Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (24 page)

“You think my choice of watering hole will tell you something about me?”

“It might.” She narrowed her eyes. “Is that what you’re afraid of?”

“Who said I’m afraid?”

“I can see it in your eyes.”

“Maybe I’m just worried about Mo Dirwan.” He paused. “Remember when you said you’d been run out of Knoxland?” The nod she gave was exaggerated, affected by the wine. “Could be the same guys.”

“Meaning I was lucky to get away with a warning?”

“No chance of you remembering what they looked like . . . ?”

“Baseball caps and hooded tops.” The shrug she gave was exaggerated, too. “That’s just about all I saw of them.”

“And their accents?”

She slapped a hand down on the tablecloth. “Switch off for the night, will you? Just for the rest of tonight.”

Rebus raised his hands in surrender. “How can I refuse?”

“You can’t,” she told him, as Marco arrived with the bill.

Rebus tried to hide his annoyance. It wasn’t just that Siobhan was in the front bar—standing where he usually stood. But she seemed to’ve taken the place over, a crowd of men around her, listening to her stories. As Rebus pushed the door open, there was a blast of laughter to accompany the end of another anecdote.

Caro Quinn followed hesitantly. There were probably only a dozen or so bodies in the front bar, but this made for a crowd in the cramped space. She fanned her face with her hand, commenting either on the heat or the fug of cigarette smoke. Rebus realized he hadn’t lit up now for the best part of two hours; reckoned he could manage another thirty or forty minutes . . .

Tops.

“The prodigal returns!” one of the regulars barked, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. “What’re you having, John?”

“No, ta, Sandy,” Rebus said. “I’m getting these.” Then, to Quinn: “What’ll it be?”

“Just an orange juice.” During the short taxi ride, she’d seemed to doze off for a moment, her head leaning against Rebus’s shoulder. He’d kept his body rigid, not wanting to disturb her, but a pothole had brought her upright again.

“Orange juice and a pint of IPA,” Rebus told Harry the barman. Siobhan’s circle of admirers had broken up just enough to make room for the new arrivals. Introductions were made, hands shaken. Rebus paid for the drinks, noting that Siobhan appeared to be on the gin and tonics.

Harry was channel hopping with the TV remote, dismissing the various sports channels and ending up with the Scottish news. There was a photo of Mo Dirwan behind the announcer, a head-and-shoulders shot, showing him with a huge grin. The announcer became just a voice, as the picture changed to some video footage of Dirwan outside what appeared to be his house. He sported a black eye and some grazes, a pink plaster sitting awkwardly on his chin. He held up a hand to show that it was bandaged.

“That’s Knoxland for you,” one of the drinkers commented.

“You’re saying it’s a no-go zone?” Quinn asked lightly.

“I’m saying you don’t go there if your face doesn’t fit.”

Rebus could see Quinn begin to bristle. He touched her elbow. “How’s your drink?”

“It’s fine.” She looked at him and seemed to see what he was doing. Nodded just enough to let him know she wouldn’t rise . . . not this time.

Twenty minutes later, Rebus had given in and was smoking. He looked towards where Siobhan and Quinn were in conversation, heard Caro’s question:

“So what’s he like to work with?”

Excused himself from a three-way argument about the parliament and squeezed between two drinkers to get to the women.

“Did anyone remember to put a pair of earmuffs in the fridge?” he asked.

“What?” Quinn looked genuinely perplexed.

“He means his ears are burning,” Siobhan explained.

Quinn laughed. “I was just trying to find out a little bit more about you.” She turned to Siobhan. “He won’t tell me anything.”

“Don’t worry: I know all John’s dirty little secrets . . .”

As happened on a good night in the Ox, conversations ebbed and flowed, people joining in two discussions at once, bringing them together only for them to splinter again after a few minutes. There were bad jokes and worse puns, Caro Quinn becoming upset because “nobody seems to take anything seriously anymore.” Someone else agreed that it was a dumbed-down culture, but Rebus whispered what he felt to be the truth into her ear:

“We’re never more serious than when we seem to be joking . . .”

