Referendum (16 page)

He didn’t want to be one of the few. With three days leave he didn’t have much time to do his homework. But touching down at George Best International Airport in Belfast, Arbogast felt he was edging closer to the truth.

25

The hotel room was a double, but with four people in close quarters it still felt cramped. The man, from Loo-Easy-Anna, USA, sat in a chair in the corner and watched. His wife went to pick up the suitcase from the doorway but he told her to leave it. Their child, a hyperactive three-year-old boy, was bouncing and screaming on the bed.

No-one seemed bothered about her.

Karen Balfour had been working at the Continental Gold for about six months. They’d called it a ‘flexible’ contract and during the Commonwealth Games she’d been working seven days a week. The money was good and the tips were generous. At 25 she hadn’t expected to be working as a chambermaid, but with a hungry baby to feed she didn’t have much choice. She heard the crinkle of plastic from the corner and could feel she was being watched. Loo-Easy-Anna was staring at her, leering almost. They had been unhappy with the first room, a double with three single beds and had demanded something better. The only other one available had a double bed with space for a fold down for the boy. The porter had wheeled the bed up from storage and left her to make it up. The hinges were tight and she struggled to flatten it; expecting the tourists to help her out; but they just sat and stared, fidgeted, and bounced.
I can’t take this much longer.
Bent over the mattress, she could feel the man’s eyes creeping up her legs, peeking under her skirts. The boy said the bed felt lumpy; the mother told him it was the best they could get, they weren’t at home anymore. Hospital corners. Tucking in the sheets. Pulling out the edge and folding it under. It looked neat.
Job done.
Turning back Loo-Easy-Anna flicked his eyes quickly from her legs and smiled. He pulled out a wallet crammed with notes, more than she’d ever had herself. He took his time; picking through the wad, past the large notes and picking out her tip. He crumpled the notes into a ball as he placed it the palm of her hand.

“Thank you so much my dear, now if you could just help get the case on the bed you’re free to go.”

The case is huge; big and heavy
. Karen dragged it across the floor, the wheels helped but she didn’t have the strength to swing it up and over. She tried a couple of times but it kept crashing back on the bedroom floor.
Why doesn’t he just do it himself?
Eventually he did. Sighing he grabbed the case and slung it up onto the sheets. His wife was bleating from the bathroom.

“Watch your back, honey.”

He glared at Karen and suggested she leave. As the door slammed shut, she looked at her tip. It was a single dollar.
What am I supposed to do with this?

It had been a long day and the end of a hard week. The good humour of the last few weeks had been replaced by business as usual. Karen’s feet were aching from the miles spent walking the halls of the Continental. She needed something else but this would have to do for now. Her pager went off, another call to duty, but she was already an hour over her time. She phoned from the service cupboard.

“Someone’s looking for me?”

“The boss wants to see you,” It was Colin Shepherd, the porter who’d left her to fend for herself.
He’s a lazy bastard who’ll get found out someday
, “The boss wants to talk to you, something about next week’s shifts.”

At least she was ending the week with good news. They usually found out about shifts on the Monday so having time to plan childcare with her mum would help as the work had become less regular. But down in the office Beckie Arnold didn’t look pleased to see her, there was something wrong – she wouldn’t look her in the eyes. It was making Karen feel uneasy.

“Thanks for coming down. It’s been a busy week and I know you’ve got a lot on at home.”

Karen nodded. Beckie didn’t usually go in for small talk unless there was something serious. The last time she’d seen her like this was when she said goodbye to the 40 temps they’d taken on to cover the summer shifts. Her heart sank, she knew what was coming.

“I don’t want to draw this out, Karen. You’ve been an absolute star for us here. You’re popular with the rest of the staff. I really like you and I know you’ve worked really hard for the last six months—”

“—but?”

“— but things have changed. Your flexible contract means we can offer work when there’s work to do and – well – I want to be straight with you, there just isn’t enough to go round right now.”

