Finlay had nearly reached Struan Drive when he remembered that Leo probably wouldn’t be there. Hadn’t she arranged to meet up with Jacqueline? Despite being the one who had united the two cousins, Finlay felt a stab of jealousy. Would Leo still have time for him now? It seemed unfair that the reward for his detective work should be to lose her to her new family.
He felt a little sour when he thought of Jacqueline. She had been so taken with him, in her teasing way, at the Barras, but she seemed to have transferred all her curiosity and chat to Leo.
But maybe he was just in a self-pitying mood because of the row with Mum. He tried telling himself that Jacqueline’s younger brothers were good fun, and the quiet sister seemed nice too; perhaps he would be making friends rather than losing them.
‘Sherlock!’ Mary’s shrill voice broke into Finlay’s thoughts. There she was, outside the flats, with a thin ginger cat in her arms. He had seen the cat before; it belonged to someone on the ground floor, he thought. Mary was wearing a long leather coat which was much too big for her; the sleeves flopped down, hiding her hands, and Finlay wondered how she had managed to pick the cat up.
‘Hi, Mary. Who’ve you got there?’
‘It’s Midget’s long-lost twin. No, not a twin. There were four of them, four. Not twins, not triplets … quadrupeds!’
‘Quadruplets, do you mean?’
‘Aye! Quadruplets! Quadruplet quadrupeds! A squad of quads, sent by God!’ Mary screeched
with laughter and the cat jumped down from her arms. Mary’s expression changed from mirth to anguish. ‘No, no, no!’ she cried. ‘Divided at birth, united in age!’ She stooped in an attempt to grab the cat, but it ran into a bush.
Finlay had told Mum he was going to see a ‘mad old lady’, but until now he hadn’t really thought of Mary as mad – well, not properly mad, just a bit over-the-top. But seeing her out here, wandering about in that strange coat, pursuing a cat and talking a load of rubbish, he realised it was something more than that. Her eyes, always bright, had an extra gleam to them
– maybe something like Lady Macbeth in the sleepwalking scene, he thought. Finlay touched her shoulder. ‘I like your coat,’ was all he could think of to say.
‘It’s the Godfather’s coat – the long-lost twin!’ declared Mary. She seemed to have forgotten about the cat, and Finlay took the opportunity to steer her up to flat 2/1.
Zigger bounded to the door, but his welcome barks couldn’t drown out the loud music. It was Johnny Cash, as usual, this time singing ‘Ring of Fire’.
‘Maybe we should turn that music down,’ said Finlay.
‘Aye, turn it down! Turn down the music! Turn down the bed! Turn down the job application!’ cried Mary, clapping her floppy sleeves together as she led the way into the sitting room.
Leo wasn’t there, but Squirrel, the
Big Issue
seller, was sitting on the floor, drinking from a bottle of Irn Bru and dipping into a monster-sized bag of crisps. On the sofa sprawled the President, with a cigarette in one hand, a can of lager in the other and several empty cans at his feet. Beside him sat the Godfather with a large saucepan on his lap. The pan was full of Chocolate HobNobs. Mary’s benefit cheque must have come in.
‘Certainly, certainly.’ The Godfather
jumped to his feet and turned the volume on the CD player down. Then he held out a hand to Finlay. ‘Delighted to meet you again,’ he said. The other hand still held the biscuit-filled saucepan. ‘Would you care for one?’ he asked. ‘I am assured that they are unadulterated.’
‘Hiya, Prospect!’ the President greeted Finlay. He tapped his nose and added, ‘I’m working on your initiation.’ Then, ‘When are you going to gie twinny his coat back?’ he asked Mary.
‘It’s the leader’s coat,’ said Mary solemnly, unbuttoning it. She felt in a pocket, and pulled out a red hat with a pom-pom on it. ‘I must give back the leader’s crown too,’ she said. She threw the hat to the Godfather. It landed in the pan of biscuits.
‘I am very much obliged,’ said the Godfather. He sat back down on the sofa, placed the pan on his lap and pulled the hat on to his head.
The effect was dramatic. Zigger, who all this time had been begging for crisps from Squirrel,
growled and made a rush for the Godfather. He seized the man’s trouser leg and, still growling between clenched teeth, began to tug. The Godfather jumped to his feet amid a cascade of biscuits. ‘Away, hound! Away!’ he cried, waggling his trapped leg. Meanwhile, his twin brother roared with laughter.
