Did they know? The other guys in the changing room? Did they know? He changed into his kit, wishing he could fall into place with the rest of the guys. The way he used to before. Before this.
‘Oi, TG.’ Frannie flicked a towel across his legs.
‘Beat it, eh?’ He grabbed the towel and threw it on the floor as he tied his laces. He just didn’t have the stomach for merry banter.
‘Fucking superstar, eh?’ Frannie picked up his towel and walked away, joining the other guys for a bit of a laugh.
A few deep breaths and he’d be fine. Bouncing from foot to foot in time with his breathing, looking out at the pitch. ‘The grass will be greener than any grass you’ve ever seen, son,’ he’d said. ‘And no matter what the weather, that sky will be cornflower blue. When you step out, wait for a moment. Just a moment, mind, and savour it, that moment before the noise of the crowd hits you.’ His dad had played in junior league; dreamed of hitting the premier, but it wasn’t for everyone. Tommy knew that. He’d passed that burning ambition onto his boy. Other kids got bedtime stories. Tommy would be treated instead to memories and dreams of his dad’s short time on the pitch. His dad was gone now, but his words still rang true. Only for Tommy, this dream was turning into a nightmare.
It was still junior league, but this was the first step. Rumour had it that a talent scout would be here today. And that same rumour mill said that Tommy Gallagher was the one to watch. He walked out of the dressing room straight into Harry Nugent’s hand, which pushed firm against his chest. ‘Where you going, son?’
Tommy looked around, not quite sure of the question. ‘I’m eh… I’m going out onto the pitch.’ Where the hell else would he be going? His right leg trembled and he could feel those nerves grip his stomach. Harry’s hand felt hot, even through the thickness of his jersey.
‘Not today, son.’ Tommy felt his throat tighten and Nugent didn’t budge. Not an inch.
‘Am I on the sub bench, Harry?’ His voice cracked; he could feel the muscle twitch in his cheek as he tried to swallow the dryness coating his mouth.
‘It’s Mr Nugent, son. And you knew the rules.’
Tommy couldn’t look him in the eye. ‘Listen, Mr Nugent.’ He looked at the ground, the sickness rising in his stomach as he begged his legs not to let him down. ‘I just want to play…’
‘No, you listen, son; you’re not playing today, or any other day.’
He could feel his breath on his cheek. ‘Harry… Mr Nugent, there’s a scout out there. All I want to do is play football.’
Nugent dropped his hand, took a step back. ‘Be my guest.’ He gestured towards the mouth of the dugout.’ Tommy waited for the catch. There was clearly a catch. ‘Boys like you are ten a penny, Gallagher. Scouts have their pick of the bunch. They’d be hard pushed to go after someone with a drug problem.’
Tommy staggered back against the wall. The studs of his boots scraping off the concrete. A ball of anger formed in the pit of his stomach, but it gave way to fear. ‘I’ve never taken drugs. You fucking know that. Never.’
Nugent raised his eyebrows. ‘Zat right? Well, be sure to let him know.’ He walked away towards the daylight.
‘This isn’t fair. This isn’t fucking fair.’
Harry turned round, forcing his forearm up under Tommy’s chin, pressing hard against his throat. ‘Life isn’t fucking fair, son. Get over it.’ Tommy craned his head back, gasping for breath. Nugent released his grip, wiped his hand across his mouth and brushed himself down. ‘Now.’ This time he kept his voice low, but left Tommy in no doubt as to the sentiment of his words. ‘I want you to get your things, get the fuck out of my face and never come near me again.’
Tommy nodded. A mixture of fear, revulsion and self-loathing propelled him back into the changing room as he grabbed his kit and ran. He wanted to scream; he should have torn this guy’s face off. That was what the other guys would have done. That was what his dad would have done. They’d have been brave. They’d have acted like men. But instead he ran and didn’t stop running until he reached home.
