Riven

by A J McCreanor

  ‘You get tae go down?’

  ‘Aye, he got me a shed. Padlocked an’ everything. It’s mine. Get tae keep all ma stuff in it.’

  Alec sniffed. ‘Whit about this then?’

  ‘Whit?’

  Alec looked down at the bird. ‘See if we leave it here, Rab, will a cat no get it, or a fox? Or just the fucking freezing weather?’

  ‘Mibbe.’

  They stared at the pigeon. Rab spoke. ‘Better to kill it here then than leave it to get scoffed by a fox. Get a brick and bash its heid in.’

  Alec looked around the spare ground. ‘Are ye sure?’

  ‘Aye, it’s the kindest thing. It’ll be our good deed for the day. What did Ms Paton used to call it when she was rabbiting on in assembly?’

  ‘Random acts of kindness.’

  Rab waited until Alec had returned with the brick. The bird watched them with curious eyes. Blinking.

  ‘Best to just cave its heid right in, smash it to bits quickly. It’ll no feel a thing,’ Rab said. He could feel its heartbeat through the soft feathers. The bird shifted in his hands, its claws curled around his fingers. It settled itself. Waited.

  Rab and Alec walked to the edge of the waste ground. ‘Here.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Alec raised the brick above the bird’s head, paused, then brought it down quickly.

  Rab stared at him. ‘Ye missed it, ya numpy. How’ve ye managed tae miss it?’

  Alec looked at him. ‘Ah cannae dae it.’

  ‘Christ, how no?’

  ‘You dae it well!’

  Rab sighed. ‘It’s a nice enough wee bird. Disnae deserve to die just ’cause it’s knackered.’

  ‘Disnae deserve tae be battered tae death cause it’s tired.’

  ‘Naw, mibbe no.’

  ‘Naw,’ agreed Alec, ‘mibbe we should batter the cunt that raced it too far?’

  ‘Aye, mibbe.’ Rab laughed.

  They stared at the pigeon. It stared back. Blinked. Curled its claws tighter around Rab’s fingers. Held on.

  ‘Whit noo?’

  ‘Fuck knows.’

  ‘Aye, right enough.’

  Rab looked around. Derelict tenements stood waiting for demolition, and lined each side of the waste ground. A couple of flats looked like they might be home to squatters. Folk who shot up on a daily basis, given the number of empty syringes littering the pavements.

  ‘We could get it up to the top windae in that place.’ He pointed to the last tenement; its windows were meshed with metal, but a hole about two feet square had been cut into the closed door. ‘It’d be safe up there. Nae foxes. Come on.’

  On the other side of the waste ground a four-by-four trawled by slowly, its blackened windows reflecting the street lights and rain. It slowed to a pause. Stopped.

  Alec and Rab stomped up the stairs, avoiding needles and tinfoil, discarded lighters. Vomit and shit. Up to the top landing. One flat had been burned out, the walls charcoal, the windows blown.

  ‘Handy,’ Rab walked into what would have been a bedroom. He stopped in the middle of the room and nodded to Alec. ‘Gonnae clear that?’

  Alec cleared the shards of glass from the window sill using the sleeve of his hoodie.

  They placed the pigeon on the sill. Listened to it coo.

  ‘Nae food for it, but.’

  ‘Naw.’

  ‘It’ll be safe here?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Will it go back tae its hame?’

  ‘When it’s rested a wee bit.’

  They left the room, both looking back to check on it. The pigeon blinked and watched them leave.

  Outside the wind was up; Rab pulled his fleece close to him. ‘Fuck me it’s freezing. Hame?’

  Alec nodded. ‘Hame.’

  They walked down the street. The four-by-four was waiting for them; the window hummed as it was lowered. Smithy leaned out, pointed a fat sausage-shaped finger at them. ‘Want a word wi you two wankers.’ Alec and Rab didn’t pause to answer – they bolted across the waste ground, their trainers squelching through mud.

  Smithy smiled, let them get a head start before he started the car. He’d enjoy the chase.

  Chapter 23

  The Smugglers Rest looked exactly as it had on his previous visit. Maybe a little more depressing if that were possible. The twins, Heather and Shona, were perched on bar stools making one drink last them all night. They glanced over and smiled hopefully but Maurice Mason ignored them. The twins scowled, muttered to each other and turned back to their drinks.

