PART ONE… 142
The dream is always the same..
.. he’s chasing a black 40’s limo down a tenement street and through the oval rear window he can see a girl and she’s mouthing something, but before he can make out what it is, a black shape comes shooting out at his feet and he’s falling through this shrill insistent jangling, hands groping for the source of the sound, then a voice shouts in his ear
'.. McEwan..?'
'..mmnnn..'
'Where the hell are you?'
He blinks at the receiver
'.. What time is it?'
'Don't tell me you're still in your pit!!'
'Shit, Ronny, I'm sorry.'
'Sorry? I'm sitting here with this Yank and you’re still in bed!!'
'Ok ok! I'll be there in fifteen.'
'Make it ten!'
The line goes dead.
He fills the basin, seeing the girl’s eyes in the ripples, like an aftertaste on his tongue, then he plunges into the icy water, feeling the faraway pound of blood as he counts to ten, before emerging, gasping.. tequila.. god, never again!!
Five minutes later he's in the Vdub, sailing through a grey wash at close on sixty. He downs the window half an inch, flicks out the sparking butt, pain resurfacing with the airwhine.. what the hell had he been thinking about.. last night of all nights.. and on tequila, a drink he didn’t even like. Last he could remember, he was in the Horseshoe with Sandy then suddenly he was coming to in a doorway, like some jakey jagged up on meths. His eyes glance back in the mirror, self contempt seeping through the bloodshot, for they’ve seen such falls from grace many times before, and given the highs of the last seven days, this latest was always just a matter of time
Sunday 16th
The Clyde splits Glasgow North to South, but the real division is East to West. Stroll through the West End and you’ll find fine houses, leafy parks, fashionable restaurants, but head East and you enter a different world.
It was to a particularly grim part of the East End that Ronny Baird was sent that May night in 1999, after two bodies were found in a BMW just off the notorious Barrachnie Road. Having done the rounds of the local shops and pubs garnering quotes, she was sitting in a rain spattered staff car, watching the forensic team go about its morbid business, when her mobile rang.
'Ronny. It's Calum. We have an address for the wife’s family.'
She intook breath.
‘I thought you wanted me to cover the police statement..?’
‘Alec Nairn’s on his way over. Just go and get a photo.’
The house was in the kind of quiet cul de sac that fate usually passes by. As they drew up, across the road, a lace curtain moved an inch.
'I’ll only be ten minutes.'
The driver yawned, unfolded a copy of the Racing Times.
'Aye! Good luck.'
They were in their sixties, husband in another space, wife doing the ritual tea-making. She kept repeating that her son was only a taxi driver, a family man, a good provider who had nothing to do with gangs or drugs. Ronny nodded, as if providing a shoulder to cry on, when in reality, she was waiting for the moment to broach the subject.. and when she did, it was the usual wedding shot.
Back at the Daily Record Newsroom she cobbled a hundred words round the woman’s quotes, filled out with a rehash of the spate of shootings. The sub-ed glanced up as she laid the copy and the photo on his desk.
‘Where is everyone?’
He sniffed.
‘Down in the Deadline watchin’ the big match.’
What she needed now was a curer in the company of hardened hacks, immune to niggles of conscience, but football was not her thing, so she phoned a cab.
Twilight was bleaching purple as they headed South, sky full of fractal swirls of starlings, rising up from the dark girders beneath the bridge.
'You’re with the Daily Record, aren't you Miss?'
She turned from the window.
'Why do you ask?'
'Just that I picked up a fare from the Deadline Bar about half an hour ago and the guy left a briefcase on the back seat. Chap called Holmes.’
‘I don't recognise the name. Just hand it into the security desk and they'll make sure he gets it.'
'I meant to do that, but it’s my last hire. I'm off on holiday early in the morning.'
Their eyes met in the mirror. His face was thin, cheeks pitted with acne.
She sighed.
'.. I suppose I could take it in for you.'
She closed the door behind her, threw the scuffed brown briefcase onto the sofa, and poured herself a G&T. Then, suitably prepared, she checked the ansaphone. There was only one message. Her eyes closed in relief as she heard the voice...
'Ronny, it's Sylvia. If you get in by nine, ring me about lunch tomorrow.'
She stood in the shower, letting the heat untie the knot in her shoulders. The calls had started four days ago, just the merest hint of breathing, then silence.. she should have contacted the phone company, but being ex directory, they’d want the list of the people who had her number and it wasn’t long. Guy’s face appeared unbidden, little smile lighting the dark eyes. Sylvia was convinced it was him, playing mind games. She sighed, turned into the stream, cleansing the long day from her hair.