‘Let the leader be! Set the leader free!’ cried Mary.
‘Down, Zigger! Bad boy!’ scolded Finlay. Zigger took no notice.
‘I think it’s the hat,’ said Squirrel. ‘Try taking it off.’
The Godfather removed the hat and instantly the dog loosened his grip.
‘He’s always been like that,’ said Squirrel. ‘He hates hats. He’s Ronnie’s dog, remember. The polis were always picking Ronnie up, right? I remember when Zigger was just a puppy and he went for one of the polis outside a pub.’
That explained a lot of things, Finlay
realised. He had thought that Zigger’s occasional attacks on members of the public were random, like airport staff doing a body search on every fifth or tenth person, but now he could see a pattern: the girl outside the library with the hooded anorak, the man on the bus, the boy with the baseball cap: in each case it was the headgear which had alarmed and provoked the dog.
Zigger was now happily devouring a HobNob while the Godfather retrieved the rest. On the sofa, the President belched. ‘Any more Tennent’s, Mary?’ he asked in a slurred voice. ‘Our Prospect could do with a drop of liquid.’
‘Maybe I could have a cup of tea,’ said Finlay, surprising himself. Without Leo there to disapprove, he found he didn’t really want to be part of the boozing, smoking, scrounging scene.
‘Liquid for Sherlock! Liquid for Sherlock!’ Mary flapped a leather sleeve at the two
brothers on the sofa. ‘Up! Up! It’s under the cushions! That Lorraine’ll no find it there. Up! Up and away!’
The Godfather got up readily. The President grumbled, ‘You’re off your heid, Mary’ (rather tactlessly, Finlay thought) but then dropped his last empty can and dislodged himself reluctantly. ‘Gie’s the coat then,’ he said. ‘We’ll be off to Froggie’s.’
Mary slipped the coat off. Underneath it she was wearing a nylon nightdress, and she looked thinner than ever, Finlay thought; she’d been providing for all these friends but eating practically nothing herself. She knelt down and began to scrabble at the sofa cushions, not seeming to notice that two of her guests were departing. The third one, Squirrel, had fallen asleep on the floor.
‘Thank you for the hospitality, Mary,’ said the Godfather, now reunited with his coat. He glanced warily at Zigger as he stuffed the red hat back into the pocket, then held out a
hand to Finlay. ‘I hope we meet on some future occasion.’
‘Aye, see ya, Prospect,’ said the President. ‘I’ll have to talk to you about that Harley Davidson.’
As the door closed behind them, Mary was still busy with the cushions. She was pulling them off the sofa and flinging them on the floor, all the time muttering incoherently about liquid and Lorraine. Then, ‘Here they are!’ she cried, and burst into song:
‘Ten black bottles, sitting on the wall,
Ten black bottles, sitting in the sofa!’
Finlay knelt beside her. Inside the sofa was a stash of at least twenty tiny bottles.
‘Nail varnish!’
‘They’re yours, pal. They’re your bounty.’
Finlay picked up one of the bottles and looked at the label. It was the Black Death shade which he used to wear but had now gone off, along with the whole Goth look. ‘Thank you, Mary, that’s really kind, but …’
‘The best for the best,’ she said.
‘But you shouldn’t be spending your money on me. Mary, you’re not eating properly. I really think …’
Mary ignored his protests. ‘All things go full circle,’ she said cryptically.
Why couldn’t she talk sense? Finlay felt out of his depth. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Stand in the middle!’ Mary placed her hands on Finlay’s shoulders and pushed him gently into the middle of the room. He stood there bewildered while she arranged the bottles in a circle around his feet. ‘It’s your satellite!’ she said.
‘Look, Mary …’ Again, Finlay didn’t know how to respond, and in any case, Mary wasn’t listening. She was once more busying herself with the sofa cushions, rearranging them in an outer circle around the bottles. ‘All things go full circle,’ she said again.
‘How about that tea, Mary?’ said Finlay, as if trying to break a spell. It seemed to work.
‘That’s the brew for us!’ cried Mary. ‘No the Irn Bru – the tea brew! The leafy leafy tea-leafy brew!’
‘You sit down and I’ll make it.’ Finlay picked up a sofa cushion, hoping to restore the room to normality.
