Rough Cut: Rosie Gilmour 6 (26 page)

‘Yeah, sure you will. Good luck. Give me a shout later.’ Rosie hung up.

Nikki looked out of the window as the farmer and his wife were coming across the yard. The wife was carrying a plate with a tea towel over it. The son followed a few yards behind in his wheelchair.

‘The O’Neills are coming,’ she called over her shoulder to Julie, who was chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Julie came through to the living room and watched as they approached.

‘Maybe they’re bringing us some lunch,’ she joked. ‘A wee welcome.’

‘We’ve been here five days. They’d have done it before now. Do you think they suspect anything?’

‘Don’t be paranoid. We had coffee with the son the other day and he was fine. He’s a lovely guy. I wonder what happened to him that he’s in a wheelchair.’

‘But they must wonder about us a bit, you know, with
Gordy suddenly turning up in the big motor. Maybe they think we’re hookers or something.’

Nikki turned to Julie and they both burst out laughing. There was a gentle knock on the door and Julie painted on a smile as she opened it.

‘Hi. How you doing?’ she said, looking surprised to see them.

‘Oh, hello, Julie.’ The wife smiled with her eyes and leaned her head to the side to nod. ‘Nikki.’

Julie waited.

‘I . . . I was baking for the WRVS,’ Mrs O’Neill said. ‘And I’ve an extra Victoria sponge here. Thought it might be nice for your tea later.’ She lifted the tea towel back to reveal a perfect sponge, oozing jam and cream, icing like powdered snow on top.

Julie glanced at Nikki and they both flashed bright smiles.

‘How lovely!’ Nikki said.

‘That looks delicious. Come in.’ Julie stepped back.

‘Oh no . . .’ Farmer O’Neill put his hand up. ‘Me and Euan are up to our ears here in work, and our own lunch is nearly ready. But thanks anyway. We just wanted to hand the wee thing in to you.’ He glanced at his wife, who handed the cake to Julie.

‘Well . . . what can I say?’ Julie enthused, patting her stomach. ‘As you can see, we’ve not missed too many
dinners, but no doubt this will get scoffed in the next couple of days.’ She turned to Nikki. ‘I hope we don’t get any visitors.’ Nikki smiled back.

There was an awkward moment as the O’Neills stood outside, not showing any signs of moving. Then she saw O’Neill kind of brace himself.

‘Ladies. Er . . . talking about visitors, before we go, I wondered if I could have a quick word.’

‘Of course.’ Julie looked puzzled. ‘Anything wrong?’

‘Well,’ O’Neill shifted in his feet, the colour rising a little on his neck. ‘The visitor yesterday – the bloke in the Jag . . .’

Nikki felt a little dig of tension in her stomach. She didn’t dare look at Julie.

‘Is he a close friend?’

‘Not close as such, Mr O’Neill,’ Julie answered quickly. ‘But we’ve known him for a while. He was just dropping by.’ She hesitated, a look of concern on her face. ‘Is it okay to have the odd visitor? We don’t expect a trail of visitors, we’re enjoying the quiet here.’

‘Aye, of course, but that bloke. He was quite insulting to me and my son. Quite intimidating, actually.’

Nikki cursed under her breath. Trust that big bastard to open his mouth and bully somebody. He couldn’t help being a complete arsehole. She bit her lip and prayed Julie would be able to think on her feet.

‘Oh him? He’s a bit of a cave-dweller sometimes. Sorry about that. He wouldn’t mean any harm by it. I’ll have a
serious word with him.’ She grimaced. ‘Sometimes he just comes out with things and he doesn’t even engage his brain.’ She looked at the son, who stared back. ‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to apologise. It’s not as if he’s going to be a regular. Though he might back in the next few days, and then that will be it. I’ll make it clear to him that he can’t go around insulting people – especially yourselves. I’m very sorry.’

O’Neill didn’t look like he was for shifting, and Nikki was beginning to get nervous.

‘Look,’ he finally said. ‘It’s none of our business. I mean, you’ve rented the house and it’s up to you what you do and who you have round here. But I just want to be clear. I don’t want any trouble here. That big bloke looked to me like a gangster or something.’

The silence hung for two beats. Julie shifted her grip on the cake tray and raised her hand dismissively.

