A Small Death in the Great Glen (26 page)

The mantelpiece and piano top were reserved as memorials to his brother. At least twelve pictures of Kenneth stood in polished silver frames: a skinny wee boy in baggy shorts with oversize gloves dangling on the ends of sticklike arms; with different opponents facing off against each other; with a group shot of equally skinny boys in the ring; with all the club members on the annual ferry trip down the Clyde. He picked that one up. Kenneth was wild with excitement; it was that obvious even in a group of thirty or so boys. There was something about one of the other boys, one of the ones leaning over the ship's railings smiling down at the photographer, that made him stop. … No, couldn't be, it was just that Scottish, cheeky, eye-squinting grin and freckles that made you certain his hair was carrot red; the kind of a face that made him seem familiar. Possibly.

The photos of his brother had all been taken at the club, costing sixpence for the group shots, a shilling for individual ones—not expensive. His mother had never missed a year. Then dead at fifteen, verdict suicide. But his mother was right, it was never suicide. And the church had agreed, so she got her funeral. He may have killed himself, wee brother of mine, but something, someone, had pushed him into drowning himself in the river. McAllister believed that then and still believed it now. Interfered with—a ridiculous idiom to his writer's way of thinking. Kenneth may have been spared that, but mentally?

Over a breakfast of tea and a cigarette he chatted to his mother of his new life. Whether she heeded or not didn't matter; he felt the need to fill the vacuum of a house empty of hope. He told her of his first six months, of the town itself, of the people and the newspaper. Then he ran out of steam.

“Can I borrow one of the pictures from the boxing club?”

“As long as you bring it back.”

It broke his heart that she hadn't even the energy to ask why.

“I'm away now to the
Herald.
Can I get you anything whilst I'm out?”

His coat already on, picture in his pocket, hat in his hand, he turned, hesitated.

“Something happened in the Highlands. It reminded me of what happened—”

“He fell. He drowned. Nothing more happened, John. That's the end of it.” Her voice, harsh as a seagull's squawk, left no angle for argument. “I don't need you harping on again with your wild theories. You've more imagination than sense, I've always said.”

He patted her shoulder. They were not people who touched.

“Would you like some fish for tea? I'll be down that end of the town. I'll call in to Tommy McPhee under the bridge. You always said he has the best fish.”

“If you like.”

“Anything else? Maybe some stout?”

“I'm fine.”

“I know, Ma. I know you're fine.”

He gently squeezed her arm; it felt like the carcass of a scrawny hen. He walked out into the city morning, a time of day he had seldom seen when a reporter on the late shift, and, rounding the corner into a cold easterly, his eyes were watering. He blamed it on the wind.

McAllister needed a favor. Sandy heard him out.

“It's still about Kenneth, is it?”

“It's always about Kenneth.” McAllister was grim. “But something I came across, I'd like to check. Probably nothing. Most likely me off with a bee in ma bunnet—again.”

The
Herald
never changed; the news desk, the subeditor's desk, the copyboys lurking behind anything that they could lurk behind. It had been a year but many there hadn't noticed, presuming that McAllister had just returned from a long lunch. Sandy Marshall had kept in touch. A talented reporter, like many before him he had made his name as a journalist only to be kicked upstairs to become a frustrated editor.

“So no hope that you've come here to rescue me from all this shite?” Sandy gestured to the pile of papers colonizing his desk.

“I'm here to see my mother. The anniversary again.” He was going to say that he was here to support her, maybe be of some comfort, but he had no idea if his arrival made any difference at all.

Sandy focused on the previous “probably nothing.” He'd had experience of McAllister's understatements. Cadets together, both bright working-class boys, they were escaping the destiny of going down the pits of Clackmannanshire, for Sandy; following his father into the fire brigade, for McAllister.

“Here's a pass for the archives.” He scribbled a signature. “Any developments on the child's murder?”

“Not yet, but the story is yours when I have it.”

“The usual place in Buchanan Street thenight?”

“Aye. But I've got to get back north soon. A newspaper to run.”

“Is that what you call it? The classies still on the front page, are they?”