And later still, the back room now filled with noisy tables of drinkers, Rebus queued at the bar for more drinks and noticed that both Siobhan and Caro were missing. He frowned at one of the regulars, who angled his head towards the women’s toilet. Rebus nodded and paid for the drinks. He was having one tot of whiskey before calling it a night. One tot of Laphroaig and a third . . . no, fourth cigarette . . . and that would be it. Soon as Caro came back, he’d ask if she wanted to share a taxi. Voices were rising from the top of the steps which led to to the toilets. Not a full-blown fight as yet, but getting there. People were stopping their own conversations the better to appreciate the argument.

“All I’m saying is, those people need jobs, same as anyone else!”

“You don’t think the guards in the concentration camps said the same thing?”

“Christ’s sake, you can’t compare the two!”

“Why not? They’re both morally abhorrent . . .”

Rebus left the drinks where they were and started pushing through the throng. Because he’d recognized the voices now: Caro and Siobhan.

“I’m just trying to say that there’s an economic argument,” Siobhan was telling the whole bar. “Because whether you like it or not, Whitemire’s the only game in town if you happen to live in Banehall!”

Caro Quinn raised her eyes to heaven. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

“You had to hear it sometime—not everyone out here in the real world can
afford
the moral high ground. There are single mums working in Whitemire. How easy is it going to be for
them
if you get your way?”

Rebus was at the top of the steps. The two women were inches apart, Siobhan slightly taller, Caro Quinn standing on tiptoe the better to lock eyes with her opponent.

“Whoah there,” Rebus said, trying for a placatory smile. “I think I can hear the drink talking.”

“Don’t patronize me!” Quinn growled. Then, to Siobhan: “What about Guantanamo Bay? I don’t suppose you see anything wrong with locking people up without the barest human rights?”

“Listen to yourself, Caro—you’re all over the place! The point I was making was specific to Whitemire . . .”

Rebus looked at Siobhan and saw the whole working week raging within her; saw the need to let all that pressure out. He guessed the same could be said for Caro. The argument could have come at any time, involved any topic.

He should have seen it sooner; decided to try again.

“Ladies . . .”

Now both of them glowered at him.

“Caro,” he said, “your taxi’s outside.”

The glower became a frown. She was trying to remember making the arrangement. He locked eyes with Siobhan, knew she could see he was lying. He watched as her shoulders relaxed.

“We can pick this up again another time,” he continued to cajole Caro. “But for tonight, I think we should call it a day . . .”

Somehow, he managed to maneuver Caro down the steps and through the crowd, miming the making of a phone call to Harry, who nodded back: a taxi would be ordered.

“We’ll see you later, Caro,” one of the regulars called.

“Watch out for him,” another warned her, jabbing Rebus in the chest.

“Thanks, Gordon,” Rebus said, slapping the hand away.

Outside, she sank to the pavement, feet by the roadside, head in her hands.

“You okay?” Rebus asked.

“I think I lost it a bit in there.” She took her hands away from her face, breathed the night air. “It’s not that I’m drunk or anything. I just can’t believe anyone could stick up for that place!” She turned to stare at the door of the pub, as if considering rejoining the fray. “I mean . . . tell me you don’t feel that way.” Now her eyes were on his. He shook his head.

“Siobhan likes to play devil’s advocate,” he explained, crouching down beside her.

It was Caro’s turn to shake her head. “That’s not it at all . . . she really believed what she was saying. She can see Whitemire’s
good points.
” She looked at him to fathom his reaction to those words, words he guessed were quoted verbatim from Siobhan’s argument.

“It’s just that she’s been spending some time in Banehall,” Rebus continued to explain. “Not a lot of jobs going begging out that way . . .”

“And that justifies the whole ugly enterprise?”

Rebus shook his head. “I’m not sure anything justifies Whitemire,” he said quietly.

She took his hands in hers and squeezed them. He thought he could see the beginnings of tears in her eyes. They sat in silence like that for a few minutes, groups of revelers passing them on each side of the road, some of them staring, saying nothing. Rebus thought back to a time when he, too, had harbored ideals. They’d been knocked out of him early on: he’d joined the army at sixteen. Well, not knocked out of him exactly, but replaced with other values, mostly less concrete, less passionate. By now, he was almost inured to the idea. Faced with someone like Mo Dirwan, his first instinct was to look for the con, the hypocrite, the moneymaking ego. And faced with someone like Caro Quinn . . . ?

