring from the wound on his forehead, covering his neck in one dark red patch, his teeth jagged and broken in places.

  But he was breathing all right. Lorimer had felt a pulse. The ambulance was on its way and in a matter of minutes he would be joined by a squad car.

  He looked up to see an old man approaching them across the expanse of grass, his elderly dog loping by his side. It looked like a cross between a black Labrador and a greyhound, Lorimer decided, gazing dispassionately at the animal’s greying muzzle.

  As he saw them, the old man stopped, hesitant, unsure what to do, what to say.

  ‘He’s had an accident,’ Lorimer explained, seeing the fear and doubt in the old man’s eyes. For a moment the policeman wondered what he was thinking, this vulnerable stranger who had come across such a bloody scene. Did he think that Lorimer had attacked the man lying on the ground? Well, he supposed he had, flinging himself sideways into the darkness, taking the man by surprise.

  ‘Now see here.’ The old man brandished his walking stick at Lorimer, taking a brave step towards the place where the policeman was sitting. But just at that moment he turned as the ambulance’s siren whined close by and Lorimer stood up.

  ‘It’s all right, sir.’ Lorimer took out his warrant card and held it so the old man could see. ‘Everything’s under control.’

  The man’s face cleared and he gave a stiff little nod. ‘Right, officer,’ he said, touching a finger to his forehead. ‘Come on, Holly, good girl.’ Then Lorimer watched as the pair of them moved away as the sound of the siren grew louder.

  What was courage? Was it being brave enough to face your worst nightmares, or something like this: an old man with a stick facing up to some stranger who might have been a violent mugger? Lorimer shook his head, pondering as the ambulance drew up.

  If he lived to be as old as the man walking sedately across the grass, dog by his side, he’d still have things to learn about humankind.

  CHAPTER 42

  Lorimer parked the car at the end of a long line of vehicles snaking all the way from Clydebank Crematorium to the garden of remembrance over the hill. Keith Manson had gained the permission of the educational authorities to close Muirpark today and, judging by the crowds already outside the low-lying grey building, most of the senior staff and pupils were in attendance. Lorimer glanced across at his wife, clad all in black as befitted the occasion. Maggie’s head was bowed and she didn’t look at him as he clasped her hand. There was nothing left to say between them. Every suspicion that had pointed towards the RE teacher had proved unfounded. Maggie had been right in her unwavering support of Eric all along.

  They had arrived fifteen minutes before the funeral was due to begin but it was obvious that they would not even come close to the crematorium, never mind gain access to the building. Luckily the Glasgow weather was on its best behaviour and a late summer sun warmed them as they took their place beside the line of mourners. Others were walking back from the overflow car park to join them and Lorimer could see that any latecomers would have to stand across the path from the main drive, a good fifty yards from the main entrance.

  It was unnaturally quiet given that so many young people were assembled in the crowd but then the solemnity of the occasion had probably rendered them silent. So much had already been said about Julie; now was the time to give her some respect.

  Lorimer’s height allowed the advantage of seeing over the heads of the other mourners and he began to pick out a few familiar faces. In among a crowd of other lads, Kyle Kerrigan stood facing the place where the funeral cortège would arrive. There was something different about the boy today, Lorimer thought. Perhaps it was the dark suit, making the boy appear so much older. Or was it that quality of stillness in his manner? So much had happened to Kyle over the past few weeks that it was no wonder the DCI noticed some indefinable change in the lad.

  His eyes roved past the youngsters and Lorimer caught sight of some of Maggie’s colleagues from school. There had been such a bitter division of opinion among them. Were any of these people, standing so silently, examining their consciences and regretting harsh words spoken against Eric Chalmers? Or were they too ashamed to show their faces today? Attendance at Julie’s funeral wasn’t compulsory, Maggie had told him, but from the hundreds of people lining the pathways, it did look as if the entire school population had made an effort to turn out.