But, ‘No! I’ll make the tea brew! I’ll make the Hebrew tea brew!’
Finlay followed Mary into the kitchen. Instead of filling the kettle she started twiddling the knobs of the gas cooker.
‘What are you doing, Mary? We don’t need the gas on.’
All four gas rings had sprung to life and were blazing away.
‘We need the rings of fire!’ said Mary.
‘No we don’t! It’s an electric kettle.’ Finlay was trying hard to keep the conversation normal, though he knew very well that Mary wouldn’t respond in a logical way.
Mary was staring in fascination at the flames as she raised and reduced the level
of each ring in turn.
A panicky feeling was rising in Finlay’s chest. What was it Mum always said? Three deep breaths. He took them as he stirred the three spoonfuls of sugar into Mary’s tea. Then, thinking of Mum, he had an idea.
‘I know! You could have a nice lie down. My mum sometimes has a cup of tea in bed in the afternoons – she says it’s rejuvenating.’
‘Rejuvenation!’ The idea, or perhaps just the word, appealed to Mary. ‘Rejuvenation and jubilation!’ she chanted as she allowed Finlay to lead her towards the bedroom. His hope was that once in bed Mary would fall asleep. Sleep was surely what she needed most. There was something in Macbeth about that, Finlay remembered now – something about sleep ‘knitting up the ravelled sleeve of care’. Miss Cottrell had said that meant that sleep could untangle people’s minds. If anyone’s mind needed untangling, Mary’s did.
But when he opened the bedroom door, the
room was far from restful. The bedclothes were all on the floor, mixed up with Leo’s oil pastels, and the bare mattress was covered in strange multicoloured marks, rather like Egyptian hieroglyphics. The only normal feature in the scene was the cat, Midget, who was curled up at the bottom of the bed, purring obliviously.
‘Mary! What have you been doing?’
‘I had to tell them. But the mattress was too heavy.’ Tears filled Mary’s eyes.
‘Tell who what?’
‘About the leader.’ The tears were rolling down her cheeks now. ‘L is for the long-lost leader,’ she said.
It felt like a losing battle, but Finlay kept trying. ‘Remember the rejuvenation,’ he said.
‘Aye, rejuvenation.’ Mary was smiling through her tears.
Hastily, Finlay spread a sheet on to the mattress. Then, ‘You don’t want your tea to get cold,’ he said, patting the bed.
Surprisingly meekly, Mary sat on the bed
and swung her feet up. Finlay placed the duvet on top of her and handed her her cup of tea. She took a sip. Maybe, just maybe, she would actually drink it all, and then doze off. Finlay thought that was more likely if he wasn’t in the room.
‘I’m just going to get some more milk for mine,’ he said.
He closed the door softly behind him. Now what?
Then he remembered Squirrel, asleep on the sitting-room floor.
‘Squirrel! Wake up!’
‘Uh?’ Squirrel sat up blearily. ‘Whasser time?’
‘It’s half past five.’
‘Must do my shift. Did I tell you I’d got a job? I’m on the Tesco trolleys.’
‘But, Squirrel – I’m worried about Mary.’
‘Aye, I know, she’s away with the fairies.’
‘I’m worried she might hurt herself or set fire to the flat or something. Maybe
she should be in hospital.’
‘Och, she’ll be all right. But she should be having the tablets. Has she not been taking them?’
‘I don’t know. What tablets, anyway?’
‘Carbo-something. She’s not very keen on them.’
‘Should we try and find them?’
‘No, you’re best leaving that to the CPN.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The community psychiatric nurse. You could try giving him a ring. Anyway, I must do my shift. I don’t want to get fired after only two weeks.’
‘What time do you finish?’
‘Midnight. But I’ll drop by tomorrow and see how she is.’
Finlay was sorry to see Squirrel go, especially because now he could hear Mary muttering inside her bedroom. It was quite a soft muttering, but his guess was that it wouldn’t stay like that for long.
Should he phone someone? He didn’t know who Mary’s doctor was. What about this CPN person that Squirrel had mentioned? But where would the number be? In any case, he wasn’t sure that he wanted to invite someone in authority round to Leo’s hiding place – not without consulting her.
Leo. He must find Leo. She would know what to do.