  Sonny nodded at him. ‘You want your usual?’

  Mason smiled. ‘Naw, I’m having a wee celebration, Sonny, gie us a double vodka. And have one yourself.’

  Sonny looked up quickly, eyes narrowed. ‘Is that you won the lottery then or what?’

  ‘No quite but things are looking up. I’m out of the jail, newly single and I’m coming into a wee bit of money soon. So, let’s get the party started.’ He raised his glass to the barman.

  Sonny poured himself a shot, kept his voice low. ‘Somebody die then?’

  Mason tapped the side of his nose with his finger. ‘I’m keeping schtum.’

  ‘Aye, probably safer that way,’ said Sonny.

  ‘Anyway, a wee toast.’

  ‘To whit?’

  ‘To me being newly single, nae girlfriend, nae family, nothing tae drag me down. Let’s drink tae that: absent family.’

  ‘Christ, I hope to hell mine stay absent. Cunts they are, one and all.’ Sonny raised his glass. ‘Cheers.’

  Mason glanced across at the twins, noticed that they were still watching him, saw Heather lick her lips, keep them parted while she stared at Mason.

  ‘They two always working?’

  ‘Aye, business is slow and they’re trying to keep ahead of the influx for the Games.’

  ‘The whit?’

  ‘The Commonwealth Games.’

  Mason was confused. ‘It’s no like they’ll be going, is it?’

  ‘Naw, but they had a wee read at Grim’s article in the Chronicle. Depressed them.’ Sonny shoved the paper across the bar. ‘Be my guest.’

  Mason glanced at the front-page article, began reading aloud, putting his finger under each word, sounding out the longer phrases. ‘Fears are running high that Glasgow will fall prey to organised sex trafficking during the Commonwealth Games.’

  ‘Nightmare,’ Sonny said. ‘The twins don’t need the competition. No to mention it’s a shite life for the wee foreign lassies that’ll be trafficked through the city.’

  ‘Pigs no dae nothing, is that no whit they’re paid for?’

  ‘Says in the paper the polis huvnae got much of a clue. Kind of down tae communication and according to the paper, there’s no much between the different kinds of polis. Aye, everyone’s got their problems.’

  ‘Aye.’ Mason jabbed his thumb in the direction of the twins. ‘Here Sonny, you reckon it’s BOGOF the night, seeing they might lose out during the Games to the wee foreign birds?’

  The barman chuckled. ‘Aye, just tell them you read what Grim said in the paper, see how it goes. You’ll be lucky, you chancer. Mind you it’s a quiet night, might be worth a try. Wouldnae get on their wrong side mind you – one punter refused to pay Shona last week. Arsehole tried to dae a runner.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’ve no heard how he’s doing, but the last I saw was the ambulance crew picking up bits of broken bone from his nose before they carted him off to the Royal. Still a few wee shards out the back that they missed.’

  Mason sipped his drink, let the alcohol warm him, knew the twins were still watching him, perched like two wrinkled hawks ready to pounce. ‘Well mibbe I’ll have a wee think about it, but the night’s young yet, Sonny, the night’s young.’

  DREAMER

  It’s four a.m. and the Dreamer stirs in his sleep, puts a finger to his mouth and scrapes at the skin on his lips until blood seeps onto the pillow, then his fingers worry at the side of the sheet
, kneading and pressing it into submission. His nostrils flare. It is the smell he remembers best, the coppery smell that drenched the room. The Dreamer smiles, remembering how he’d stood over the body and inhaled deeply as particles of airborne blood had entered his mouth and he’d held them there for as long as he could before forcing them far into his lungs, willing them to become part of his fibre. Gilmore’s blood. The smell of coppers in his pocket, the smell of loose change. That was what Gilmore’s blood had smelled of, loose change. But he was worth less. The Dreamer’s hands clench and unclench, a frown flits across his forehead; darting in and out of his emotions are feelings of relief, of a spring finally being allowed to uncoil. The Dreamer’s hands stop their fretting and he lets himself fall further into a deep sleep.

