A Small Death in the Great Glen (45 page)

He started when the door slid open. A shadow crossed his face as McAllister came in, sat opposite him, and nodded, too tense to talk.

“Mr. McAllister, what a surprise.” The man recovered quickly. “Are you off south on business too?”

“I'll not call you Father, you've disgraced that title.”

“Oh really?”

“You know what I'm talking about.”

“No, I'm afraid you've lost me. Are you cold? Let me get you a rug,” the priest offered.

“I want nothing from you!” McAllister sounded petty even to himself.

“I don't think that's so, otherwise, why are you here?”

Outside, in the pitch-black dark, swirling snow danced in the spill of the carriage lights. McAllister sat silent for a moment longer, taking time to control his anger and disgust. He
studied his nemesis. He saw a big man, middle-aged, a pale face and pale skin with fading freckles. The eyes, washed-out blue, were so pale that in certain lights, the sockets could seem empty. The sandy hair, thin on the head, thick on the wrists and hands, made McAllister realize he would never again be able to face a pork-knuckle dinner. The man's heavy body, and forever to McAllister he would be a man, not a priest, was shaped by years of rugby and boxing but was long past its glory days. The man's projection of calm innocence, his smile, his air of reassurance, incensed McAllister even more, making it hard for him to control his shakes. The quest for an answer to his brother's death had been with him for almost a decade and now, with the man he sought sitting opposite, a lassitude descended over him, deep as a bank of sea fog. His ability to think, to reason, to judge, faded. The unexpected air of kindness and concern had cast a spell.

“Let's drop the charade. You take an unhealthy interest in young boys.”

“Not so. I'm a father to them.”

“It's much more than a fatherly interest!”

The priest raised his open palms to protest but McAllister persisted.

“I believe, no, I
know,
you have damaged, sometimes beyond repair, the lives and souls of those young children in your care.”

“That's a monstrous lie.”

“Tell me your version, then.”

“I have no version. Only the truth.”

He linked his hands together on his lap before starting. He told his history, and as he spoke, it slowly dawned on McAllister that the priest sincerely believed his own truth—that he was helping to save the souls of the young boys in his care.

“I have devoted my whole life to the care of young people. I've run youth camps, sports clubs, cared for orphans and unwanted
babies. I have an unblemished record. Check for yourself. If there are those who don't understand my mission, that's not my fault.”

He was starting to get worked up. “And you, an experienced journalist, you would take the word of little boys as gospel, you would take their word against mine?”

He leant back, wriggling his shoulders, calming himself.

“Why would they make stories up, these boys?”

“I had to point out their sins. They don't know what their dirty filthy habits will lead them to. They don't have the discipline it takes to be pure. One minute they're innocent wee souls, next, when their bodies start to change, they become impure, with no control. They have to learn. Their unfortunate backgrounds and lack of a good Christian upbringing makes them little liars. We cannot always overcome our blood. But some do.”

He sighed theatrically. “I was a good priest and a good friend to them.” He spoke passionately, explaining, justifying. “I tried to instill discipline, cleanliness, pure hearts and minds and bodies, into their corrupted little lives. I tried to give them a chance to make good.” He paused for a moment and looked out the window into the storm. “There was a time, some years ago, when I erred.” He said this quietly, before turning back to McAllister. “But God is my only judge and I promise you, I do all in my power to look after those in my care.”

“And the photos?”

“So Rob McLean
did
go poking about in my private affairs. Yes, I take pictures of innocent pure boys. I capture the essential good in them before their fall from grace.”

He really believes all this shite, McAllister realized. “What about wee Jamie?”

“The boy who drowned? I had nothing to do with his death.”

“Are you trying to tell me you know nothing about what happened to him?”

The priest turned his face back to the swirling snow. “Anything that happened to that wee boy was purely an accident.”

“You killed him.”

“I did nothing of the sort.” His indignation made him turn red, starting at the nose.

“And years ago, my brother, Kenneth McAllister?”

“Well, well. The great John McAllister; it took you long enough to realize I knew Kenneth.” He smirked. “And you the star journalist, you the famous war correspondent too busy going places to bother with your own wee brother.” He was enjoying stirring the guilt. “Aye, he told me all about you. Worshipped you, you the big shot. And look at you now. On a miserable wee publication that doesn't mean anything to anybody.” He smiled. “Besides, it was all a long time ago.”

“Not for my mother it isn't.”

“I'm sorry.” His Dr. Jekyll persona returned. “You're right, your poor mother. I'm really sorry for her.” His hands were up in an apologetic benediction.

He's good at this, McAllister thought, he's convincing, and he believes himself.

“John, your brother's death was unfortunate. It's always unfortunate when someone dies by his own hand. And so young. But there it is.”

“Jimmy McPhee, you remember him?”

“McPhee? I remember him well. I was always glad that our paths didn't cross in the Highlands—quite a temper has Jimmy McPhee.” He leaned toward McAllister. “But he is a liar and a rascal. Him and all his family.”

“The photographs.” McAllister persisted. “Can't you see that they could be construed as disturbing? Can't you imagine how some boys might feel abused to be photographed naked?”

A momentary flicker crossed Morrison's confident features.

“Healthy minds, healthy bodies—you're no doubt a man who knows his classics, it has been part of many cultures from the Greeks onward.”

He sat back, smug and satisfied, his hands again clasped over his belly, as though he had delivered a final unarguable case for his perversion. But McAllister caught a tiny flicker of an eye toward the suitcases on the luggage rack before Morrison settled back in the seat.

“I've always taken photographs. I could have been a professional, so I'm told. As a matter of fact your old paper has published a few over the years. Some of the photographs in my private collection may not be understood by the ignorant. But they are beautiful portraits with nothing untoward about them. Nothing wrong at all.”