‘Listen, Mr O’Neill. Don’t worry. There will be no trouble. I promise you.’ She paused. ‘Are you sure you’re okay with us being here? We’re really happy. It’s a great house. But I mean . . . if there’s a problem . . .’

Nikki saw the wife jab a not very subtle elbow into her man’s ribs.

‘No. There’s no problem,’ she said. ‘James was just a little annoyed at your visitor. His attitude. He was rude to Euan. But really, you’re fine here, and to be honest, it suits us to rent the house as it brings a bit more money in. With Euan
not able to work now to the same extent, things can get a bit tight.’

O’Neill glared at his wife.

‘Martha, don’t be telling people our life story, for Christ’s sake.’

She looked at the ground, embarrassed.

‘Anyway,’ O’Neill said. ‘As long as everything’s alright, ladies, and you’re fine here, and you’re not in any trouble . . .’

Nikki detected a look in his eye. He knew something.

‘No, thanks. We’re all good here.’

Nikki could barely keep her face straight at Julie’s performance. She was so jovial, she could have been serving tea on the WRVS stall.

‘Oh well. Enjoy the cake!’

‘You bet. Thanks a million!’

The two of them watched as the O’Neill’s headed across the yard and up the path. When they were out of earshot, Nikki nudged Julie.

‘That old bugger is suspicious. I told you. ‘

‘Nah, don’t worry. Let’s get our lunch and then we can get wired into this baby.’

*

James O’Neill cleared his plate and pushed it away from him. He gave his mouth a wipe with the square of kitchen roll his wife had left as a napkin and pushed his chair back.

‘Right. That’s me fed and watered. Now I’d better go and do the same for the pigs, before they start squealing.’

‘Will I help you, Da?’ Euan soaked the remains of the baked beans up with a chunk of crusty bread.

‘No, son. You just batter into those accounts this afternoon, so we can see where we are. I’ll manage myself. I need to go and check the silage tank as well.’

‘Alright.’

James grabbed his padded jacket off the hook in the back porch, but he could still see Euan sitting staring down at the table. He could read his son’s mind and immediately felt a stab of guilt. Maybe he should have just told him to come out and help with feeding the pigs. But it was freezing outside, and Euan in the wheelchair was chilled to the bone within five minutes because he wasn’t able to move around the way he used to. Time was when he’d have been working in the dead of winter with his shirt sleeves rolled up, and wouldn’t even feel the cold because he was moving from one task to the other like a machine. It broke his heart to look at him now, a broken man and not yet thirty. He would never stride in from the fields on a Friday afternoon and head for the shower, then come back out looking like a strapping film star ready for action. A handsome and talented rugby player whose name was first on the team sheet every Saturday, Euan was the glint in the eye of every eager girl at the Young Farmers’ nights. But look at him now. At least he was alive, James had to keep reminding
himself in his darker moments. But it killed him to watch his brain-damaged son struggling to form certain words. One time he’d seen him in tears with frustration when he’d watched through Euan’s bedroom door as he’d tried time and again to stand up, each time falling on the floor. He didn’t even have the heart to go in and pick him up, because he knew it would make him feel worse.

But at least Euan had survived the awful night when the thugs nearly kicked him to death outside some club in Glasgow where he and his mates had gone while out on the town for a stag party. For three months, Martha had more or less lived at the hospital at his bedside, willing him to come out of the coma. His teammates and farmer pals all rallied round and visited every day. But in time the visits trailed off and it was just him and Martha. When their son woke up, Martha claimed it was a miracle and that her prayers to some saint or other had been answered. But what they got back was what was left of Euan. The brain damage had affected the nerves that operated his legs. He would never walk again. That was how the surgeon had put it, in stark simple terms. His son’s life as he knew it was over. He had had to learn to speak again, and even now, four years on, he still had difficulty. His mind was sharp as a tack, but the communication was sometimes a problem. Any girlfriends who visited initially had come and gone, because the big lad they all fancied wasn’t there any more. He was now a weaker, thinner version, losing his hair,
forever dependent on his parents. And money was tighter too. James couldn’t afford to take on another farmhand so he doubled his own work, but had to leave a couple of fields just for silage and cattle feed. Even the pigs, which didn’t seem such hard work before, were now more difficult to deal with. The machine ground down all the waste so it was just a matter of feeding them, but it was time-consuming, as it used to be Euan who went out with the van, picking up all the discarded foodstuff and waste from various shops, restaurants and houses.