  Chapter 24

  Wednesday, 11 December

  The Kelvingrove Art Gallery lies in the shadow of Glasgow University and the River Kelvin passes close by. Myth has it that the building was built back to front and when the architect discovered this he hurled himself to instant death from one of the towers. This is untrue but generations of Glaswegians have passed it down as fact, preferring the colourful lie to bald truth. A series of early-morning lectures, The Breakfast History of Art, was being piloted at the Kelvingrove.

  It was seven a.m. and it would have been her day off had James Gilmore not been murdered, but Wheeler had booked the session months in advance and was determined to go. She sat in the semi-darkness of the building and listened. ‘. . . And voted Glasgow’s favourite painting,’ finished the guide, pointing a grubby, nail-bitten finger at the picture. Wheeler peered at Salvador Dali’s masterpiece. The early lecture meant that she got to forget about dead bodies and traipse round the Gallery listening to ideas that were a million miles away from police work. Just her and other art lovers. As the lecture took place hours before the usual opening times there were no chattering school groups, no exhausted mothers with pushchairs sheltering from the weather, no folk who’d nowhere else to go and just wanted to be somewhere warm and quiet. They would all come later. For now, it was just her and peace and quiet and pictures. And the coffee bar for a caffeine hit.

  Wheeler felt her mobile vibrate in her pocket, fished it out and surreptitiously glanced at it. Mobiles were to be turned off during the lecture. It was Ross.

  U at that arty-farty thing? I’m close by. Fancy a coffee when it’s done?

  She managed just two characters.

  OK.

  She stared at the painting, Christ of Saint John of the Cross. Christ on the cross, with no blood, no gore, just as Dali saw it in his vision. Peaceful. The picture had an eerie silence about it, as if she were spying on God. She found it both beautiful and unsettling. She bent and looked at the painting sideways, felt herself sway. It was something about the angle. She gave up on the picture, preferring instead to sit in the silence and drink in the atmosphere of the place. To get it almost to herself was a delight. More than a million souls visited the place every year and during normal opening hours she’d been hard pressed to get anywhere near her favourite pictures.

  She took a stroll along the corridors, the marble floor absorbing her footsteps, the dim lights casting a permanent calm across the arches, the huge blocks of sandstone glowing after their recent deep clean. She passed the bronze sculpture of Madame Renoir and on to the gallery hosting the Scottish Colourists. The gallery was empty, so she wandered in and stood in front of the paintings and once again wished that her police salary would stretch to her owning an original. Her flat was home to five large framed prints but it wasn’t the same as having an original. She wondered about the tiny J.D. Fergusson drawing in Moira Gilmore’s apartment – what would happen to it after she passed away?

  Wheeler stood in front of Fergusson’s Torse de Femme and studied it, saw the energy and the passion in the brush strokes, then she studied Cadell’s The Orange Blind, felt the calm, reflective energy of the painting soothe her. She wandered among the paintings, noting colour, line and composition until, finally, it was time to go. She left by the Argyle Street entrance, turned left and waited on the Kelvin Way for him. After a few minutes she turned back towards the tenement flats and started walking. She soon saw him. Ross had a dog on its lead; in the other hand he held a pile of plastic poo bags. The three-legged dog looked like a cross between a pit-bull and an alien. Wheeler walked up behind him.

  ‘God, but that’s ugly. And it’s got its head in a plastic cone. Nightmare.’

  Ross turned, tried to laugh but couldn’t pull it off.

  ‘That your wee pet then?’ Wheeler continued.

  He nodded. Blushed.

  ‘Not quite the babe magnet I’d envisaged. Still, I bet you’ve got a wee soft spot for it.’ She bent down, patted the dog. ‘Its head’s awfully square, how’s that?’

  ‘Don’t know.’

  ‘Something happen when it was a pup?’

  ‘Don’t know. Haven’t had it that long.’

  ‘And it’s got a nasty wee gash on its head as well.’

  She straightened up, put two and two together. ‘Let me guess. You got it right after you wrecked the car.’ It was more of a statement than a question.

  Ross shuffled his feet, stared at the dog. ‘Can’t be sure – it’s a while back now.’

  But she knew she had him, saw the blush start again, first at the bottom of his neck and then work its way up. ‘Either you ran into the wee runt or swerved to avoid it. Which is it?’

  ‘Avoid. Somebody chucked it out of their car. I never even got the registration. Scabby car, kicked in, think it was a Fiesta. It was a stormy night.’

