Authors: William Meikle
She stopped talking, staring into space as she smoked the last puff from another of my cigarettes,
"And?" I said.
"And that's about it," she said. "We got back to Glasgow, got married, had John, and lived a miserable life for the rest of poor Tommy's days."
"Why miserable?" I asked.
"Tommy rang Skye one day, about three months after we left, when I found out I was pregnant. He was so proud of himself, so happy that he was going to be a father. They say that pride goes before a fall...well, Tommy fell all right. He fell a long way. He found out that his brother, Gus, had gone the same way as Patrick, two nights after we left. He never forgave himself. Gus left three bairns behind. Tommy and I offered to go back, but we were told to stay away. So we did. All those years we stayed away. But now it's happening again."
Tears ran down her cheeks, and I left her in silence for a while, giving her another cigarette which she smoked all the way down before talking again.
"We thought everything was all right with John...even forgot about it for a long time. Then, last year, he just upped and went...to Skye. I think you can guess the rest."
"I can guess, and fill in with what John told me...although it's hard to believe...especially in the 'Sons of Loki' story."
"Oh, he told you that..." she said. "I heard that one from Tommy. But I always preferred to consider it as some kind of genetic mutation...somehow it let me think about it without getting into anything supernatural."
"I'm having a hard time thinking about that 'thing in the car park'," I said,
"That thing is my son," she said. "And remember, I'm paying you to get him back to Skye."
"You can have your money back if you like," I said, only half joking.
"You're a man that honors his deals," she said. And again, it wasn't a question.
"Aye, maybe," I replied. "But I might need an elephant gun to do it."
She took my arm and led me back into the bowels of the hospital, but all the way back, a germ of an idea was beginning to grow,
"One question," I said as we emerged back into the A & E reception. "Have you heard mention of something called 'The Source' on Skye?"
She looked at me blankly. The hippie-chick adventuress was gone, and the old lady with a reputation to maintain was back. In truth, I was pleased. Little old ladies I could handle, but when you have to think of them bare-breasted and sexually active it was like catching your parents during sex...theirs, not yours.
"Let's see if your pal is ready to see us," she said. She stormed over to reception and demanded to see a doctor. To my amazement the blue-rinse receptionist gave in meekly, and two minutes later a tired-looking youth in a white coat came out to speak to us.
"You can speak to him now," the doctor said. "But we'll be keeping him in for today...he lost a lot of blood and is very weak. He's been moved to the recovery room...it's..."
"I know where it is," Jessie said, and once more the old lady led me through the warren.
Doug was sitting up in bed, but he looked barely alive. His skin was alabaster white, almost as pale as the bandage that swathed the full length of his arm. He managed a thin smile.
"Two hundred stitches," he said. "It's fun to get out of the office. Remind me not to protest so much the next time."
I moved over to the bedside, and we had one of those awkward moments that happens between men when they have emotions but no way to let them show. I settled for holding his hand, trying not to let the tears come. He gripped my fingers tight.
"I'm okay," he said. "And the drugs have kicked in, so I feel no pain."
We both knew there would be plenty of that later, but now wasn't the time to talk about it. I just hoped the drugs would work for a while to come.
He waited until the doctor left us alone, then asked in a whisper, "Did we get it?"
I shook my head.
"The Police are going to be in to talk to you, and..."
He waved his good hand at me.
"The bear has been in already. Junkie burglar?"
It was the old lady who replied.
"Best I could manage at the time, son," she said. She moved over to his bedside and gave him a hug. "I apologize for my boy John. He's not been himself recently."
Doug was the first to giggle but once he'd started I couldn't help but join him. She looked at us in bemusement for a second, before she too joined in. We only stopped when Doug's eyelids started to flutter.
"Shit. I think I've got to sleep now," he said, and off he went, as quick as that.
I bent over to check him, and his eyes opened.
"
Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein
to
Tremors
in three," he said, and fell fully asleep, chuckling to himself.
