by Lesley Kelly
He looks offended. ‘I was just going to say that I am not ideal as an accomplice, what with the asthma making it difficult for me both to warn you, and to run away, should the need arise.’
Unfortunately, he’s right.
‘I’ll go,’ says Marianne.
‘No!’ say Wheeze and I at the same time.
‘I want to, though. You’re doing this to try to keep me out of trouble, and between that and Liam taking your money, well, it’s the least I can do.’ And she stares at me again with those lovely eyes, and I’m all of a sudden less focused on the matter in hand and more thinking about what might have happened last night. She takes my silence for consent. ‘Right, that’s settled then, I’m coming with you.’
‘But...’ starts Wheezy.
She silences him with a wave. ‘Shush, Uncle Mick. I’m doing this.’ She looks back at me. ‘I’m going home to get changed – meet me at my flat in half an hour.’
With that, she picks up her bag and leaves.
Wheeze and I look at each other.
‘If anything happens to her, I’m holding you responsible.’
‘Cheers, Wheeze.’ Now I’m responsible for Marianne, on top of everything else. If I can get myself in and out of Meikle’s offices without getting a doing it will be a miracle, never mind looking after my female accomplice. ‘Now give me a tenner. There’s some things I need to get.’
Marianne opens her door dressed head-to-foot in black, holding a matching woollen hat in her hand.
‘What are you dressed as – a cat burglar?’
She looks down at her outfit then back at me. ‘I thought I should wear something dark.’
‘You should wear something that makes you look inconspicuous, not like a bloody mime artist that’s lost her gloves.’ This is never going to work.
She glares at me. ‘How do you know so much about what you wear when you break in somewhere?’
A good question. ‘Never you mind.’
Meikle’s offices are in Leith docks, part of the ongoing regeneration of the shore. The docks were once the heart and soul of Leith, the very reason the town existed. Mary Queen of Scots came ashore here, which we like to boast about because God knows things worked out well for her. John Paul Jones tried to sail a flotilla of ships into Leith, but was put off by the weather, thus continuing the popular trend of turning back at the sight of Scottish rain started by the Romans and maintained by your more lightweight overseas tourist in the present day.
When Grandad Joe was working here, back in the forties, the docks were already past their prime. The great days of shipbuilding, enhanced by a couple of world wars, were over, and the demand for the wet docks of Leith was in terminal decline. A few years after Joe moved to the Bond, the main activity taking place in the docks was late night prostitution, which the Leith Police dismisseth-ed in an unofficial policy of tolerance.
What saved the docks was the same thing that saved seafronts across the country, that is, an increased interest in the leisure potential of waterside developments. What is it about the British public that they like to sip their lattes by the side of a refurbished canal or a decking-entombed dry dock? The graves of Leith seafarers, from merchant navy men to Arctic whalers, must be echoing to the sounds of rotating, as first the Seamen’s Mission building becomes a boutique hotel, then a state-of-the-art shopping centre is built at the Western Harbour.
The streets leading up to the docks are full of overpriced flats, again a common feature of dockside development in my experience. People pay a lot of money for the privilege of not being able to find a parking space, and having nowhere for your bairns to play. The area has been under development for a while, and it’s a mixture of recently completed flats, and work that’s still underway. The streets are deserted.
We manoeuvre our way through the double-parked cars in silence. Marianne hasn’t said a word since we left her flat, which makes me think she’s having second thoughts. I make up my mind that if it looks the slightest bit dodgy I’ll send her home, and sneak back here on my own later. We walk through the housing and into the docks proper.
‘I think this is it.’ I point to a two-storey stone building. It’s one of the original dock buildings which has been done up recently and rented out as office space.
Marianne looks at me nervously. ‘How do we get in?’
I look up and down the street. ‘Not through the front door, anyway.’
We head round the side of the building, me leading the way. The back door’s overlooked by a newly built block of flats, but I don’t see any lights so it’s odds-on they’re not yet occupied.
