The Dead Beat (16 page)

It didn’t feel right being back in the office.

She should be out searching for Johnny, not cutting and pasting, writing picture captions. But she had to keep in with the paper, had to keep reminding herself this was her big break. Foot in the door and all that. And anyway, she had no idea where to begin looking for Johnny, that was the sad truth.

‘How you doing, Fluke?’ V said.

News of Rose had spread around the office already. Of course, why wouldn’t it? There was genuine concern on V’s face. Martha wanted to explain, but really, what did she know for certain? People were suddenly killing themselves around her, maybe that’s all there was to it. Maybe this whole Johnny Lamb thing was in her head, she needed a bogeyman to pin everything on, to take away from the awful realisation that some people just can’t handle it and want to end it all.

She had a splitting headache. She wondered about the ECT, if it was a delayed side effect.

‘I’m fine,’ she finally said.

She dug some co-codamol out her bag. V handed her a protein shake to wash them down. She took it and glugged. Horrible.

‘Anything I can do, sweetheart?’ V said.

Martha shook her head.

‘I guess we just have to get on with shit, huh?’

Martha shrugged. Yeah, get on with things. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and hope you don’t walk straight into an open grave, waiting for your sad and lonely little body. Just keep breathing and walking and talking and try not to accidentally shoot yourself in the face, or jump off a high bridge, or take a whole bottle of pills, or slit your wrists or jump in front of a train or stab yourself in the heart over and over again until there was nothing left but meaty mush.

Just get on with it.

She looked at the pile of stuff on her desk. V had helped, printing out likely targets for commissioning out obits over the next few days, making a note of people to call and chat to, freelancers to chase up, one piece of syndicated copy from the States to be edited and laid out on the page.

Truth be told, V had done most of it already, just one or two smaller pieces to write. That was up to Martha, mopping up the minnows, writing about the people no one else thought worthy of attention, shining a torch on the everyday lives of the faceless masses.

She looked at the top sheet of paper in the pile.

Beverley Shields, died peacefully in a hospice yesterday at a ripe old age. She had spent forty years as a nursery teacher in Duddingston. Just along the road from Martha’s house.

She thought of her house, a charcoaled shell.

This woman had done nothing amazing, she hadn’t travelled around the world, or been part of the fucking Bloomsbury set, or flown across the Atlantic single-handed in a balloon, or spent weeks behind enemy lines gathering intelligence. She had just gone in to work every single day with a smile on her face, teaching three- and four-year-olds how to count, how to behave, how to go to the toilet themselves, and remember to wash their little hands. She had done this for four decades, however many generations that was, and in the same place, so she must’ve seen kids that she’d taught in the seventies coming back years later as worried parents with their kids, or even grandparents with grandkids, all the while taking a simple pleasure in doing something good for society.

That was a life worth documenting.

Martha couldn’t see the piece of paper in her hand, her eyes blurry with tears.

‘Why don’t you let me do that?’ V said.

Martha sniffed and swiped at her eyes with her sleeve. ‘It’s OK, I’ve got it.’

V pointed at the screen. ‘The transcript’s in the usual folder.’

V had already interviewed the woman’s daughter. More than enough to fill the three-hundred-word slot they had left. Three hundred words was an insult. Beverley Shields deserved a whole book to herself, a whole fucking library.

We all deserve our own book, an account of how we live our lives, but we never get it. The only people who get written about are either famous bastards or selfish show-offs. Martha wanted to make Beverley front-page news. Look at this woman, look at what she did for everyone, how she lived, how her family and friends all miss her like crazy, how she left a tiny but indelible mark on the universe.

Martha sighed. She began sifting through the transcript, cutting and pasting, shaping it into a narrative. Stripping the extraneous language, the repetitive stuff, the incidental meanderings.

Three hundred words.

Done.

She opened up the page, ready to run the copy in. Stopped.

The obit above was for Gordon Harris.

Another three-hundred-worder.

Byline was ‘Virginia Tyler’.

Martha looked across.

‘I thought I’d better handle that one,’ V said.