  At last the hearse glided into view, followed by two shiny black Daimlers. All that could be heard were the murmurs from the funeral directors as Frank Donaldson and his family were ushered from the cars. As Julie’s flower-covered coffin was carried inside, Lorimer could feel Maggie’s fingers tighten on his grasp.

  It was not until the funeral party had made their way inside, leaving the crowds to wait patiently on the paths, that Lorimer heard the first sounds of girls weeping. Then the loudspeaker allowed them all to hear something of the service beginning with the Twenty-Third Psalm. At first he thought it was coming from a distance, but then the man beside him began to sing and gradually the entire crowd had joined in the familiar words, their voices growing in strength, resounding in waves until the organ within the crematorium could no longer be heard.

  ‘Wow!’ Rosie said softly, the glass of water halfway to her lips. ‘That sounds awesome.’

  Maggie nodded her head, still too full of the morning’s events to articulate her feelings. It had been Lorimer who had described the funeral service at Clydebank to Solly and Rosie and he had tried hard to capture the unique atmosphere as all these people had raised their voices together.

  ‘It was,’ he agreed. ‘And afterwards it took an hour for us to get out of the place. You wouldn’t believe how many folk were there.’ He shrugged as if to say that it had been beyond him to judge the numbers of mourners. Silently he recalled the aftermath of the funeral.

  An attendant had come along to speak to the drivers, telling them it would take a good while to have the place vacated and not to keep their engines running. Maggie had sat in the car, the window rolled down to give her some air, her face pale with the strain of it all while Lorimer had strolled up the hill away from the lines of vehicles waiting their turn to leave. Up there in the garden of remembrance, he’d stood looking out over the river Clyde and the span of the Erskine Bridge. To his left the City was shrouded in haze but further west the river glinted in the sunshine, the hills beyond etched against a sky the colour of forget-me-nots. It had only been days since Cameron and Jo had made that journey, bringing the little girl home with them. But standing there on the day of Julie Donaldson’s funeral, Lorimer had felt it was another lifetime ago.

  ‘What’s happened to Lorna Tulloch?’
he asked Solly, his mind suddenly back to the here and now.

  ‘My sources at the university tell me that she is still undergoing assessment. But,’ the psychologist paused, looking directly at Lorimer, ‘they don’t expect her to be fit to plead.’

  ‘Poor cow,’ Rosie said suddenly. ‘What kind of existence can she expect to have for the rest of her life?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Solly replied, ‘it takes a special sort of person to do psychiatric nursing. She’ll be well cared for, believe me.’

  ‘Right, must be off.’ Lorimer rose from his seat opposite the psychologist and immediately Maggie was beside him, her hand slipped into the crook of his arm.

  ‘See you both soon, I hope,’ Rosie told them. ‘It’s only another three and a bit months till the wedding, you know, and Maggie and I have loads to plan.’

  Lorimer grinned. The pathologist’s voice was full of enthusiasm for her future with Solly and the day that had filled them all with so much sadness suddenly seemed that wee bit brighter.

  ‘Are they okay, d’you think?’ Rosie asked, her head cuddled into Solly’s shoulder. They were standing by the huge bay window that overlooked the street below, watching as the Lexus swung away from the kerb.

  ‘Lorimer and Maggie? Oh, yes, they’re fine.’

  ‘Fine? Is that a professional opinion, Dr Brightman?’ Rosie teased.

  ‘You want me to make the right psychological noises, do you? All right. Maggie’s bound to be feeling a bit adrift. After all, one of her husband’s murder cases coming right to her classroom door will have left its mark. That’s something she’s certainly not used to dealing with.’

  ‘But she’s good at supporting him with other stuff, isn’t she?’ Rosie asked thoughtfully. ‘I mean she’s often moaned about having to re-heat his supper late at night. But she still does it; cooks loads of great soups and things. Waits up for him as well, I guess.’

  Solly nodded and smiled. ‘Maggie’s a good wife,’ he agreed. ‘Having a husband whose working hours are dictated by criminals with no consideration for mealtimes or wives waiting at home can’t be easy. But,’ he paused and drew Rosie to him in a gentle embrace, ‘she loves him.’