Finlay crept to the front door. He didn’t want to alert Mary that he was going out; she would just become agitated all over again. But as his hand touched the handle, Zigger bounded up to him. His lead was in his mouth.
‘All right then, Zigger. Let’s go walkies,’ Finlay whispered.
‘He’ll come round to you,’ says Kim, yet again. ‘It was just the shock, I’m sure.’ She pours me out some more tea – it must be my sixth cup. I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been sitting in their kitchen.
‘Anyway,’ says Jacqueline, ‘you’ve got us. We’re not disowning you!’
They’re being so nice to me. But they can’t rub out the picture in my mind of the old man in the armchair and the look on his face. No, not a look exactly – not a proper expression; rather, the
absence
of an expression. It was as if he was looking straight through me, as if he couldn’t see me.
I don’t think I’d feel so hurt if he hadn’t looked so like Dad. And now it’s Dad I want to see. I want to talk to him, to shout at him even – ‘Why did you have to quarrel? Why were you so proud? Why couldn’t you even teach me Chinese?’
But of course I can’t talk to Dad. Instead, I ask Kim and Jacqueline, ‘Would it be hard for me to learn Chinese?’
‘What kind? Mandarin or Cantonese?’ asks Jacqueline.
I feel foolish. That was something Dad
did
explain – about the different languages – but I was never very interested. ‘Whatever kind you speak,’ I say. ‘Is that Cantonese?’
Kim laughs. ‘If you mean Jacqueline, it’s bad Cantonese. She hardly speaks it at all.’
‘Well, it’s your fault, Mum. You shouldn’t be so good at English! Anyway, at least I’m better than the others.’
Kim sighs. ‘I tried and tried to get them all to keep it up, but once they went to school
they only wanted to speak English.’
‘Stop grumbling! Look, you’ve got a willing pupil at last – you can teach Leo!’
‘Do you really want to learn, Leo? Is it so you can speak to your grandfather?’
‘Yes. I just thought …’ My voice trails away as I try to picture the scene. All I can see is that non-look on the old man’s face.
‘Actually, he doesn’t speak Cantonese. He can understand it, but he speaks a different language – it’s called Hakka. Lots of the old people from the countryside speak Hakka. My mum – your Auntie Luli – grew up speaking it, but she changed to Cantonese when she got married.’
‘Oh.’ It’s all rather confusing and daunting. Anyway, I bet Grandfather still wouldn’t want to know me even if there were a hundred different Chinese languages and I spoke them all.
As if on cue, Auntie Luli shuffles into the kitchen. She smiles at me and does a chopstick mime.
‘See? Who needs language?’ says Jacqueline.
‘Yes, you will stay and eat with us, won’t you, Leo?’
But seeing the old lady has reminded me of Mary. Poor, agitated Mary. Is she alone or is there a motley collection of friends with her, eating, drinking and smoking away her benefit money? Squirrel had arrived before I left.
I look at my watch. I can’t believe it’s after six already.
‘I must get back,’ I say.
Jacqueline sees me down the stairs and gives me a hug. ‘Come again soon! And don’t worry about Uncle Jing. I’ll work on him!’
It’s nearly dark outside. Shall I walk or take the bus? The bus is scarily public, but walking is longer and colder. And Mary will be missing me. Suddenly I really want to be with her again. So what if she’s not a relation? She cares about me as much as if she was my grandmother. I shouldn’t have stayed away for so long.
I turn left, towards the little square. Beyond it is the main road and the bus stop.
I glance across the road, at the last house in the row. That’s where Grandfather’s flat is. He must be back there now. Is he thinking about me?
There’s a car parked outside it, and someone is sitting in the driver’s seat.
Maybe one of the social workers from the Elderly Centre has just dropped Grandfather back home-but no, it’s too late for that;Jacqueline told me the centre closed at about 4.30. The car is probably nothing to do with him.
I walk on.
I hear the car door opening. I won’t look round. I won’t speed up. It’s nothing to do with me. I must stop being so jumpy all the time.
‘Leonora!’
I know that voice.
And now I do look round, but only for a split second. That’s enough. I know that flat hat and that man. It’s Uncle John.
My legs spring into action, almost before my brain has time to give them the message. Run,
run! Faster, faster! You’ve got away before and you can get away again! Just don’t run on the cracks and you’ll be all right.