Martha read it. It put a nice gloss on his life. No mention of the manner of death, of course, not the done thing. Made him out to be a quiet and reserved character, but a good guy, just getting on with things. And of course, his job as obit writer. V had played up the empathy for the grieving and bereaved angle. Didn’t go over the top, make him out to be a saint or anything, just a stand-up guy, living his life.

Until he died.

‘Good job,’ Martha said.

‘Thanks.’

‘You have a caring, considerate side after all.’

V smiled. ‘Don’t go spreading that about, Fluke, or I’ll crush you.’

Martha wondered again what her own obit would be like.

‘Will you write my obit when I die?’ she said to V.

‘Honey, I’ll be long gone by the time you die.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Martha said.

The phone rang.

Martha remembered the first time that had happened with her sitting here at the desk. The start of all this.

She breathed in and out heavily, then closed her eyes. Picked up the phone.

‘The
Standard
obituary desk.’

‘Sis?’

‘Cal.’ She unclenched her teeth.

‘How’s it going?’

‘Shit.’

‘How shit?’

Of course, he didn’t know about Rose yet. ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

‘Well, I have some news that might cheer you up a bit.’

‘It better be good.’

‘I’ve just been speaking to Mum.’

‘I’m not cheered yet.’

‘She wants to talk.’

‘Still not happy.’

‘About Uncle Johnny.’

‘OK, you got me.’

A man and a woman wearing those white plastic onesies were on their hands and knees in the living room when Martha and Cal turned up.

Elaine was standing in the front garden, watching through the open window frame as they worked. They had a toolbox open on the floor between them, and they were putting samples into clear plastic bags, writing on the labels of the bags. Systematic, methodical.

They weren’t going to miss anything, Martha thought.

Cal went and put an arm around Elaine. She gave a sad smile and touched his hand with hers.

Martha stood beside them.

‘You wanted to talk?’ she said to Elaine.

Cal gave her a look. ‘Just go easy.’

The forensics were heading from the door towards the fireplace. There was no colour in the room, everything now just black and white and grey, their whole lives laid out in monochrome.

‘Maybe we should go somewhere else,’ Cal said softly.

Elaine shook her head. ‘Where else can we go? This is our home. I want to stay here.’

‘There isn’t even anywhere to sit down, Mum.’

Martha looked around. The sun had disappeared behind Arthur’s Seat but the sky was still bright. One of those occasional Scottish spring evenings, bursting with possibilities for the summer, promises that were never fulfilled. The light was making the leaves on the trees across in Figgate Park shimmer.

Martha looked at her feet. Their little square of front lawn needed cutting. Stupid to think of that, when your whole house had gone up in flames, but that’s what came to her.

She could still smell the house, the destruction of it.

The forensics were at the fireplace now, poking amongst the ash and dust.

She turned to Elaine. ‘So tell us about Johnny Lamb.’

She got another look from Cal, ignored it.

Elaine nodded. ‘You deserve to know the truth.’

Martha had her hands on her hips. ‘Wow, after twenty years, thanks for that.’

Cal shook his head. ‘That’s not helping.’

Martha twitched her nose in disapproval.

Elaine didn’t turn to look at Cal or Martha, just kept staring at the forensics pair shuffling along on their knees through the ashes.

‘The truth is, I never told you about Johnny because I tried to put all that stuff out of my mind. It was a difficult time. You have to understand, we were all very young. You do all sorts of stupid stuff when you’re . . .’

‘Our age?’ Martha said.

Elaine nodded. ‘Exactly.’

Cal rubbed Elaine’s shoulder. ‘Why not start at the beginning, Mum?’

Elaine raised a hand to her forehead, like a cheap psychic pretending to get a message from beyond the grave.

‘I met Ian in the Southern Bar on Clerk Street, did you know that?’

She was talking as much to herself as to them.

‘The night Nirvana played there. He was cute and funny and interesting. We hit it off straight away. He was already working at the
Standard
, doing work experience as a student.’ She glanced at Martha. ‘He would’ve been very proud of you, you know.’

She turned away. ‘I thought we were in love. I suppose everyone does at that age. But there was always something at the back of my mind, something nagging away at me, that he wasn’t as into the whole thing as I was. I tried not to think about it, I didn’t want to be one of those paranoid girlfriends. We were smoking a lot of weed at the time, that didn’t help.’