‘You stand here and let me know if you hear anybody coming.’
It’s an old-fashioned window, one of the ones that are divided up into little panes. It’s the best result we could have hoped for. I put my gloves on and get out the newly-purchased glasscutter and suction pad I’ve brought with me. Some jiggery-pokery and the whole of the top middle pane pops out into my hand. I reach in and open the window from the inside. It’s a bit on the stiff side but I manage to get it open about a foot.
I gesture to Marianne. ‘I’m going in.’
‘What if there’s an alarm?’
‘Then I’ll be coming straight back out again and we’ll be legging it.’
I climb through the window, and it doesn’t seem to set off any sensors or alarms, which makes me think we aren’t going find anything of value here. Marianne struggles to climb in so I grab hold of her waist and pull her through. Even under the circumstances I feel a flicker of desire. Later, Stainsie. The window’s obviously not used to being open and shut. It refuses to close again, but after a minute or two of frantic battering it suddenly falls shut with a thump. I leave the pane of glass on one side, to be replaced when we leave.
We’re in an office, but a quick glance at some of the paperwork lying around makes me think it isn’t Meikle’s. The door is locked, but a quick ferret about in the top drawer of one of the desks produces a key. I go out into the hall and Marianne follows as close behind me as she can. She isn’t too happy to be here; that makes two of us.
There’s another three offices on the ground floor, but none of them match the name on Agnes’ letter. As we go past the front door to the office block, I put the chain on the door.
I turn to Marianne. ‘You wait here. You let me know if you hear anyone coming.’
‘How?’ She looks slightly panicky.
‘Shout, and then get yourself back out that window.’
She still looks a bit uncertain so I try some reassurance. ‘Look, the chain’s on the front door. If anyone tries to get in that gives you time to shout up to me then get yourself back out the window.’
She frowns. ‘Aye, but what about you – how will you get out?’
I look up the stairwell. ‘I’ll worry about that when it happens.’
Meikle’s office is on the first floor. The door is locked, and I won’t able to get it opened without him knowing somebody’s been here. I’ll knock off his petty cash while I’m here and he’ll maybe think it was some junkie looking for easy money. Also, the moolah would come in handy.
The door takes a while to open. I’m not an expert lock picker, but it’s an old door with the original lock and eventually it yields to brute force. God bless the developer’s commitment to original features. At the risk of sounding like Jimmy Gillespie, I don’t understand why you’d spend money doing up an office and not bother to put in half-decent security. Architects – living in another world.
I take a minute to find my bearings. The office is to the front, so that puts the kibosh on putting the lights on. There are blinds, but they’re the crappy Venetian type so you would still see the light from the street. I use my torch instead.
There isn’t much in the office. Meikle can’t have been using it long – there’s no files or piles of paper lying around. There are a couple of large cupboards and a desk, which is a beauty. It’s a massive mahogany affair, at least five f
oot wide, with a green leather top held in place by a series of little metal buttons. True to form, there’s nothing lying on top of it.
I try each of the drawers in turn, and each one of them opens. This confirms what I’ve been thinking – this isn’t an office, it’s a postal drop. In the bottom drawer there’s a pile of papers. I sit down on the chair, also a fetching mahogany/green leather combination, and start leafing through them.
They all look quite recent. A letter catches my eye, because it’s got the logo of Miss Spencely’s law firm. The letter is addressed to Meikle, and is confirmation of his firm being appointed as security consultants to the Mavisview project. I’m not sure what a ‘security consultant’ is, but I can ask Miss Spencely next time I see her, seeing as she signed the letter.
I fold the letter up and stick it in my pocket, and decide to check out the cupboards. The first one is completely empty. I open the second door, expecting to find it equally bare. I’m wrong. The cupboard is full of men’s suits. Never wanting to miss an opportunity I pat down the pockets but find only loose change. My foot bumps into something squashy. I bend down and pull out a sleeping bag; it looks like I’m not the only one dossing down. This strikes me as funny for about thirty seconds until it occurs to me…
‘Staines!’