The search in the archives was tedious. He had read, almost memorized, the articles—brief mentions really, often. But now he thought he had a new tack. The date, and more important the place, was on the back of the photograph in his mother's even writing. He eventually found the file. There were far more references than he could ever have imagined. It took all morning,
and after reading and trying to make sense of what he had found, McAllister needed air, needed to walk and to smoke.

Out in the streets and lanes and backcourts of the city, he wandered without any particular direction. In between needle-sharp showers, heavenly searchlights of sun highlighting turrets and gargoyles and statues and ironwork, then returning to rain before anyone got their hopes up, he walked, thinking, not looking.

He stopped at the fish shop under the bridge, then the fruit barrow. The tingling in his feet, like the sensation of defrosting after a walk in the snow, came from the underground railway vibrating the pavements and cobblestones. The air too was vibrating from the constant stream of trams and buses and overhead trains grumbling as they left the station, and civilization, bound for the wilderness beyond. Tollcross, Glasgow Green, the Clyde, legends and stories and songs mapped every part of the city. Or so McAllister fancied. He passed Barrowlands dance hall; he never noticed the squelch underfoot as he crossed the sodden turf of Glasgow Green. The route that he was walking, his private Via Dolorosa, hadn't registered. He was stopped. The gunmetal-gray river, flowing endlessly, barred the way. His internal compass had brought him to within a few yards of the infamous footbridge.

By daylight the bridge was busy with old men, bairns on bikes, mothers with prams laden with washing, shopping and babies. By night, the elegant suspension affair, the demarcation line between the Billy Boys and the Fenians living across the Clyde, had seen more skirmishes than Londonderry. He walked to the dead center of the bridge and stared unseeing down to the water below. A brass plaque, he thought, that's what's needed, a memorial to the mostly young men, his brother included, who had died between the cables of this Glasgow landmark. He turned and walked swiftly back the way he had come.

If I was writing this up, he told himself, I'd put “He fled the scene.”

His weak attempt at humor didn't help, so he made for the nearest public house.

That same night, in the same pub as the night before, a neutral pub, no allegiances, round the corner from the Athenaeum, with an odd mix of students, workingfolk and that lost tribe of Glasgow, Partick Thistle supporters, and, for reasons no one could explain, folk from Kilmarnock, gathering together, drinking together, singing together in this oasis of alcohol, a Glasgow bar. There's none like it, McAllister remembered. Settling into a table under the window, McAllister and Sandy Marshall supped companionably with not much said.

“Another?”

McAllister stood to get in his round when the doors swung open, letting in a gust of wind and rain and an imposing figure in black. At the sight of him, a memory, the same memory buried deep in the collective unconsciousness of all Catholic boys, made McAllister shudder.

“Over here,” Sandy called out.

Leaving a much-mildewed golf umbrella by the door, the man joined them. He requested a Guinness. McAllister looked furtively at the newcomer in the bar mirrors. The next Great White Hope with a good resemblance to Spencer Tracy, was McAllister's first impression. He waited a while for the Guinness and his heartbeat to settle, then, balancing three glasses, returned to the table.

“Michael Kelly. You must be John McAllister.” The priest stood, holding out a massive ham of a hand.

McAllister returned the handshake.

“Sandy has told me some of your story. I'm deeply sorry about your brother.”

“It's been eight years, nearly nine.”

“But it doesn't go away.”

“No. It doesn't.” A strong pull on his beer, then McAllister laid the photograph on the table. “I'd like to ask you about this.”

“The Boys' Boxing Club.” He turned the picture over. “But this picture was before my time. The club closed. But we reopened. There is a huge interest in boxing ever since a Scot won the Lonsdale belt.” Father Kelly kept staring at the group photograph as though searching for something or someone. “No, I can't place this picture. But I think I recognize one of the boys. If you'd like to visit—” He laughed at McAllister's expression. “No, no strings. Sandy told me you've forsaken the faith.”

“Aye, lost it somewhere between the Gorbals and Guernica.”

“But this fella here”—Father Kelly placed his finger below a skinny larva-white boy in boxing shorts pulled right up to his oxters—“if it's the same person, he volunteers at the club, I'll introduce you.”