Martha and Cal exchanged a look.

Elaine smiled. ‘You didn’t know that about your ancient mother, did you? I used to smoke skunk and weed, and take speed too. And drink like a fish.’

‘What happened to you?’ Martha said. She couldn’t help a note of sarcasm coming into her voice.

Elaine looked at her. ‘I got old, Martha. And you will one day too.’

‘Doesn’t mean you have to become completely numb. You totally shut yourself down.’

Elaine looked away again. ‘I had good reason for that.’

‘Look, I thought you were going to tell us about Johnny?’

Elaine sighed. ‘Ian was sleeping with a woman from the office. I knew it, but I never said anything. That’s why I slept with Johnny, to get back at Ian.’

‘You slept with your boyfriend’s brother?’ Martha said.

‘Don’t you judge me,’ Elaine said.

‘Why didn’t you just leave Ian?’ Cal said.

‘Good question,’ Elaine said. ‘I ask myself that a lot. But things were confused, complicated. After the incident with Johnny, that night, it didn’t really matter.’

‘Wait, what fucking incident?’ Martha said. ‘Is this to do with what happened on North Bridge in ’92?’

Elaine’s head snapped round. ‘How do you know about that?’

Martha just stared at her.

‘What do you know?’ Elaine said.

‘What should I know? Were you there?’

Elaine nodded. ‘We were all there.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘Me, Johnny, Ian. Gordon too.’

‘You mean Gordon Harris?’

‘Yes. And the woman Ian was sleeping with, Rose.’

Martha’s eyes widened. ‘Wait, Rose Brown?’

Elaine frowned and nodded.

‘Jesus Christ,’ Martha said. ‘Ian was fucking Rose? She was the other woman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Elaine, Rose is in a coma. She apparently tried to kill herself this morning. Only a few days after Gordon did the same thing. And Johnny is on the loose. What the fuck happened that night?’

Elaine looked confused. ‘What do you mean, Johnny is on the loose? You said before that he was in the Royal Edinburgh.’

‘Ian signed him out three days before he went off North Bridge. Elaine, this stinks – what the hell is going on?’

Elaine brought her hands up to her face. ‘Oh my God, I can’t . . .’

Martha grabbed her arms, shook her. ‘Yes you can, tell us.’

Cal tried to prise Martha’s hands away. ‘Hey, that isn’t helping.’

‘Fuck you.’

Cal separated them and pushed Martha away.

Elaine was crying into her hands.

Martha pointed at her. ‘I swear to God, Elaine, you better tell me what the fuck is going on here.’

Martha’s phone rang in her pocket. She glared at Elaine for a few seconds, Cal shaking his head in between them, then she pulled out her phone.

Billy. She pressed Answer.

‘Not a good time, Billy.’

He was on the move, out of breath.

‘Rose is awake,’ he said.

She felt like she was living in hospitals these days. Might as well move in, she didn’t have a home to go to any more.

Billy was waiting outside the main entrance holding a bunch of flowers.

‘You shouldn’t have,’ Martha said.

‘Very funny,’ Billy said.

‘No, I mean you shouldn’t have bought lilies. They’re for dead people.’

‘There are rules about flowers?’ He was already walking and pointing. ‘She’s in ward nineteen, apparently, this way.’

Took them ten minutes to find her through the corridors and double doors.

They pitched up in a sunny ward mostly full of old people, six to a room.

She was in the bed closest to the window.

Her skin was waxy, the pills still oozing out her system.

‘Rose,’ Billy said.

She turned and managed a thin smile. ‘Billy.’

He leaned in and kissed her, put the flowers on the table next to the bed.

Rose chuckled. ‘Lilies are for dead people,’ she said.

‘So Martha tells me. Sorry.’

Rose turned to Martha and raised her eyebrows.

‘Hey,’ Martha said, shuffling her weight. ‘You OK?’

Rose nodded then looked out the window. Getting dark now, but still a trace of blue at the edge of the world. ‘I thought they always gave the bed nearest the window to the one who was going to die next. Not a good sign.’

She laughed, more of a cough than anything, then turned back to Billy. ‘You two are quite the little double act. You make a cute couple.’

‘Never mind that,’ Billy said. ‘Just relax.’