Initially, he’d thought her the typical spoiled middle-class conscience. All that affordable liberal suffering—so much more palatable than the real thing. But it took more than that to drive someone out to Whitemire day after day, sneered at by the workforce, unthanked by the inmates. It took a large measure of guts.

He could see, right now, the toll it was taking. She’d leaned her head against his shoulder again. Her eyes were still open, staring at the building across the narrow lane. It was a barber’s shop, complete with red-and-white-striped pole. Red and white meaning blood and bandages, Rebus seemed to think, though he couldn’t remember why. And now there was the sound of a diesel engine chugging towards them, the taxi bathing them in its headlights.

“Here’s the cab,” Rebus said, helping Caro to her feet.

“I still don’t remember asking for one,” she confessed.

“That’s because you didn’t,” he said with a smile, holding open the door for her.

She told him “coffee” meant just that: no euphemisms. He nodded, wanting to see her safely indoors. Then he reckoned he would walk all the way home, burn some of the alcohol out of his system.

Ayisha’s bedroom door was closed. They tiptoed past it and into the living room. The kitchen was through another doorway. While Caro filled the kettle, he took a look at her record collection—all vinyl, no CDs. There were albums he hadn’t seen in years: Steppenwolf, Santana, Mahavishnu Orchestra . . . Caro came back through holding a card.

“This was on the table,” she said, handing it to him. It was a thank-you for the rattle. “Decaf all right? It’s either that or mint tea . . .”

“Decaf’s fine.”

She made tea for herself, its aroma filling the small square room. “I like it at night,” she said, staring out of the window. “Sometimes I work for a few hours . . .”

“Me, too.”

She gave a sleepy smile and sat down on the chair opposite him, blowing across the surface of her cup. “I can’t decide about you, John. Most people, we know within half a minute of meeting them whether they’re on the same wavelength.”

“So am I FM or medium wave?”

“I don’t know.” They were keeping their voices low so as not to wake mother and child. Caro tried stifling a yawn.

“You should get some sleep,” Rebus told her.

She nodded. “Finish your coffee first.”

But he shook his head, placing the mug on the bare floorboards and rising to his feet. “It’s late.”

“I’m sorry if I . . .”

“What?”

She shrugged. “Siobhan’s your friend . . . the Oxford’s your pub . . .”

“Both are pretty thick-skinned,” he assured her.

“I should have left you to it. I was in the wrong mood.”

“Will you be going to Whitemire this weekend?”

She gave a shrug. “That depends on my mood, too.”

“Well, if you get bored, give me a call.”

She was on her feet now, too. Walked over to him and pushed up with her toes so she could plant a kiss on his left cheek. When she stepped back, her eyes widened suddenly and a hand flew to her mouth.

“What’s wrong?” Rebus asked.

“I’ve just remembered . . . I let you pay for dinner!”

He smiled and headed for the door.

He walked back up Leith Walk, checking his mobile to see if Siobhan had left a message. She hadn’t. Midnight was chiming. He reckoned it would take him half an hour to get home. There’d be plenty of drunks on South Bridge and Clerk Street, stoking up on whatever was left under the chip shops’ heat lamps, then maybe heading down the Cowgate to the two
A.M
. bars. There were some railings on South Bridge, and you could stop there and peer down onto the Cowgate, like watching exhibits in a zoo. This time of night, traffic was banned from the street—too many drinkers falling into the road and being sideswiped by cars. He knew he could probably still get a drink at the Royal Oak, but the place would be heaving. No, he was headed straight home, and at as brisk a pace as he could manage: sweating off tomorrow’s hangover. He wondered if Siobhan was back in her flat. He could call her, try to clear the air. Then again, if she was drunk . . . Better to wait till morning.

Everything would look better in the morning: streets hosed down, bins emptied, broken glass swept away. All the ugly energy of the night earthed for a few hours. Crossing Princes Street, Rebus saw that a fight was taking place in the middle of North Bridge, taxis slowing and veering around the two young men. They held each other by the backs of their shirt collars, so that only the tops of their heads were showing. Swinging with their free hands and their feet. No sign of weapons. It was a dance to which Rebus knew all the steps. He kept walking, passing the girl for whose affections they were vying.