…that Meikle might come back at any minute.
I can hear Marianne running up the stairs. ‘Staines – there’s someone at the front door. He’s trying to get in but he can’t ’cause of the chain. He’s trying to kick the door in.’
Shit. ‘You were supposed to go out the back window.’
She grabs hold of my arm. ‘I know, but I panicked.’
There isn’t time to do anything. I shove Marianne into the empty cupboard. ‘Stay in there and don’t come out for any reason.’
She nods, terrified.
There are footsteps on the stairs. ‘I know you are in there.’
The voice has a soft southern Irish accent. I’ve always liked the Irish accent, but I’m guessing the owner of the voice isn’t going to be as pleasant as his dulcet tones would suggest. The door to the office opens and the lights are flicked on. I blink in the unexpected light and freeze; what goes through a rabbit’s mind when he sees the car headlight and knows he’s going to die?
The first thought that went through my mind was, ‘at least he isn’t holding a gun’, which was rapidly replaced by the realisation that Meikle’s a big bastard. His head’s just about scraping the top of the doorway, which must put him at 6’4” at least. He’s a handsome laddie; in his fifties but well maintained, with dark hair streaked with silver, and he’s wearing a nicely fitted suit.
He gives me the once-over. ‘What have we got here, then?’
I decide it’s time for a bit of play acting. ‘I’m sorry, pal, but I was desperate for a hit, right, and I was hoping I could get some money out of these offices, right…’
I didn’t get any further with my drug addict impersonation because he steps forward and punches me. I tip backwards, mahogany over leather.
It hurts. Really, really hurts. This is the first time in my life that I’ve actually been hit. My father never laid a hand on me, although he occasionally threatened to. I went through school without challenging anyone to a fight. I’ve never spilled the wrong man’s pint. I’ve made it through a long association with Lachlan Stoddart, rammy-starter extraordinaire, without either of us getting battered. I’m the guy who breaks the tension with a joke, who slides out the pub door at the first sniff of trouble, who hides behind the magazines while the shopkeeper gets abuse. So, why isn’t it me hiding in the cupboard?
He waits for me to get back on to my feet, and I can see he’s got a knife in his hand.
‘So, some wee junkie scumbag thinks he can help himself to my money? Is that it?’
‘I’m really sorry, pal.’ I reach into my pockets and grab a handful of coins. ‘Look – I’m putting the money back.’
He grabs me by the throat and pushes me up against the wall.
‘Sorry doesn’t quite cut it.’ He holds his knife to my face. ‘If you’ll excuse the pun.’
He slides the blade slowly along my cheek and I can feel it bursting open. That’s the thing about professionals. Like musicians and that. A quite-good guitar player can make beautiful sounds and all, but he’s always going to have that look about him that says, ‘see this - it’s difficult, man, but I’m doing a great job.’ But the real professional, your Jimmy Page or whoever, does it with a look that says, ‘piece of piss this. I’m not even trying’.
And now I’m here I can see Bruce, the laddies from the scheme, Isa Stoddart herself, for the fucking amateurs that they are. This guy’s the real deal – Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton all rolled into one. He’s cut me from nose to ear and he isn’t even sweating.
‘Is that tears in your eyes, son? Is that you crying?’
Aye, I’m bawling, you bastard, I’ve just lost half my face.
He takes a step back to look at me, but doesn’t release his grip on my throat. ‘Now a smart laddie like you will see sense. Take this as a warning. I don’t want to see you round here again, cause if I do…’ he takes the knife and starts jabbing me very gently at the top of my leg, ‘… I’ll kill you.’
I believe him.
He takes out a handkerchief and wipes down the knife.
‘Let me see you to the door.’
He grabs my arm and hauls me down the stairs. The front door is still open, with the busted chain lying on the floor. He pushes me out, but just as he is about to close the door behind me he stops.
‘I don’t suppose you know a man by the name of Staines, do you?’
