A Song of Isolation

by Michael Malone

  ‘Do you trust Donna?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Aye, she’s sound. Pure mental like, but sound.’

  ‘In what way is she mental?’

  ‘She’s a right laugh. Doesn’t take anything serious. Always up for a party.’

  ‘And does she like you?’

  ‘Now I think about it, she’s done something similar. Sent a pic of an ex playing with hisself to his new girlfriend.’ He laughed. ‘It all kicked off after that, by the way. The new girlfriend was pure ragin’.’ He paused, ‘So, aye, she’ll be less judgey than other people about all of this crap.’

  Dave shook his head at this, glad that mobile phones weren’t so ubiquitous when he was first out on the dating scene. God knows what nonsense him and his mates might have got up to.

  ‘In that case, might she be understanding and more likely to pass on the letter?’

  ‘Mibbe…’ Angus sounded a little brighter.

  ‘Give her a wee bit of time. You’ve got to wait for Donna to hand over the letter, and then for Jenny to take it all in and think about how she might reply.’

  ‘Aye, true. And the letter you helped me write was a pure belter. She’s going to be totally impressed’ – he adopted a posh accent for the remainder of his sentence – ‘by my command of the English language.’

  They could hear doors opening and closing along the wing, and Dave realised the sounds were getting closer.

  ‘What do you think that is?’

  ‘Letters?’ Dave replied.

  Their door opened.

  ‘Here’s your tea pack,’ a deep voice said. Excellent, thought Dave. Making himself a cup of tea and drinking it would use up a few minutes. But then the little plastic bag containing some tea bags, coffee sachets and UHT milk containers was dropped on to the floor and kicked along the ground towards them. The door slammed shut again before Angus or Dave could react.

  ‘Bet that dickhead has done that in every cell in the wing,’ Angus said.

  Dave tried not to think too much about it, but couldn’t help but sink into himself at the lack of human decency. Guards had said and done worse to him since he arrived, but this small act of contempt sent a signal that hurt him way into the depths of his mind.

  He heard Angus get to his feet and walk over to the bag. ‘Wanker,’ he shouted. ‘Anyway, there’s the six-second rule. And the stuff is inside a wee bag. It’s all good.’

  ‘Isn’t it a five-second thing?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘When something’s safe to eat after you drop it. Five seconds.’

  ‘I thought it was six.’

  ‘Nah. Five.’

  ‘I’m going for six.’

  ‘It’s five, mate.’

  ‘Fucking six.’

  ‘Your arse it’s six. It’s five.’ Dave realised he was shouting, and he slumped back onto his bed amazed at how quickly his anger had flared up.

  ‘Got your period or something?’ Angus asked. ‘Jesus. It’s in a bag anyway so what’s the problem?’ With every word Angus was saying he was moving closer and closer to Dave’s bed and his face was bright with irritation.

  It dawned on him how ridiculous both the conversation and their response to it were, and he started laughing.

  ‘What the fuck?’ Angus said, his face a portrait of confusion.

  ‘Five seconds, naw, it’s six.’ He ended with a shout and a snort, and then fell into laughter that verged into hysteria. Angus couldn’t help but join in.

  ‘What a pair of fannies.’

  And they were both laughing, snorting, sides sore, eyes wet.

  There was a loud familiar noise as the door was unlocked and opened.

  ‘Letter for Angus Young.’ A guard entered and thrust some paper into Angus’s hand. He paused as if reading their faces. This wasn’t the reception he expected when bearing ‘gifts’. ‘Want to share the joke?’

  ‘Five seconds,’ Angus shouted at him. They both started laugh­ing again.

  ‘Nutters.’ The guard shook his head and left.

  Angus waved the letter at Dave. ‘What d’ye think?’

  ‘Open it for chrissake,’ he replied as he jumped off his bunk onto the floor in front of Angus.

  There was a slight tremble in Angus’s hand as he pulled the letter out of the envelope. He read, mouthing the words in a mumble, but not enough for Dave to comprehend. He didn’t feel comfortable reading over Angus’s shoulder. There might be some­thing very personal on there.

  ‘Well?’ Dave asked when he finished.

  ‘It’s shite,’ Angus said, crumpled the letter up and threw it on the desk before sitting on the edge of his bed. He was bent forward, elbows on his knees, face a slump of disappointment.

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘Her da and her ma will never forgive me.’ He looked utterly crestfallen.

  ‘And?’

  ‘I want to marry the lassie. How on earth is that going to happen if her parents can’t stand the sight of me?’

  ‘You want to marry her? Where’s that coming from…?’

  ‘I don’t tell you everything, do I? Being in here’s giving me lots of time to think.’

  ‘Right,’ Dave said and sat beside him. ‘What else did the letter say? Can she forgive you?’

  ‘Doesn’t say. Just something about me getting a job when I get out and we’ll see. What the hell’s that supposed to mean? I’ve got a sex offence on my record. What employer’s going to look at me twice?’

  He had a point there.

  ‘You’ve got to read between the lines, Angus.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ He looked angry enough to headbutt Dave, who moved back out of reach.

