Dumfries (49 page)

  “Oh my God, Senga.  Ah cannae believe ye’ve jist gone and done something as stupid as that fur me…us,” Lizzie hid cried oot, putting her erms roond a trembling Senga. “Don’t ever, ever, dae something as stupid as that again withoot talking tae me first.  Ah promise Ah won’t doubt ye ever again,” Lizzie hid bubbled in frustration, as the pair ae them hid sat there, sobbing intae each other shoulders.

She’d managed tae get Lizzie tae accept that aw this could jist be a coincidence, even though Senga wisnae convinced hersel.  Lizzie hid been petrified that when the baddies found oot that it hid been her, and no Rose Bain, who’d been oan duty that night, then they’d come fur her.  They’d sat and discussed the situation fae every angle and gone o’er every possible scenario.  The fact that Lizzie hid been sitting, chewing oan the information, running it aroond in her heid fur o’er a month withoot mentioning her fears tae anywan, hidnae helped.  Lizzie hid explained how, through the evening news oan the TV and The Glesga Echo, she’d pieced the stories thegither, until she’d convinced hersel that she wis next in line fur something dreadful tae happen tae her.  Despite whit Lizzie thought, Senga’s initial instinct hid been tae go tae the polis, bit something hid held her back.  It hid taken Senga a further two days tae conclude that Rose Bain, may well hiv been the victim ae a mistaken identity and that, whoever hid run her o’er, hid maybe believed that the nurse and the doctor who’d been oan duty in that family room that night up at Stobhill, wur noo silenced.  Wance Senga hid finally convinced hersel ae that possibility, she’d gone intae full blown panic mode.  By the sounds ae Lizzie’s description, the inspector could’ve been The Stalker fae up in Springburn.  That hid been her reason fur haudin back and trying tae work oot whit their next move should be.  The main task hid been tae calm Lizzie doon as best she could while at the same time, keep her ain panic in check.  Senga hid been shocked tae discover that when she’d been away in Helensburgh fur the weekend wae Rory, Lizzie hid slept wae a breid knife in her haun, under her pillow.

  “Senga, p…promise m…me, promise me wan thing,” Lizzie hid sobbed.

“Oh, Lizzie…anything, hen…anything.  Whit is it?”

  “P…Promise me that…that ye wullnae let me be wan ae they poor lassies, lying blooded and battered oan a trolley oot in the corridor, up at The Royal…”

  “Lizzie, Lizzie, don’t speak like that…that isnae gonnae happen,” Senga hid cried, haudin Lizzie close.

  “N…naw, S…Senga, say it, say it.  L…let me hear ye…say it,” Lizzie hid demanded through her sobs and sniffles, shaking like a leaf, looking and sounding exactly like wan ae the battered and bruised wummin that wur regularly whisked in tae the casualty, in a blue-lighted, ringing ambulance, only tae die in the erms ae Senga or wan ae her colleagues. “Ah d…don’t want t…tae become jist another statistic, at the hauns ae some bloody madman, so Ah don’t.”

  “Lizzie, oh Lizzie, Ah promise, Ah promise, hen.  Ah won’t let anything or anywan hurt ye, Ah promise,” Senga hid sobbed, greeting her eyes oot and haudin Lizzie closer, as the baith ae them sat there greeting and sobbing fur the next few hours in the dark, wae aw the lights in the flat switched aff.