I wonder if this is some kind of trap but I shake my head anyway.
‘Just a thought. If you do bump into someone of that name, be sure to show him your face.’
I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the pavement. I can’t bring myself to touch my cheek but I can feel the blood pouring down my neck. All of a sudden I think I’m going to be sick but can’t bear the thought of retching so I roll over on to the pavement and lie flat on my back.
I don’t know what to do. Marianne is still in there and I don’t fancy her chances if she’s found. Considering what Meikle’s just done to me, what he’d do to a lassie on her own doesn’t bear thinking about. She must be sitting in the cupboard saying a thousand Hail Marys.
I can’t go back in and get her, cause in my present state I’m no match for Meikle. In fact, in any state I’m no match for him. I can’t stay here either though, in case Meikle decides to leave and finds me still here. I take my jacket off and wrap it round my head to try to stop me leaving a trail of blood, and holding onto the side of the building I half walk, half crawl, back round to where we first climbed in.
‘Oh Christ, Stainsie.’ I think I must have passed out. Marianne’s kneeling over me, tears pouring down her unblemished cheeks. She gets out her mobile. ‘I’ll phone an ambulance.’
I put my hand out to stop her dialling. ‘Meikle?’
‘He got a phone call and left about half an hour ago but I was too scared to come out until I was sure he wasn’t coming back.’
I try to sit up. ‘You can’t phone from here. We need to get away.’ This is big talk ’cause I’m not sure if I can stand. ‘Help me up.’
‘Oh Christ, I’m gonna be sick.’ Marianne doubles over and heaves up. ‘I’m sorry, Stainsie, but your face…’ She heaves again.
This is the last time I ever do any dirty deeds with a woman as a sidekick. Or at least a good-looking woman. If it has to be a lassie, I’m going for Velma next time instead of Daphne.
‘C’mon you.’ I help her up. ‘Time enough for that when we’ve got me to a hospital.’
I pick my jacket up and hold it against my face again. The pain when I touch it is overwhelming and I think for a minute I’m going to faint.
‘Oh Jesus, Stainsie, there’s so much blood.’
She isn’t wrong. ‘Aye,
it’s going to be quite a treat for the office workers on Monday morning, but let’s just get out of here. Come on.’
We stumble back round the side of the building. I’m terrified that Meikle will be waiting for us but there’s no sign of him, so we stagger round to Commercial Street.
We can’t get a taxi to stop. Which is strange because I would have said a weeping lassie and a guy with blood pouring from his face was a good fare these days. Three taxis slow down when Marianne waves at them, then pull away when they catch sight of me in all my glory.
I’m beginning to feel cold; I think this is what shock must feel like. I’m starting to rethink the ambulance idea when a van pulls up beside us.
‘Staines - is that you?’
Manny leans across and opens the passenger door. He looks at us in horror. ‘Christ! What happened to you two?’
Marianne pulls me to my feet and I fall into the passenger seat. ‘Can we tell you on the way to Accident and Emergency?’
Dr Evelyn Murray is on duty at A and E.
She smiles when she sees me. ‘Mr Staines. It’s been a while since I last saw you in here.’
Dr Murray is gorgeous. Every time I’m here I have these fantasies where she takes off her white coat and lets her hair loose, and tells me she’s very attracted to men from Leith. Unfortunately, she’s knocked me back every time I’ve asked her out and I’m beginning to think she doesn’t see me as a catch. Admittedly I’ve not been at my best when she’s seen me, but I could teach her a thing or two about life that she wouldn’t have learnt at medical school.
She touches the side of my face with a latexed hand and I wince.
‘That’s a beauty of a shaving cut, Mr Staines. I’m afraid it’s going to need stitches.’
‘Will you need to knock me out first?’ Please put me under. Let me get away from all this for a few hours at least.
She shakes her head. ‘No, no. I’ll just use a local anaesthetic. You’ll not feel any real pain but it might be enough to bring a tear or two to your eyes.’