* * *
When we got back to reception I was surprised to see it was already daylight outside.
"I'd better get you back to my place," I said to Ms. Malcolm. "It's not safe back in Govan."
"Och, don't mind about me," she said. "Half my bingo pals are in here for one thing or another. There's plenty of bedsides for me to visit...and I know where to go if I need a kip. No. You get off and get some rest. I want you out looking for John as soon as you're able."
She wasn't to be argued with. She left me with a wave and headed off back the way we had come.
"I see you're still lucky with the women," someone said behind me.
It was the old glass-eyed janitor.
"I used to be a ladies man myself. But I gave up. Too many sons...not enough time to look after them."
He went back to mopping the floor, but as I walked past he reached out and gripped my arm.
"I hear things, son," he said. "Be careful. You don't know everything. Not yet."
And before I could answer he bent and started mopping the floor, whistling a tune I took some time to place. I couldn't remember the title, but the composer was definitely Wagner.
7
The low morning sun slanted at a narrow angle into my brain and threatened to lift off the top of my head. As I headed for the Land Rover I realized I'd been living on adrenaline since the encounter outside the flats. I was a mass of aches and bruises, and it was a Herculean effort just to put one foot in front of the other. I was tempted to sleep in the car, but that was just inviting a policeman to start asking questions, and I didn't have the energy for that.
I drove, slowly, through the morning rush-hour traffic and parked behind the office. I was heading for the front entrance when the advertising board for the morning paper caught my eye.
Junkie Mayhem in Govan. Three Dead,
it read.
Even then I was almost tempted to walk on by, but Old Joe must have seen me. He came out of the shop at a rush.
"Christ, Derek. What happened to you?"
He almost dragged me into the shop, where he slapped a packet of cigarettes into my hand.
"Free smokes for a story?"
I was too tired to argue. I leaned on the counter, smoked a cigarette, and gave him the same story that the old lady had given to the police. As I was telling it I realized I was doing the right thing. Joe would spread the story far and wide, the police would hear it from different people, and maybe even believe it.
"Is Doug okay?" Joe asked when I got to the end.
"He'll live. Whether he'll ever leave the office again is a different matter. Now if you'll forgive me, I need some sleep."
"You certainly do...you haven't even asked about this, yet," he said, tapping the paper. "You were lucky, son. It looks like the same bastard that got Doug got three other poor buggers."
"Anybody we know?" I asked, as if that mattered.
Joe shook his head. "Naw. But one of them was Police. I don't fancy the junkie's chances when they catch him."
My brain started to connect the dots, but the pencil wasn't working. I took a newspaper, dragged myself up the endless staircase to the office, and locked myself in.
Three minutes later I was asleep.
I don't know what finally woke me, but by the time I opened my eyes again it was getting dark outside.
My back complained when I sat up, but it wasn't as bad as I was expecting it to be. My nose felt like a new growth of my face, but it also was not as bad as expected. After a sandwich, a shower and a change of clothes I felt almost human.
Which was just as well. It was time to start earning my fee. I took the gun with me...just in case.
* * *
In any big city there are places the 'cognoscenti' go when they want something out of the ordinary. The City Vaults in Glasgow is one of those places. It is a run-down bar on the edge of Maryhill, a dank, dingy, drinking hole with battered 1960's furniture, tattered linoleum flooring and a pervading smell of tobacco, stale beer and fresh urine. If you wandered in searching for a warm welcome and friendly discourse you'd be sorely disappointed...this place served a different purpose. Things that fall off the back of lorries ended up here, as did men who knew men that rigged horse races for big bookies. Anything was traded, from truckloads of booze and cigarettes to lion cubs. It was rumored that the Ministry of Defense were short of a Chieftain tank, and that it 'passed' through this pub. I didn't disbelieve it.