  Efter that first week, when Senga’d thought that she hid nae mair tears left in her, she’d lain fur hours wae her face buried in her pillow sobbing.  Whit if it hid been her or Lizzie that hid been run o’er and somewan knew that it hid been meant fur them?  Even worse, if it hid been another nurse, who wis noo hesitating, and no reporting whit they knew, or at least suspected.  Within aw the tears and angst, Senga hid furgotten that Lizzie hid said that the dying man in the bed hid said that Johnboy Taylor hid been innocent and hidnae been in the bank the day that the two polismen hid been shot.  Fourteen years in jail and he wis innocent, she kept repeating tae hersel.  How hid that been possible?  A jury hid found him guilty unanimously.  He’d been that guilty that the authorities hid refused his leave tae appeal tae the highest court in the land.  It jist didnae make sense.  And then he wis supposed tae hiv shot Shaun Murphy deid…Shaun Murphy, fur Christ’s sake.  Senga wisnae aware he wis even deid.  Surely something like that…somewan as notorious as him being killed, wid’ve been reported in the papers.  Lizzie hid referred tae Shaun Murphy as being a poor soul and that nowan, irrespective ae who they wur, deserved tae die a violent death.  Senga wis a witness tae the eftermath ae the city’s violence in her job oan a daily basis up at The Royal.   It hid been obvious that Lizzie didnae know or recognise who Shaun Murphy wis. Even if only hauf the stories Senga hid read or hid been telt aboot, when she’d been growing up in the Toonheid, wur true aboot the Murphy brothers, she wid never hiv labelled somewan like him as being a poor soul.  It widnae be the first time that Senga hid overheard the polis talking aboot Shaun Murphy or they brothers ae his in relation tae some ae the tortured and gunshot victims that regularly passed through theatre, oan route tae the intensive care wards or the city mortuary doon in the Saltmarket.  Senga knew that Tony Gucci and Johnboy blamed the Murphy brothers fur the death ae their wee pal, Skull Kelly, who’d died in a pigeon dookit that hid burned doon up oan Parly Road when they wur weans.  Skull, who must’ve only been aboot ten at the time, hid been sleeping in the dookit at night, efter being locked oot ae the hoose by his da, a fully-fledged, brain-damaged alcoholic, when somewan hid poured petrol through a wee windae and it hid burned doon wae Skull and wan ae the local street dugs, Elvis, still trapped inside.  Tony Gucci never ever mentioned Skull, bit Johnboy hid oan a few occasions o’er the years tae Senga, when they’d sat thegither in a corner at a party or sitting oan the grass in the summer up in Springburn Park. Whether it hid been any ae the Murphy brothers or no who’d been responsible fur Skull Kelly’s death, Lizzie hid been right…nowan deserved tae be murdered…shot.  If Johnboy hid murdered Shaun Murphy by shooting him in cauld blood, it wis irrelevant whether he’d been in the bank that day…he deserved tae be in jail.  Finally, oan the tenth day in the flat, and despite Lizzie’s protests, Senga hid sat doon in tears and written a letter tae Rory saying that she needed some space and that she didnae want tae see him fur a while.  That hid started another bout ae tears and bitter haun-wringing.  Lizzie hid crept in beside her in the middle ae the night because Senga’s sobs hid been keeping her awake and hid held oan tae her wracked body.  Senga knew they couldnae remain holed up in the flat indefinitely, before somewan arrived tae break doon their door, tae make sure they wur in the land ae the living.  Efter much soul-searching, Senga hid eventually concluded that the only person she felt she could trust and who wid gie her an honest answer wis Simon Epstein.  She’d posted the letter oan the way roond tae Carpet Capers Warehoose, opening the floodgates again.  She’d ignored the friendly smirk oan Sherbet’s face doon oan Great Western Road, as she used his grocers shoap windae as a mirror tae apply her make-up fur the second time that morning, as he stood oan the other side ae the glass, mouthing tae her that she’d missed a bit.  She’d tried tae explain tae Lizzie, that although she loved Rory dearly, she jist couldnae allow her background tae catch up wae him and wreak havoc in his life, the way it hid in Lizzie’s.  It widnae be fair.  He wis too nice a person fur that and although he wid argue against whit she wis daeing, Senga knew deep doon in her heart, that her past life wid catch up and destroy him, them…and somewan as decent, kind and loyal as him, deserved much better.

  “Why don’t ye jist leave it up tae him tae decide whit’s good fur him and whit isnae?” Lizzie hid reasoned and argued.

  She could still taste the acidic bitterness in her mooth fae when she’d let go ae the envelope and seen it disappear through the gaping mooth ae the red pillar-box.  If she wis honest wae hersel, she didnae really know whit tae expect fae Simon Epstein, bit she didnae know where else tae turn.  Efter being harassed by Lizzie and weighing up the pros and cons fur days, constantly changing that mind ae hers, until she felt dizzy, she’d eventually ruled oot getting in touch wae Wan-bob Broon via her ma, despite upsetting Lizzie who still saw Wan-bob Broon as being their knight in shining armour.

  “Bit, he’d be able tae tell us if there’s anything in it,” Lizzie hid pleaded. “Ye said it yersel, Senga, this Simon wan, is only eighteen or nineteen…jist a boy.  Whit will he know?” Lizzie hid freaked.