40
The asylum had long since been abandoned, but still the stench of decay hung heavy in the air. Broken glass lined the long corridors, smashed chairs, upturned cabinets and even discarded medical notes were strewn across the floor. Oonagh picked her way through the debris, mindful of the glass cracking beneath each step. She’d expected at least some resistance to entering Breakmire. Imagined there would be some sort of security at the derelict building. But there was none. Just the broken Heras fencing, which had been easy to breach.
She kept her phone clasped tightly in her left hand, 999 already keyed in, ready to press call should the need arise. There was very little light in this part of the building, despite the gaping holes where the windows once were. The thick metal bars were still in place. Through the corridor the abandoned wards still had metal framed beds in place. A pair of old slippers, tartan ones from a bygone age, sat neatly under one bed. To Oonagh that was the saddest sight she’d seen. She remembered when her dad had died and it had been up to her to collect his belongings from the hospital. A white plastic bag with a few meagre things he’d had with him on the ward: pyjamas, his soap bag with his shaving kit – her mum had insisted he was shaved each morning, despite the fact he’d never regained consciousness after the stroke – and his slippers. His wee slippers. They’d looked so pathetic. Her mum had known he’d have little use for them on the ward, but she’d tucked them under his bed nonetheless. Like so many patients. Slippers were one of the few possessions that gave them a sense of personal identity.
She wasn’t quite sure what she was looking for, or exactly where in the building she was supposed to be. Andrews had alluded to Petrie using the basement initially to abuse the patients. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up and she felt the telltale tightening on her scalp. Her earlier bravery was subsiding; her legs felt heavy and she gave an involuntary shiver. She looked down at her phone: two bars. The staircase at the far end of the corridor presumably went down to the bowels of the asylum, which she guessed would cut her signal even further.
Oonagh took a deep breath. This place gave her the creeps. She clung to the banister as she walked down the stairs, the metal treads clanging with every step. She faltered at a half landing, resting her hand on the recessed shelf that had once been a window but was now bricked over. There was no air in this place. Her throat tightened and she took a few moments to adjust her eyes to the changing light that faded the deeper she went.
The dust was making her itch and she felt the slight flurry of falling masonry on the back of her hand. Instinctively she brushed it off and looked down to see a huge black rat nuzzling into her sleeve. Screaming loud enough to make her throat ache, she batted her hand against the wall, scraping off a layer of skin. Suddenly the decision on whether or not to go into the basement was taken from her as she belted down the stairs, trying to create as much distance as possible between herself and the overly affectionate rodent. It was only when she reached the bottom and danced about, trying to shake off the feeling of tiny claws running up and down her spine that she realised that rats very rarely walked alone.
‘Oh, shit, shit, shit, why rats?’ Mice she could deal with, spiders she could pick up with her bare hands without a thought, but rats. She hugged her arms tight against her body, her breath coming out in short sharp bursts and, despite it being a really stupid thing to do, kept her eyes closed tight. This was just not something she could deal with right now.
‘They’re more scared of you than you are of them.’ Her dad’s soothing words had done little to calm her down when she’d seen two rats running through the back close during the bin strikes in the seventies. He’d been holding her in his arms; she’d been just a toddler. ‘Here,’ he’d said, picking up a stick, ‘this’ll do it.’ She’d thought at the time the stick was a makeshift weapon. A special rat killing stick, one designed by her dad. But instead he’d cracked it against the wall, and the noise
sent the rats scurrying away as she buried her head into his neck. Refusing to open her eyes until they were safely indoors again. She’d had no idea until that moment that she was terrified of them. The mere sight of them causing her heart to thump in her chest, her breath to come out in convulsions and that petrifying feeling of her spine turning ice cold, being unable to move.
And now here she was, that same panic engulfing her. The tingling in her scalp encased her whole body. They were everywhere. Tiny claws scratching all over her. Pinpricks of pain, leaving her numb and unable to move. Rooted to the spot. She squeezed her arms tighter around her body, eyes still squeezed shut. Despite her dad’s reassurance all those years ago, Oonagh doubted that any rodent would be feeling as shit scared as she was right now, but his advice as always had been right. Make a noise. Scare them away. She could hear them round about. No idea how many. In her head there were dozens, scurrying across her feet, darting out from behind the skirting boards, their fat tails whipping her ankles as they passed. But in reality she knew there were only a few, and by the noise guessed they were running along the edge of the room.