In the mirror, her body was ceramic white.. she ran a hand across the curve of her stomach..so flat.. a flicker of pain clouded her eyes, an echo of the low point, not long after the termination, when out of the blue, she’d seen him arm in arm with the blonde, the clack of her heels echoing as they went sublimely on their way... She unclawed her fingers, pulled on the dressing gown, walked through to the kitchen, filled the kettle, dropped a teabag into the mug. What she needed now was a holiday on an island, faraway from Guy and the Daily Record.
In the lounge, the leather briefcase lay where she'd dropped it. She undid the frayed buckle, opened the flap. Inside was a little black book, bound in textured plastic. On the inner cover was a name and date: 'S. Holms. 12th April' . Opposite was a few lines of delicate longhand, written with a broad nibbed fountain pen.
“According to the business cards in my wallet, my name is Stanley J. Holms, but if that is the case, my family and friends must be long dead, so perhaps the amnesia is a blessing. That said, I am plagued by flashes of deja vu, seemingly triggered by trivial things like the smell of the subway, or a swell of clouds above a row of sandstone villas. The sense of desolation which pervades me then is hard to bear, but despite all this, I have decided that I must record what happened during those first dreadful hours, even if it may never be read by anyone with a sufficient degree of knowledge to understand what has befallen me. God knows, I do not want to face that pain, but relive it I must."
She hesitated.. it was a diary, full of his secrets. But with no daily entries, just a continuous flow of perfect copperplate, so lighting a cigarette, she began to read:
"The wall that separates me from my former life must lie somewhere near the top of West George Street, for my first recollection is strolling down it on a bright blue morning and turning left up the steps of number 142. Just as I reached the entrance, a young woman in a white dress and straw hat came through the door. I stood back to let her pass, and as she bade me Good Morning,, a hackney went rolling by. That image is with me now, like some photographic frame, frozen in time.
The next hour is incredibly clear. I climb four flights to the top landing. Down the corridor is a leadglass door and on it, in gold stencil: "Borland, King, Shaw & Co. Chartered Accountants." Crossing the reception area, I open the second door to my right. This is a small oak panelled office with a desk and chair, a cabinet and on the wall, framed certificates, and a clock. On the desk is a gold inkwell and a perpetual calendar, which I turn to Tuesday the 8th.. Now I open a book with columns of figures, make a tick here, a cross there. Time passes, then comes a tap on the door and a boy enters carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. I thank him, and sipping the tea, continue to work. Presently I rise, and slide back one of the wall panels to reveal a small safe. I twirl the knob, open it, take out a company seal, and back at the desk, apply it to the papers. Then suddenly I become aware of a faint burning smell. This detail is crucial, for accompanying it came a terrible throbbing in my head, pulsing like an electric current. Desperate for fresh air, I staggered to the window, but before I could open it, the room began to swirl, sucking me down into unconsciousness."
She smiled.. melodrama indeed...
"The shock of awakening into impenetrable darkness is still with me, as is the sense of panic as I began to grope about, only to find that the window had shutters and that the room around me was completely empty! Fear took me then, as I scrabbled on all fours, clawing at the darkness, but on the brink of terror, I drew back, for within me came a voice telling me that I had more to fear from panic than any hermetically sealed room. So taking a deep breath, I crawled to the wall, and feeling along the wooden panels, I found the handle of the door. As I pulled it open, a wave of relief ran through me, for down the corridor was a ribbon of light below the door. But the relief was short lived, for I had blacked out in broad daylight, so why had no-one come to my aid? Moving silently down the corridor, I put my eye to the keyhole. Before me was a man, seated at a desk, reading a book and on the wall behind him, the clock said two.."
She gave a start as the phone rang. Could it be Sylvia? Unlikely at this hour. She waited as the ansafone kicked in, gave it another minute. The voice announced a new message, then silence, but this time, in the background came a sound like a swish of tyres, then it was stifled, as if a hand had covered the mouthpiece. She lifted the receiver, dialled 1471, but as always, the number had been withheld.
In bed, she killed the lamp and for the nth time, began to relive those weeks, searching for the nuances that should have told her he would abuse her trust.. but then, she’d been blinded, for love was like a spell in which you were held in another's admiring gaze, vanity seduced by its own disguise. But even as the thoughts formed, weariness was dragging her down and soon she was drifting into another space, hips swaying as she descended a flight of stairs towards blinding sunshine, and she was blonde and comely and dressed in white and as she reached the bottom step a man stood back to let her pass and she glimpsed dark eyes, a kindly face, then sunlight consumed her.