James went into the pig yard, then through into the back of the building where the machine was. The pigs followed him, bumping into him, nipping at his wellies and he jerked his feet, kicking them out of the way. He switched on the lever and collected some food, then scattered it into the troughs, watching them. When he came outside to the yard he stood gazing across at the afternoon growing greyer, the sky full of rain. He saw the girls switch on the light on the cottage. They seemed nice enough. Euan had stayed there before the attack, but it was more convenient with his disability for him to move back to the house with his parents. He pondered, not for the first time, who the women were. They didn’t seem to go to work. He’d wondered at first if they were a couple of lesbians who wanted to be away from everyone. Or maybe they were shady characters in hiding? But he told himself couldn’t be thinking of all sorts of crap like that. Live and let live – though he
was seriously raging at that big bastard who pushed him around the other day. Who did he think he was? Some slimy fucker in a shiny suit and a big car coming onto his property and sneering at him! If Euan had been fit he’d have decked him straight away, and a few years ago James might have knocked him out himself for his cheek. But he had to stand there and take it now. Shame washed over him. That’s what was burning his gut more than anything since yesterday. Then, a thought came to him. That girl Nikki with the half arm all bandaged. It must have been some kind of accident, he’d assumed when he first saw her. But something was at the back of his mind about a girl with an arm cut off, and he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Now he remembered. There had been a story in the
Post
a few weeks ago about some girl found on the motorway near Glasgow with her arm cut off. She’d nearly died. Could that be her? He remembered the police saying they were trying to identify her. Perhaps it was just his vivid imagination, but with that big guy turning up yesterday . . . He walked towards his house. Maybe he should phone the cops anonymously and ask if they’d found the girl yet. Just out of curiosity.

Ezra Berkley’s shop was tucked away at the far end of Glasgow’s Argyle Arcade, the last in a line of jewellers whose windows sparkled with glittering promises. Diamond engagement rings – solitaires, two-and-a-twist or three-in-a-straight – twinkled under the lights alongside eternity rings declaring that love would never die. Ezra Berkley’s shop wouldn’t be the place where eager young girls dragged their boyfriends to savour the delights in the window, though – there were many other shopfronts that looked more attractive than his little place. But Gordy MacLean knew that Ezra’s customers were not the kind who browsed for gifts. Ezra was a fence who could shift a gold Rolex watch or a diamond ring before its rightful owner even noticed it was missing. It was a family dynasty for the portly little man. They used to say that Ezra’s father, Ave, had moved more stolen jewellery than any of the Nazis had plundered from Jewish homes in the bad old days. Ave
Berkley was a Holocaust survivor who saw his family perish in the concentration camp at Treblinka, and anyone who got close enough to call him a friend would listen respectfully as he re-lived his darkest days. He never forgot them, and he made sure his son Ezra didn’t either. Gordy remembered his father taking him into the shop when he was only nine years old. Ave had told him that he was his age when the Nazis took him and his family from the ghetto where they’d been living in squalor. Gordy had sat wide-eyed, enthralled, listening along with Ezra, a couple of years older than him. Ezra used to nod gravely, proud that this was who they were, and this was why they were the chosen people. At his young age, Gordy had never quite understood that part. Gordy’s father used to bring Ave the proceeds of armed robberies – rings, bracelets and watches – and he would examine them, and pay whatever sum they agreed. By the time the police had come to investigate, the place was clean as a whistle and Ave would be hunched over his table, eyeglass fixed to his face, as if he’d been born that way. Gordy’s father had always told him that the old Jew would never sell him down the river at any price, but he had to remember: Ave wasn’t in this to make friends. He was a fence, and a good one, and money was his only game. As long as he never forgot that.

Now as Gordy slipped into the shop, he could see through to the back office where Ezra was sitting in exactly the
same way his father had. The teenage boy at the counter nodded to Gordy and disappeared into the back.

‘Gordy, ma boy. Come in.’ Ezra’s husky, jovial voice came through from the office.