Blood rushing through her ears made it almost impossible to tell. She felt sick. Her legs like lead, the nausea was growing in her stomach. Slowly she picked up one foot and tried to slam it down. Pathetic. She tried again. It was a bit louder this time. Once more, then she screamed again, making it as loud as she could, and stamped her feet, trying to make as much noise as possible, cursing those bloody Asda trainers with their thick soles that absorbed the noise. All the while trying to ignore the sensation that gripped her entire body; a room full of rats, scratching up her legs, clawing their way up her spine and burying themselves deep into her neck and hair. The noise seemed to do the trick and sent them off in the other direction.
Slowly she opened her eyes. Peering through her fingers. One at a time. One hand clasped over her mouth as she struggled not to retch and instead concentrated on controlling her breathing. Oonagh fumbled with her phone, aware her hands were trembling. If she dropped it she might not have the nerve to bend down and fish it from the debris at her feet. She flicked on the torch; the light wasn’t brilliant, but it was better than nothing. And as her eyes adjusted, the light slowly filtered down the stairwell from the floor above and bit by bit she managed to make out the room.
The basement was large, with several half sized windows at one end boarded over. The bottom half of the walls was tiled, as was the floor. The rest of the walls were decayed with peeling paint and stains that she had no desire to know the origin of. Shallow sinks lined one side of the room, the taps long since broken with only pipes jutting out from the walls remaining. In the middle of the room a slab. Oonagh initially assumed it was for post-mortems, but the leather head and limb restraints suggested something far more sinister. In the corner an ECT machine, its primitive knobs and dials still and benign.
Three doors at one side. She had no idea where they led, but guessed by the layout they were cupboards. It was unlikely they were further rooms. The telltale scratching to her left told her that bloody rat who refused to give up was still sniffing about. Rubble and masonry scattered the floor. She bent down and picked up a lump. ‘Bugger off, you little fucker.’ She was a good aim but it had scarpered; her scream scared it off long before the missile reached its target.
She picked up another rock, large enough this time to do some damage, and fired it at another one of the doors. More stones, more bits of rubble – she hit the doors as hard as she could. She wasn’t taking any chances. If noise did scare them away, then she wanted to give them a head start and create as much distance between them and her as possible.
The first cupboard was little more than a glorified filing cabinet: shelves holding notes and paperwork. The second held disused bottles, jars, bandages, nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing to prove what she’d come here for. It was only when she opened the third she let out a cry of despair. Oonagh dropped her head into her hand, almost unable to look. She had no idea if it had originally been designed for the poor souls who’d been incarcerated in this asylum or if it had been installed by the sick bastards who’d preyed on the vulnerable. The tiled floor had a drain, above which were the remains of an ancient shower head. The sides of the cupboard were stained with what she hoped wasn’t blood; a wooden baton and what looked like a metal cattle prod were propped up in the corner. Leather restraints were bolted onto the walls at ankle, wrist and waist height. Another one designed to be secured around the patient’s head matched the strap-like bruise across Hannah Gray’s forehead which had been mentioned in the post-mortem report. Oonagh struggled not to picture this poor girl, and countless others who had been locked in here as punishment if they hadn’t complied. She wanted out of there. She’d seen enough but knew she needed some pictures. The basement on its own proved diddly-squat, only that Hazel Andrews had been telling the truth. It was exactly as she’d described.
41
Alec walked along Saltmarket. The city was changing, but somehow this street seemed to remain the same. Trapped in time. Soot stained tenements lined the street, blotting out any chance of the occasional bit of sunshine. Overhead, gulls screamed and swooped down to devour discarded chip wrappers. A pawn shop, one of the few remaining in the city centre, enticed passers-by. Cash paid for Rolexes. Any condition, it promised, suggesting no questions asked. Alec ran his fingers over his own watch just to make sure it was still there.