  ‘She said her parents couldn’t forgive you. She didn’t say she didn’t. What she did say was get a job and she’ll reassess.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Strikes me there’s still hope for you two.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Be serious about getting a job when you get out. Take all the help you can get in here and see what happens. What did you do before you got arrested?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You were out of work? How long for?’

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s like drawing teeth. What work have you done?’

  ‘I did some dog walking for my granny’s mate. Worked in an office for a wee while. Had to wear a shirt and tie. Hated it. Did some courier shit with my bike in the town. That was cool, and I was fit as fuck cycling up all they hills.’

  ‘What kind of office did you work in?’

  ‘It was the city council’s social-work department. Everybody was stressed out of their nut.’

  ‘What are you like with numbers? Better than your English?’

  ‘Cheeky basturt,’ Angus said, but Dave could hear the humour in the response. ‘What’s wi’ all the questions, by the way?’

  ‘I know a guy,’ Dave said, wondering if there was something his father could offer to help Angus out. ‘I’m not promising anything, but, keep your nose clean and I’ll see if he can help you.’

  After a moment’s pause, Angus asked, ‘He’s no’ a paedo is he?’

  A few days later, Dave was waiting for a shower. A couple of guys were drying off and dressing. One of them was Angus, the other guy was someone new to Dave. He had long, dark hair, a beard that reached his chest, and was so out of shape it looked like he hunted down every spare calorie he could find. The guy had his back to Dave but judging by the way Angus was inclining his head towards him he was doing all the talking. At one point Angus braced himself as if he was about to challenge the other guy, then whatever came next made him look towards Dave. It was a flash, but still long enough for Dave to spot the movement of Angus’s eyes.

  What on earth was going on?

  Then, they both walked out of the shower area, fully dressed, tow
els over their shoulders, Angus in front and looking like he wanted to hurt someone.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dave asked Angus as he walked past him.

  ‘Nothing,’ Angus replied without looking at him. ‘Everything is fine. Just tickety-boo.’

  It was clear to Dave that whatever had just transpired things weren’t fine at all.

  Chapter 40

  Amelie was standing in the middle of the Place de Pey-Berland in the heart of the city. Using her phone she captured an image of a little girl in blue shoes in front of the series of arches before the Hotel du Ville, turned to her left and sighted a gothic buttress of the limestone magnificence that was the Cathédrale Saint André. Deciding that was too straightforward to work, she deleted the photo from her phone’s memory.

  Taking care not to step on the pigeons around her feet she made her way through the tourists and past the throngs enjoying the sunshine and a coffee in front of Café de France, and then paused, turning in a slow circle, taking in the buildings and people as she considered her next image.

  Tired of having nothing to do and all day to do it, she’d found she had a good eye for a photograph, set up an account on Insta­gram under the name ‘BordeauxGirl’ and began to walk the streets, looking for quirky pictures of the city.

  A man walked past, enjoying an energetic conversation on his phone, his free hand thrown out in extravagant gestures: a visual performance for an audience that could only hear. She caught him from the back, one hand planting the phone to his head, the other arm out wide, palm up as if offering a perch for a passing bird.

  A tram swooshed past just ahead of her, then what looked like family, on their bikes in a cavalcade – mother, father, children – but they were past and away before she could capture them on her screen.

  She turned again, saw what looked like a pile of old clothes situ­ated between the entrances to the Cathedral to her right, and the café on her left. Moving closer she was able to make out a head. This was a man, on his knees leaning forward in supplication, a hat on the ground between his hands.

  The number of homeless people had dismayed and surprised her when she first travelled through the city centre, but then, why should this city be any different to any other she’d lived near, like London or Glasgow? Architectural beauty may point to human ingenuity but certainly wouldn’t preclude human misery.

  As she approached him she plucked the ten-euro note she had earmarked for a late lunch from her purse and dropped it into his hat.

  He lifted his head and she read the fatigue and gratitude in his expression. ‘Merci, madame.’

  ‘What happened?’ she asked as she got down into her hunkers.

  ‘Life,’ he answered as he got up onto his knees. She noted the shame that dimmed the already weak light in his eyes.

  ‘Have you eaten today?’

  He paused as if preparing a lie. ‘No.’

  Amelie brought out her purse. She hadn’t been to the cash machine for a number of days and only had a two-euro coin left. ‘Here,’ she said as she handed it to him. ‘It’s all I have at the moment, but I’m going to the bank and I’ll be back with more.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said as if he didn’t quite believe her.

  ‘And I’ll bring you back some water and some food.’

  He held his hands to his chest and gave a little bow.

  ‘Do you mind if I take your photograph?’

  ‘Me? Why does a beautiful lady want to take a photograph of me?’

  ‘Maybe if I post it online it might show people that we need to do more…’ She tailed off, worried that she sounded a bit lame. Perhaps, she thought with excitement, this could be a new thread for her page on Insta, highlighting the less fortunate in the city?

  ‘Okay,’ he said and adopted his former position, bent forward so that his forehead was resting on the ground.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said and stepped back from him.