  ‘It had all its legs then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The mutt.’

  ‘No, still just the three.’

  ‘So you swerved, mangled the pool car, police property mind, and then went to rescue Fido, the three-legged, square-headed mutt? You’re a hero.’

  Ross turned away. ‘It’s not an it, it’s a her. And the vet says the cone can come off in a week or so. Anyway, I need to be getting her back. We still on for coffee?’

  ‘You’re a soft muppet. I’ll walk slow; catch me up when you drop it off.’

  ‘Her.’

  ‘Apologies, her. What’s her name?’

  ‘Haven’t given her one yet.’

  Wheeler looked at the dog. ‘Is “I’m-a-lucky-wee-shite” too obvious? Or just too long?’

  Ross said nothing. Turned and began walking back, the dog trotting obediently after him, her nose in the air.

  Wheeler crossed the road and walked back along University Avenue, taking her time, ignoring the rain and thinking about the case. She had turned into Great Western Road by the time Ross caught up with her.

  ‘Where to?’ He was out of breath.

  ‘Where do you fancy, Ross? My treat, since you rescued a wee dug, so you get to wear the hero’s badge for the day. All day.’ She couldn’t help the smirk.

  He stared at her. ‘You wouldn’t.’

  ‘What? Wouldn’t buy you breakfast?’

  ‘Wouldn’t do what you’re thinking of doing.’

  ‘Might do.’

  ‘No, even you’re not that evil.’

  ‘What? You don’t want your chums at the station to get wind of your heroics? Or a description of your ugly wee friend? Which is it?’

  Ross walked ahead, just enough that she knew he was in the huff. But not so much that she withdrew her offer of breakfast.

  They settled into the café, steam obscuring the windows. It was still early and the café wasn’t yet full.

  ‘A large latte and the same as what he’s having,’ Wheeler said to the waitress.

  ‘Full breakfast, extra fried egg and extra potato scone and a tea for me, thanks.’

  The waitress left.

  ‘Peckish then, Ross?’

  ‘Wee bit.’

  ‘It’ll be all that exercise with the three-legged one.’

  They settled back. Wheeler picked up a copy of the Chr
onicle. They waited until the food and drinks had arrived, then began their chat.

  ‘Gilmore’s fading into the past a bit.’ Ross bit into his egg. ‘But there’s been a couple of interesting phone messages. Came through to the station last night.’

  ‘Who from?’

  He sighed. ‘Anonymous callers.’

  ‘Saying what?’

  ‘That Gilmore’s one of the bad guys.’

  ‘Anything else?’ She sipped her latte.

  ‘One of them mentioned a guy called Arthur Wright, London. That’s all. I’ve looked him up, but we’ve nothing on an Arthur Wright. I’ve got a trace out on the calls.’

  ‘Gut instinct? You think they’re bogus or legit?’

  ‘Too early to call. I’ll keep on it.’ Ross started on his toast. ‘Either way, the case needs to be kept in the papers.’

  ‘I know, what with Christmas coming and look at this,’ she tapped the front page of the Chronicle, ‘the heid high yins are running scared that Glasgow’s going to get inundated with foreign girls for the sex trade now that we’re getting the Commonwealth Games.’

  ‘Read it already. Grim’s right though, might be a bit of a nightmare.’

  ‘I know.’ Wheeler tucked into her fried bread. ‘The thing is, we can worry about that later, but right now it’s pushing Gilmore’s murder off the news. There’s hardly anything at all in the paper about his death.’

  ‘Off the news and out of the public’s mind,’ agreed Ross.

  ‘Exactly.’ Wheeler chewed thoughtfully.

  ‘Trouble is, he just doesn’t have much of a profile. A middle-aged man, a psychologist at a couple of schools in the city who’s a bit of a loner. No wife, no kids.’

  ‘So no sad pictures or pleas from them,’ said Wheeler.

  ‘Exactly,’ he paused. ‘Maybe it points in one direction.’

  Wheeler sipped her latte, paused. ‘Paedophile?’

  ‘Possible.’

  ‘Facts?’

  ‘Nothing yet, either way. I’m just saying it’s possible.’

  ‘I’ll keep an open mind. Certainly he has a hell of a low profile. No girlfriend. No friends. All he has is an elderly mum in a care home.’