This isn’t happening.
Karen’s brain was in freefall, she couldn’t accept what she was hearing. All she could think about was her bills, the rent, the food – her baby.
This isn’t happening; can’t be. I must have been working too hard.

Beckie had tilted her head to one side; she seemed to be speaking, “What?”

“I said are you feeling OK?”

Karen’s mouth was bone dry, her hands were shaking. She didn’t want to hear any more so she got up to leave, “I’ve just got to finish what I was doing, completely forgot about room 312.”

Beckie was shaking her head, “Sit down Karen, there’s no need for that.”

“No need?”

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”

Ten minutes later she was out in the street.

***

It was an easy collection. The debt owed by a 23 year old guy who lived on the ground floor of a tenement block. Niall Murphy was on fire; he’d grown the business quickly and now had about ten people working for him. They liked his style, he didn’t fuck about. He’d appeared from nowhere and then ‘bang’. He’d heard people were calling him Mad Murphy, another nickname for a Glasgow Gangster. Flicking through the tabloids earlier he’d seen a spread about some hard case named after a hamster.
Ridiculous.
It worked for Sid Vicious though, bitten by a hamster called Sid. Name stuck. Didn’t work out long term though, he hadn’t thought it through.
Niall had thought it through, though; he knew he wouldn’t get touched. Murphy smiled when he rang the bell of the flat; his buddy for the job, Eck Smith, thought he was laughing at him which was making him nervous. They could hear footsteps inside, soft controlled steps, then a click. The dim light which had cast a dull glow under the front door disappeared. Niall knocked again, harder this time.

“Open the door, Peter. I can hear you. I’d advise you not to waste our time.”

Silence.

Niall nodded to Eck who did what he did best, put his shoulder into the door frame and rammed it. The mortice locks were open and the door swung free easily. The Yale lock bounced from its casing, clatterering across the laminate flooring inside. Eck followed and fell through the doorway, crashing into a flimsy table which gave way under his weight. Niall knew they had to act quickly. It was mid afternoon and there was a good chance other people might have heard them. He jogged into the flat, checking through rooms.
Nothing.

“Peter, you’d better come out now else this isn’t going to be pretty.”

Silence.

“For fuck’s sake.” From the bedroom he heard a muffled shout, then more noise; louder this time. Eck appeared with their mark. He was on tip toes as he was raised by the collar of his Fred Perry polo shirt.

Peter Chalmers didn’t even have a good reason to be in debt. He lived alone, had his rent taken care of by his parents, but he liked to party, thought there were no consequences. Cocaine was his current fad, something his friends respected. Peter was the guy with the connections. He could always be relied on to get the gear. But his student loan had run out and he didn’t want to ask his parents for more cash, he’d already taken too much. He’d seen a piece on the TV news about loan sharks, about people who gave out easy money to saps who didn’t think about the interest. Well with a new term approaching he knew he had options. He’d be moving out of the flat so who’d be able to find him? Peter asked around, found a local guy called Semple. He even had a shop; looked like a takeaway place. He knew he was dealing with morons; people who didn’t think like him; people with no hope. The £100 had bought him some coke. He’d scored with the girl he’d been after and it had been a great night. Peter Chalmers was moving out and moving on. The boxes in the hall meant the loan sharks would never get him. But here they were.

“Going somewhere are we chum?”

Peter hadn’t met the guy before. His Irish accent was quite grating, “You from Belfast?”

“You don’t ask the questions. Do you know how much you owe?” They were face-to-face, Peter could smell beer on his breath, he had a scar on his chin and every time he moved his leather jacket crackled.

“You looking at my scar?”

Peter looked away, “No, I wasn’t. I’ll get your money.”

“Eck, I think this wee runt was looking at my scar.”

Eck agreed. Peter was thrown back, through his own boxes and onto the floor. CDs scattered the carpet; which had been transformed into an indie walkway of lost voices.

Niall Murphy’s boots crushed the plastic boxes as he closed in. The disruption had been deliberate; he thought it would scare him, added a bit of drama. Looking down, he saw the boy was crying. He knew what was coming alright; kept on offering the cash. But it was too late for deals.