Round the corner of the dark square. Which way now? Ahead is the main road, the bright lights, the bus stop. On my right are railings, and a little gate. It’s open!
He hasn’t turned the corner yet. I make a quick decision.
Through the gateway, across the grass, under the bare sycamore tree. There are some dark bushes ahead – evergreens. I guess there’ll be another gate behind them, the other side of the square.
The ground is soft, soggy even. That’s good – he can’t hear my footsteps.
But I can hear his. They’ve rounded the corner. They’re running past the gate!
Yes. I crouch behind a prickly bush with berries on it and wait, my heart thudding.
He’s stopped. He’s running back again.
No more footsteps. He must have seen the
open gate. He must be here, in the grassy square. I can’t see him, I can’t hear him, but I know he’s here somewhere.
What shall I do? Keep still and wait, or run again? I’m right beside the railings. There must be another gate, there must!
I can’t see one. And I can’t risk moving between the bushes. I’ll have to climb over the railings, here where I’m hidden by the leafy branches. The railings aren’t very high. I can do it.
If only I hadn’t brought this bag with me. Shall I just dump it? No, it’s got my sketchbook in it. I don’t want him to find that. The bag won’t fit between the railings, so I fling it over.
Now me! What to grasp? How to do it? Somehow, in an awkward mixture of hands, knees and feet, I lever myself up. Now I’m standing at the top, wobbling, ready to jump. But a spike of the railings is caught inside my trouser leg. Still wobbling, I crouch and try to free it.
‘Let me help you.’
He’s there, in front of me, the other side of the railings.
‘No!’
It’s too late. He’s grabbed my knees. I’m toppling forward.
‘Leonora, it’s all right.’
But it’s not all right. Somehow I’m on my feet, on the pavement beside him, and he’s got hold of my wrists, one in each hand. My bag is over his shoulder.
‘Let me go!’ My voice comes out as a fierce whisper. Should I shout? Scream? But what would he do then? And what would I say if someone did come?
‘Don’t be a silly girl. You know I wouldn’t hurt you.’ His voice is horribly soft. He has that soppy smile on his face. ‘I’ve got some sandwiches in the car,’ he says.
‘I don’t want them. Go away!’ Now my voice is rising.
His grip tightens. ‘I haven’t done anything to you,’ he says, still in the same murmuring
voice, but without the smile. ‘I haven’t done anything to anyone. And you’re not to tell anyone that I have.’
I’ve got to think of something! Suddenly it comes to me. His car is parked nearly opposite the Yeungs’ house. I’ll let him take me towards it, then yell their names.
‘Maybe I am a bit hungry,’ I say.
The smile is back. ‘There’s a thermos of tea, too,’ he says. ‘I know you like tea.’
But he obviously doesn’t trust me. He’s still gripping one wrist as we walk back round the square towards Burn Street.
I must try to make him relax, lose his guard. If he loosens his grip, maybe I could even make a run for the Yeungs’ front door. ‘How’s Aunt Sarah?’ I ask.
Does he hesitate a second? ‘She’s very worried about you, of course. We all have been.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. His grip remains tight.
I can see the car now. This is the moment.
‘Jacqueline!’ I shout. Why won’t my voice
come out louder? It’s like one of those dreams where you can’t make yourself heard. ‘Jacqueline! Kim! Andy!’
Now his hand is over my mouth. He’s dragging me by one wrist towards the car.
I tug, struggle, kick. I try to prise off his fingers with my free hand. They’re clamped tight.
‘Don’t make a silly fuss,’ he says. His face is right up to mine now. His mild-looking brown eyes are magnified behind his thick glasses.
His glasses! He can hardly see without them. I manage to snatch them, then fling them into the road. Instinctively, he removes his hand from my mouth and reaches down to grope for them.
‘Help!’ I yell, and the hand is back.
‘I’ve got another pair in the car,’ he mutters.
We’re at the car now. The Yeungs haven’t heard me.
But someone’s coming, from the direction of the square.
‘Leo!’
I can’t believe it. It’s Finlay. And not just Finlay. The dog is with him.
‘Get him, Zigger!’
Zigger growls and makes a rush. He seizes Uncle John’s trouser leg.
‘Get him off !’ Uncle John yells. He staggers and lets go of me.
‘Quick, Leo!’ Finlay takes my hand and we’re both running.