Rose’s movements were tentative, she was clearly in a lot of pain. She looked at a glass tumbler next to the flowers. ‘Can you pass me that water?’ she said.

Billy obliged.

Martha watched. Rose had had the stuffing knocked out of her, that was for sure. Martha wondered if she’d had one of those life-affirming epiphanies you were always hearing about. A brush with death making you treasure every moment of life – blah-de-blah.

‘Thanks,’ Rose said, after a nervous sip. ‘I believe I have you two to thank for saving my life.’

‘It was Billy, really,’ Martha said. ‘He was amazing.’ The words surprised her as they left her mouth. ‘He got your stomach empty and kept you going until the ambulance arrived.’

Billy looked at her. ‘Well we wouldn’t have been there at all if Martha hadn’t seen your name on Johnny Lamb’s file at the Royal.’

Rose looked at Martha.

Johnny Lamb, the elephant in the room, Martha thought. The big, lumbering elephant in every fucking room she’d walked into in the last week, it felt like.

Martha pointed at Rose laid out in the hospital bed. ‘Johnny did this, right?’

Rose nodded.

Billy put a hand on top of Rose’s. ‘You don’t have to tell us just now.’

‘Yes she does,’ Martha said.

Rose smiled. ‘You’re right, of course I do.’

She pushed herself up in bed with careful, difficult movements.

‘You OK?’ Billy said.

She brushed away his concern with a tiny flick of a wrist, taking her hand away from his.

‘He turned up at my front door, just like that,’ she said. ‘This morning. If this is the same day, is it?’

Billy nodded.

‘I wasn’t even dressed. I was drinking tea and looking out the window. Beautiful skies this morning. Then the buzzer went. Johnny. After twenty years. He had a gun.’

She stopped for a moment. ‘I’ve never had a gun pointed at me. It doesn’t look too bad on television and in films, but something strange comes over you when it really happens. I was paralysed to begin with. He pushed in and took over. Began ordering me about. He seemed calm, though. Like it was just a bit of business. We went to the bedroom and he tried to get me to take the whole bottle of my Xanax. I snapped out of it and refused. He hit me. But he was careful, punches to the body, nothing that would show straight away.’

Her voice was wavering.

‘It’s OK,’ Billy said.

‘Eventually he pinned me down and put the gun . . . up me.’ She turned away. ‘Said he was going to blow my insides to pieces if I didn’t take the pills.’

Martha looked down at her feet. Heard Rose crying.

‘So I took them. He had gin to wash it down. I drank it.’

Rose wiped at her face.

‘Then he relaxed. Just waited. Obviously, he wanted it to look like suicide. I felt groggy. He was standing over me. That’s the last I remember until an hour ago.’

Martha swallowed. ‘Why’s he doing this, Rose?’

‘What’s the oldest motive in the world?’

Martha looked her in the eye. ‘Revenge? For all those years locked up?’

‘Bingo.’

‘Did he kill Ian and Gordon for the same reason?’

‘I don’t know for sure, but I think so.’

Martha came over and touched the bed next to Rose’s hand.

‘Jesus, what happened that night?’

Rose sighed. ‘I hadn’t thought about Johnny Lamb in years until a couple of weeks ago. When Ian was found dead under North Bridge, it brought everything back.’

‘You know Ian was my dad,’ Martha said.

Rose frowned. ‘Billy told me.’

‘So,’ Martha said. ‘That night?’

‘It was Teenage Fanclub,’ Rose said.

‘The band?’ Martha thought of Ian’s cassettes. ‘What do they have to do with it?’

‘That was the gig we were all at,’ she said. ‘It was a disaster. Not the band, they were great. But the atmosphere was poisonous because of what had been going on for months beforehand.’

‘You mean you sleeping with Ian, and Elaine sleeping with Johnny?’

Martha’s phone rang, breaking the spell.

‘Fuck,’ she said.

She took it out her pocket. Elaine. She stared at it for a moment. A long moment. Then finally pressed Answer.

‘Martha?’ It was a man’s voice. A familiar voice. The guy who had phoned her at the office and hung up.

‘Yes.’

‘If you want to see your mum alive one last time, come to North Bridge right now.’