Behind him was the city’s High Court, ahead the Tollbooth at Glasgow Cross where public hangings had taken place in a bygone age. An age even more brutal than the present. It passed as entertainment for some, before television, before The X Factor and other programmes more painful than watching someone being put to death. If social historians were to be believed, the hangings proved very popular among well-to-do ladies, who would dress up in their maids’ clothes to get close to the action without being recognised.
He’d just come from the city mortuary. Hated that building, always had done. Despite the white protective overalls they gave him, the stench of death would cling to his clothes for weeks after each visit. Maybe that was just his imagination. At least today he hadn’t had to actually look at anything gruesome. Just check on the cause of death of some poor old biddy who’d lain undiscovered in her Ibrox flat for months. It wasn’t his remit, but he’d promised to pop in as he was passing anyway. As suspected, it was natural causes, and no relatives, or even a friend, had come forward. Eighty-seven years on this planet and not one living soul to be remembered by. How the hell did that happen? Did some people just outlive their own lives? Outlive their relationships, lovers, families? As usual with such cases the authorities were alerted because of the smell. Sometimes the utility companies came to break the door down because the lecky hadn’t been paid in a year. Or the factor sending threatening red-letter reminders to tenants far too dead to care any more.
He was becoming more squeamish as time wore on and had lost what little appetite he might have had for the blood and gore so often associated with police work. The mere thought of it caused a slight turn of his stomach, which quickly rose up his chest and into his throat. The smell of death was worse than anything he could have visualised. That smell. He quickly cupped his hand over his mouth, grabbing at the dry retch that threatened to give the game away. A cobbled lane to his right steered a new smell in his direction. Fish. For fuck’s sake. All he wanted to do was walk into town without vomiting on his own shoes. Was that too much to ask? A queue of women, bags of shopping at their feet, snaked down the lane, waiting their turn to buy fish, which the sandwich board at the mouth of the lane assured them was as fresh as they’d find this side of dry land.
Alec crossed the road, picking up speed the last few steps as the bus careering along London Road showed no sign of slowing down for him. He’d no desire to end his days under the wheels of the number seventy-eight and imagined Jim McVeigh identifying his body in the same red-brick building he’d left just minutes befo
re. ‘Aye, that’s him all right. Grumpy bastard he was too.’
It was uncharacteristically warm for this time of year, muggy even, but an old tramp huddled in the doorway of a tenement close on High Street tugged at the collar of his matted coat. Pulling it tightly round his emaciated throat. A single sheet of cardboard served as a bed. Next door was a bed shop. The picture windows showing sumptuous looking beds with designer covers. Loads of them. All empty. The irony was not lost on Alec and he fished in his pocket for some loose change, giving a quick glance round to make sure no uniformed coppers were about. It didn’t do for Strathclyde’s finest to be seen encouraging beggars. But the poor old guy looked desperate. What the hell was wrong with a world where this was the only option for some? He glanced at the change in his hand. Only a few coins, not even a pound. He pulled a fiver from his wallet and slipped it into the old man’s hand as he passed. Offering one of those awkward looks between a smile and a ‘you’re welcome’.
The old man nodded in return. His yellow rheumy eyes brimmed over with gratitude, which made Alec feel worse and he quickened his step.
‘Thanks, Alec.’ His voice was coarse and gravelly. It stopped Alec in his tracks. He turned quickly.
‘What did you say?’ Whatever look he gave seemed to scare the old boy.
He faltered. ‘Nothin’. Just thanks.’ He stuffed the fiver into his pocket, perhaps fearful it would be taken back. Alec realised he was scaring him and softened. Slightly. ‘No, after that. What did you say after that?’
The old man’s chin trembled; his eyes shifted from side to side. He was clearly scared. Alec was in plain clothes but knew to folk on the street he had ‘copper’ written all over him. He reached out his hand, but stopped short of touching the man’s greasy sleeve, stained with God knew what. ‘D’you know me?’
The Quiet Ones Page 21