  She knew Lizzie wis probably right, bit Senga wis scared tae mention anything tae anywan, including that ma ae hers, in case things goat oot ae haun and the situation snowballed, possibly exposing the baith ae them…bit Lizzie in particular…tae danger or ridicule.  Senga knew fine well that it wisnae beyond the realms ae possibility that Lizzie…the baith ae them…could be in grave danger.  She’d worked in casualty long enough tae hiv seen whit happened tae wummin and lassies in Glesga, irrespective ae age or class, who crossed men, and gangster types in particular.  She’d been traumatised fur the first year ae her training at the amount ae violence being inflicted oan lassies…wummin…day in, day oot.  Although alcohol played a major part in the domestic violence ae the victims who wur wheeled intae casualty almost every night, efter being battered silly by their men, she’d also been confronted…literally…oan hundreds ae occasions by rape victims ae aw ages, who’d been tortured…gang-raped…wummin and young lassies who’d been tied up before being strangled, battered, burned or shot and left fur dead. Nothing in their training hid ever prepared Senga and her fellow nurses fur whit they could be confronted wae at any given moment in casualty. There wisnae anything fae yer normal run-ae-the-mill scullery, kitchen or hoosehold, that hidnae been used as a weapon at some stage or another against some poor wummin.  In the eighteen months since she’d qualified as a staff nurse, Senga’d repeatedly thought that she’d seen it aw, and then some other poor soul wid be wheeled through the double doors wae an injury mair terrible than the last horrible admission.  There hid been times, maistly in the middle ae the night, when she or some ae her other nursing colleagues hid sat haudin the haun ae some poor soul, praying tae some God or super-being jist tae let the young lassie or elderly wummin slip away, rather than tae continually suffer o’er a number ae days or weeks before eventually succumbing tae their injuries.  Up until the age ae eighteen, she’d never been particularly scared ae the night, bit since she’d been nursing in The Royal’s casualty department, every car slowing doon, or a back door ae a van being slung open, or that footstep behind her oan her way hame efter the back shift, wis a rapist or a strangler coming fur her.  At first, she thought that it wis only her that thought like that, bit talking tae the other lassies who didnae hiv private transport, who also worked in casualty, they aw spoke aboot how petrified they wur ae whit might be oot there, in the night, waiting fur them at the end ae their shift, jist because they happened tae be female.  Although devastating, it still gied them aw succour tae get oot ae their beds in the morning tae start again.  She smiled, thinking aboot her boss, Jill Shand.  Although she wis only aboot five feet tall, weighing in at aboot a hunner pounds, she wis like a nippy wee Scottish Terrier, who didnae suffer fools gladly, especially if they wur a man.  Jill reckoned that if ye could survive The Royal’s casualty department, three weekends oan the trot, and still turn up oan the Monday morning ae yer fourth week tae start yer shift, then there wis a good chance that she’d hiv ye fur the duration.  That wis the marker fur her and Jessie Gowan, her opposite number in charge ae the other shift team.  The baith ae them wur as tough as nails and they kept drumming in tae them aw that they hid tae rise above and overcome their fear and their ain needs, as the city wis full ae wummin jist like them, who wur aw depending oan them tae make sure that they survived efter being wheeled in, bloody and battered tae casualty…intae the waiting erms ae their Perfect Angels, as they referred tae Senga and aw the other lassies in the department.  At nineteen years ae age, Senga knew fine well that she needed that constant reassurance, as she wisnae sure that she hid the strength and courage oan her ain tae live wae that level ae responsibility.  Despite being frustrated and wanting tae dae mair, Senga found it devastatingly difficult tae continually carry oan wae her shift when a patient died in her care …usually some poor wummin who’d jist been violently attacked by some drunkard, who’d probably professed tae love her a couple ae hours earlier, before the drink hid kicked in and released his demons.  Tae survive as a nurse up in The Royal, that wis exactly whit wis expected ae ye.  Maist ae the time, Senga and her fellow nurses didnae hiv the time tae grieve fur the poor soul…the girlfriend, lover, mother or grandmother…whose spirit hid gied up the fight because they’d hid enough, despite everywan in casualty trying their best tae save her.  It wis a quick wash and clean-up before diving back in efter the ambulance arrived tae spew oot mair helpless victims who’d been chosen tae participate in the game ae life, death and chance that wis being played oot in a never ending circle ae mayhem and misery…aw because they happened tae be born wummin in a place like Glesga.

  She’d been watching the three transit vans ae various sizes, emblazoned wae ‘Carpet Capers Warehoose’ across the sides ae them, and two big closed trailer vans wae a hive ae activity roond aboot them in the yard.

  “Er, excuse me, miss, bit is yer name, er, Senga?” a voice fae behind her hid asked, startling her.

  Senga hid spun roond tae see whit looked like a ten-year-auld spotty youth, bit who wis probably fifteen-ish, wearing a yellow and pink pastel coloured striped shirt and matching tie, wae a name badge oan the pocket ae it that announced tae the world that Gerald wis addressing her.

  “Whit?” she’d yelped in fright.

  “Ah’m sorry, bit, er, is yer name Senga… Senga Jackson…miss?” he’d repeated, gulping.