I nodded to the barman, and he nodded back. I knew his name, and he knew mine, but it was an unwritten rule in here. No names...not if you wanted to do business. I ordered a beer and took it to a barstool at the end of the bar. Another unwritten rule. I was looking for something, and now everybody knew it. As I sipped my beer I was checked out by most of the people in the bar. Time would tell if anybody would be willing to get involved with me. I was a 'name' in this part of town, and that sometimes worked against me in situations like this. But my part, however small and unwitting, in getting Arthur Dunlop out of town during the Amulet case had won me a lot of brownie points in the black economy.
For a while nobody seemed interested apart from a kid who wanted to sell me four hundred bottles of perfume.
"It's guid stuff," he said in a broad accent. "None of your rubbish, by the way. It's French, and ye ken whit they're like we' the smelly stuff. Fair gets them goin' so it does. Only a hunner quid if I get rid of it tonight."
I turned him down. He only shrugged and moved to the next table behind me.
I drank my beer and waited. Eventually a man I knew by sight approached me. He nodded, I nodded, and we got down to business. I told him what I wanted, and he sucked his teeth.
"Tricky," he said. "It might be tomorrow before I can get it."
"Fine. How much?"
He named a figure that seemed too cheap for what I was asking, we shook hands, and it was all done in less than a minute.
"I'll be in touch," he said.
"Do you want my number?" I asked, and from the look he gave me I immediately knew that I'd almost made a
faux pas
. He shook his head and walked away. I took my beer away to the other end of the bar. Within a minute someone had taken the seat I just vacated. I finished my beer, nodded to the barman and left.
My next port of call was another bar. The Halt in Great Western Road had been a regular haunt for years. The manager Dave and I went back to the time when I dropped out of University and he gave me a job behind the bar. I had stayed there for two years, completing the journalism correspondence course by day and serving the punters by night. I knew from experience that Dave had many contacts in the underworld and wasn't above more than a bit of dodgy dealings. There was little that went on in Glasgow that Dave didn't get to know about, and he'd helped me out before... not least when telling me where to find the Johnson Amulet. I was hoping he'd be as much help this time.
"The usual, Derek?" he said.
I nodded.
"But just the one. I'm working."
He raised an eyebrow.
"I heard. How's Doug doing? I sent him some fruit."
"I should have known the jungle grapevine would be working," I said as I took a beer from him. "How much do you know?"
"Enough to ken that it's not a junkie the Police should be chasing," he said. He waved me down to the quiet end of the bar. "Down this way. Suspicious ears might be listening in...the coppers lost one of their own last night, and the narks can smell money in the air."
"Anything being said about the killer?" I asked.
Dave shook his head.
"It's all quiet as to the identity. But there's plenty of speculation. The more superstitious are saying that it's got something to do with Arthur Dunlop...that you brought him back fae Skye. Any truth in that?"
"No," I said. "I only wish it was that simple."
The pub was quiet, which gave me plenty of time to lay out the whole story for him. I sipped slowly at the beer as I talked...I had the feeling it was going to be a long night, and I needed a clear head.
As I was talking I realized how far out there my story would seem, but Dave didn't bat an eyelid. Then again, he was a fully paid up conspiracy nut...the wilder the better. He read more outlandish material than my wee story every night after he closed the bar.
"It's not quite the story Jim Morton told me," he said when I'd finished. "But it's close."
"The wee man's been here already?" I asked.
"Aye. This afternoon. He was looking for you in particular. Something about needing company in keeping a watch on a flat in Govan. He's away over there with a flask of whisky and his big camera."
"The stupid wee bugger's going to get himself killed," I said.
"Aye. We can always hope so," Dave said with a smile.
I downed what was left of my beer in one gulp.
"If he comes back in, tell him to keep away. I've seen this thing in action. It'll have him for breakfast."
"Again, we can always hope so," Dave said to my back as I left.
I headed for the underground station. I thought about going back to the office for the car, but it was too big, too conspicuous, and I didn't know how many people might have seen it last night. Besides, if I did meet up with Jim, the chances were that strong drink might be involved at some point in the evening.
* * *