“Fine, then, we'll be stopping shortly so you won't mind checking with the police to see if it's all right for you to be off to the city without a word to anyone—just in case you're wanted to help with inquiries, as they say. You won't mind that, will you, Mr. Morrison, or is it Bain?”

McAllister was near the end of his strength when the thought flashed before him.

“Hang on. You said the death of the boy Jamie was an accident. But the police think it was the Polish man, only they have no proof. So if you had nothing to do with it, you must know something, you must be protecting—”

The blow was sudden and fierce. McAllister was completely unprepared. The big man brought his clasped hands, a double fist, swiftly upward. McAllister instinctively jerked backward, but not quickly enough. The left side of his jaw caught the full force. The right side of his face hit the window and he slid down, leaving a streak of blood and snot, before crumpling onto the carpet. Distantly, he heard the compartment door open and close.

“The communication cord.” He couldn't move, couldn't reach up. But he dragged himself along the floor and half-upright, clutching onto the seat, the compartment door handle, he lurched into the corridor. Morrison was by the carriage door. He had opened the window. He was leaning out with his hand on the handle waiting for the train to slow. Like a wounded beast, McAllister found the adrenaline he needed and threw himself at the priest, gripping him around the legs. The big man had endured many a tackle in rugby. He shook McAllister off easily and with an added kick to the ribs sent McAllister tumbling backward into the man's suitcase. The door opened; the train slowed to walking pace. The priest was poised to take flight. Then a tremendous lurch, as the engines pulled hard, sent a shock wave through the couplings. The carriages concertinaed into each other. John Morrison Bain went flying. In a flash, into the whirl of wind and snow, arms windmilling, he tried to grab anything but found nothing. He tumbled into the deep soft drifts, careering down the embankment. The hoodie crow had taken flight. It would be in a series of black-and-white images that McAllister would always remember the last sight of his nemesis.

His face hurt, his ribs hurt, he was lying in a puddle of melted snow and his senses were rapidly shutting down. A stop was coming up soon. They'd find a doctor, or at least a dram. They'd find the man. Had to. Then he saw it. Or rather, felt it. On the undamaged side of his rib cage, the metal corner poked into him. The suitcase. The photos. They must be there inside. Were there any of Kenneth? Or Jimmy? Or of wee Jamie? This was the evidence. It took all his willpower to stay conscious. But he had to know.

Get a grip, McAllister, he thought, moaning. He shifted over and leaned against the wall. The carriage door had slammed shut but the snow blew in through the open window, creating
a miniature snowdrift on and around him. The suitcase catches flicked open—not locked. He scrabbled through the contents, tossing clothes, boots, robes to the floor—no photos.

The pain was coming at him in waves. A purple light filled his head when he shut his eyes—the doorway to oblivion, that he knew. Inside pockets; empty. Zipped pocket on the lid—spare socks. Another lurch of the train sent a shockwave of pain from head to toe. The suitcase was lying on its side, empty. Along the bottom, the metal strips were held together by black electrical tape. He clawed a corner, pulled at an end. Then another. And another. He ripped a fingernail and the flesh on his thumb. His hands were so cold he didn't notice. He reached inside. He eased out the cardboard envelope and shook it open. Photographs spilled around him, slithering and sliding onto his lap, the floor and into the melting snow. One look was enough. He scrabbled frantically for the pictures, stuffed some back into the envelope, others into the greatcoat pocket, his hands barely able to obey his brain. Lying there, eyes shut, amid the strewn wreckage of suitcase and clothing and papers and rolled-up socks, he struggled to keep himself in this world but failed. As he descended, the thought of all this shame being exposed in police stations, in the procurator's office, before a jury in a court of law, sickened him; the thought of unknown eyes poring over images of defeated boys decided him. And, decision made, he hid all the photos as best he could, then he let go.

The train drew alongside a platform lined with storm lanterns, sending out wavering pools of light into the fast-falling snow. There was much more than the usual activity outside. Railway officials and policemen, muffled against the storm, moved like marauding bears through the carriages. The carriage door opened.

“Mr. McAllister sir, what have we here now?”

Constable Willie Grant came to the rescue like the proverbial St. Bernard. And like the dog, he too had a flask of alcohol. He spoke to the comatose figure as he would to a lost boy, not bothered that there was no reply.

“You'll be a' right, sir. The doctor'll be along soon.” Willie Grant had his arm around McAllister, easing him up to a sitting position, tenderly brushing the snow from his hair. He put the flask to McAllister's lips and though most of it trickled down the side of his mouth, the fumes were enough to bring him back to semiconsciousness. McAllister's first thought was, What kind of nasty cheap blend is this stuff?

“Best go easy on the whisky, sir.” The policeman put the flask away. “Mr. McAllister, have you seen yon priest fellow? I've had word that I have tae hold on tae him.”

McAllister tried to speak, tried to nod his head, but everything hurt.

“Mmm-mm, gone.” It came out as a groan but Willie Grant got the message.

“You just hold on, sir. I'll be back in a tick.”

But he had passed out.

An ambulance arrived. McAllister was taken to hospital, patched up and put to bed. Just as the shot of morphine was taking effect, Willie appeared again.

“I'm right sorry about this, Mr. McAllister sir, but I need to get the search party going and there's a fair bit of snow the night. Can you tell us anything?”

Big galoot that Willie Grant sometimes seemed, this initial impression hid a kindness and a courtesy. He handed McAllister a pencil and his spiral notebook. Drugged and speechless, the journalist's instinct kicked in. He scribbled down the gist of what had happened, finishing with “Find the bastard!”