  Waiting till the crowd thinned she got down to her knees and caught an image of him with the twin red doors of the cathedral towering behind him.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ she shouted over to him as she got to her feet. ‘With a sandwich.’

  She found a little café up a side street where she ordered a ham-and-cheese baguette and a bottle of still water. Her stomach protested with a faint twist and she remembered she was yet to eat so she doubled her order. When asked for payment she handed over her card. The waiter popped it in the card reader. She keyed in her code.

  And nothing.

  ‘Do you have another card, madame?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘But there should be plenty of…’

  ‘Let’s try again,’ the waiter said with a smile.

  The same thing happened again.

  Shit.

  ‘Do you have another card, perhaps?’

  Thinking there should be plenty of money in this account Amelie shook her head. ‘This is the only card I can use.’

  ‘Then I’m sorry, madame,’ the waiter said and moved the food and drink out of her reach.

  Face burning with embarrassment Amelie left the shop. What had just happened? And what about that poor guy? She’d prom­ised she’d be back with food and now she was letting him down.

  Resolutely, she made her way to her branch of HSBC, on the far side of the busy Boulevard du Président Wilson.

  ‘Can you please check my card is working?’ she asked the teller when she reached the front of the small queue. The badge on the bank worker’s lapel read ‘Alix’.

  With a nod, the young woman took the card from her and slid it quickly through the card reader to the side of her computer terminal.

  ‘The card is working, madame,’ she said, her face giving nothing away. ‘Let me give you a print of your balance.’ Moments later she passed a slip of paper to Amelie through the small opening in the safety glass.

  With a sinking feeling in her stomach she read that her balance was zero.

  ‘This can’t be right,’ she said, realising there was an edge of panic to her voice. ‘I have two other accounts linked to that one. Can you check them also?’

  Claire nodded. Her expression calm and polite. She pressed some buttons, a printer clacked into life and then she passed another slip of paper across.

  With mounting anxiety Amelie read the paper. All three of her accounts were empty.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. There must be some explanation. There should be at least…’

  ‘Je suis desolée, madame,’ Claire said: I’m sorry. ‘If you would like to have a seat at the side, I have other people to attend to.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Madame, please.’ Claire was unruffled. She looked pointedly to Amelie’s right where a couple of chairs were situated. ‘I could get a colleague to check for you but the answer will be the same.’

  ‘There was a lot of money in here last week. A lot.’ Amelie was aware that other people around the office and in the queue were staring at her, but she didn’t care. There was something very wrong here.

  ‘And the balance now is as it is shown, madame.’

  In a daze Amelie walked out of the bank and stood just outside the door. What the hell was going on? What was she going to do? There was nothing in her bank accounts. Nothing. Panic sparking in her chest, she pulled her purse out of her handbag to check the contents. She’d given the last of her cash to the homeless guy. She did have a little stash of money back at the apartment, though. Sixty euros. She could eke that out for a few days, but what then?

  With care she closed her purse, planted it in the bottom of her bag and then pulled out her phone. She called Bernard. No answer. She cut the connection and tried again. Nothing. She tried again, this time leaving a message.

  ‘Bernard, it’s Amelie. It’s urgent. Call me.’

  The blare of a car horn and Amelie started. A hand on her shoulder and someone pulled her back from t
he edge of the pave­ment.

  ‘Mademoiselle, are you okay?’ an elderly woman asked her. She’d been standing behind her in the queue. ‘You have to be careful of the traffic in Bordeaux.’

  ‘It’s been a long time since someone called me mademoiselle,’ she managed to say, noticing the thump of her heart. She placed a hand over it as if that might calm its beat.

  ‘There’s a café just along the road. They have the best caneles,’ the lady said, referring to the little cakes shaped like a cork that were on sale almost everywhere in the city. ‘Perhaps a seat and some sugar might be good to help with your shock?’

  ‘I’ll … I’ll be fine, thank you, madame.’ Amelie touched the woman lightly on the arm. ‘Merci.’

  How she negotiated the streets safely and made it home, she had no idea. Her mind was full of doomsday scenarios. Someone had hacked into her accounts. She’d be thrown out of the apart­ment. She’d have to get a job. But who would employ her? She’d end up on the street.

  Breathe, she told herself. You’ve been poor before. You’ll cope.

  She tried Bernard several more times through the day, but only received the same response; his answering service. Damn, this couldn’t be right. Where had all her money gone?

  Sleep was impossible that night. All she could think about was her missing money. Might it be linked to the scheme Bernard had invested her wealth in, which cost her the bulk of her earnings? Had they come back for more? Her phone was by her bed. She checked it regularly. Judging by the bars showing there was a strong signal so Bernard could get through when he got round to replying to her message. Messages. Each subsequent one probably sounding more anxious than the one before.

  Light filtered in through the window, edging over the floor­boards towards the bed as morning arrived. Feeling the weight of her worries amplified by her lack of sleep she groaned as she pushed herself up off the bed.

  Had she eventually fallen asleep and missed any calls? Gazing at her phone she saw there were no notifications. She tried calling Bernard again. Nothing.