Peter Chalmers came to about an hour later. He could barely move. He could see his boxes were gone. At the door an old woman who lived next door, but who he’d never bothered to speak to let alone look at, was standing in the doorway. The look on her face told him it was bad. He just hoped the debt had been repaid. Somehow, he felt there was more to come.

She was woken by a noise, and when she opened her eyes Karen Balfour’s first thought was for baby Jack, but for once he was sound asleep. She checked to see what the time was but the display from the alarm clock was blank. Clicking on the plastic switch the light didn’t come on.
Bloody power card’s out again.
Using the light from her phone to guide her to the gloom of the meter cupboard she pressed the button which released £5 emergency credit. It meant the next card would be eaten up by fresh debt. And every time she used the emergency debit the charges built up, meaning she was forking out more frequently for power, but had less to show for her money. She knew she was getting a shitty deal but she couldn’t afford to have the pre-payment meter taken away. The power company said it would cost another £60, that because she had bad credit this was the best option ‘for her’. She’d been annoyed at that, like she was some kind of leper. She pressed the button and the power came back on; the fridge shuddered back into life with its reassuring hum. But the power wouldn’t last. Karen would need to make the mile long trek to the newsagents to get another card first thing tomorrow. But she didn’t have much money, and with no job she knew the lights would go out for good soon. She needed to find another job fast.

Community service hadn’t been quite what Lorna McMahon had been expecting. She’d pictured herself splitting rocks or removing graffiti from walls in the local neighbourhood, people would know what she’d done and pity her. A modern day stocks; public humiliation designed to make you conform. But it hadn’t been like that. She’d been sent to the Dennistoun Food Bank where she helped dole out food to people that were hungry, people like her. There were folk she knew, people she’d seen on the streets, and people who seemed lost already. They came from all walks of life and were referred from doctors, health visitors, social workers, citizen’s advice – even the Police. They’d brandish their voucher and claim their three day emergency food stocks. Lorna saw it for what it was, a sticking plaster which switched the responsibility for upkeep from the state to the public. She’d seen the collections in the local supermarkets but had never paid them any heed, simply walked past the table inside the automatic doors with its piles of food, mainly cereals and tins. It wasn’t her problem so she didn’t care enough to stop and think. She had plenty of time for that now.

The food bank was taking up a lot of her time. She’d been ordered to do 120 hours community service but could only do a maximum of 16 hours a week if she still wanted to collect her benefits. They paid for the roof over her head and helped to cover costs. It hadn’t been easy but the food bank gave her options. They let her take the odd tin or two, they knew her position.

But the mood seemed to be changing. On the TV there was a lot of talk about politics around the independence vote, but not much was being said about why people should vote. She picked up a copy of the Evening Times which had a picture of two men fighting in a pub on its front page. The headline was ‘Fight night –the shape of things to come?’ It seemed to have hit the nail on the head. She didn’t really follow politics, was too busy trying to stay alive, but the debate didn’t seem to have much to say for itself. The ‘No’ camp just kept repeating that the Nationalists would ruin the country, while the ‘Yes’ campaigners said they’d help build a better Scotland. Lorna didn’t know who to believe. Looking around at the queue of people being handed boxes and bags of food she knew one thing for sure, something had to change.

***

Arbogast had checked the phone listings before he left for Northern Ireland. There were 52 McNally’s living in Belfast. He was looking for Colm McNally. The list suggested three of the 52 had the initial ‘C’. It was possible that his man wasn’t listed in the phone book but it was an obvious place to start, so he hired a car and started looking. At home it was accepted that the ‘troubles’ were over. Belfast was now a peaceful city, but listening to the radio news Arbogast knew they were only getting part of the story back in the UK. Item after item detailed sectarian fights, pipe bomb discoveries, and political unrest. It was still a city with issues; issues that would take a long time to change course. He couldn’t help them with that; he just wanted to delve a little into its recent history. But to do that he needed help; he needed to find Colm.