The Dead Beat (7 page)
Authors: Doug Johnstone
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Scotland
Martha made straight for the grave this time. She wanted a quick word.
No wind in the oaks today, sunlight playing through the leaves. A tortoiseshell cat with a long tail trotted along parallel to her for a while. She thought of yesterday’s wood pigeon, the notion of reincarnation.
She stopped at Ian’s headstone and turned. She was being melodramatic. There was no one else in sight, but she felt like she was on stage, putting on a show. She was about to speak when she noticed fresh flowers on the grave, a small bunch of lilies. She reached down and picked them up. No card, no message.
Who would leave flowers, someone from the office? Did he have people who cared about him that she didn’t know about?
Martha looked round the graveyard again. Couldn’t see the cat any more, it had skulked away into a clump of trees by the fence. She felt like she was being watched. Stupid feeling, straight out of a cheap horror movie, the kind Cal subjected her to. Martha pictured herself as the idiotic damsel in distress – going out into the graveyard alone, against the advice of the grizzled old-timer at the local store who warned her about suspicious goings-on up at the old haunted cemetery.
She shook her head to dismiss the idea. Threw the flowers back down onto the turned earth at her feet.
‘So, that was some first day at work yesterday,’ she said to Ian. ‘Is it always like that?’
She chewed on her lip and raised her eyebrows.
‘Still got nothing to say for yourself, huh?’
She shook her head.
‘What’s going on at the
Standard
, anyway? It’s a regular little suicide club down there. I know things are bad in the newspaper business, but come on. That’s two of you tried to top yourselves in a fortnight. There must’ve been some fucking depressing pay and conditions in your contract. Or maybe your generation have just discovered how shit life is. Took you long enough.’
Martha turned away from the gravestone and looked around.
‘Well, much as I enjoy our little chats, Ian, I’ve got somewhere I have to be.’
She noticed movement amongst the trees and got that feeling again of being watched. She imagined the soundtrack, atonal creepy notes building slowly, indicating a madman wielding a chainsaw just behind the nearest oak.
She jumped when the cat crept out from behind a tree and headed in her direction. It was padding straight for her, carrying something in its mouth. She pictured it leaping out of the branches of a tree and grabbing the wood pigeon by the throat, ripping it to pieces, tearing the life out of it.
But as the cat got closer she realised it wasn’t carrying the wood pigeon, but a rat. The sight of the tail made her queasy. Something about that ropelike extension, the baldness of it.
The cat slowed. It had a submissive look on its face as it snuck the last few feet and laid the rat down in front of her, on top of Ian’s grave. The rat twitched its front feet and jerked its head around, but it couldn’t get up. Its throat was hanging open and the cat had made a mess of the flesh around its belly.
Martha gagged.
The rat began frantically thrashing its head about as the cat retreated. The cat looked first at her then at the prize it had brought her. She had to do something.
She stepped forward and placed the heel of her shoe on the rat’s head. Heard the skull crush beneath her foot, and felt it up through her leg. Swivelled her heel to be sure.
She stepped back, dragging her foot on the grass, trying to wipe away rat brains. She looked at the cat.
‘You are a sick fuck,’ she said.
The cat looked pleased with itself as it jogged away.
Martha stared at the rat, its head a mush of fur and brains. It lay on the grave like a superstitious offering from a primitive tribe. She should move it, but she couldn’t touch it with her hands and she didn’t want to get any more dead rat on her shoes.
‘Jesus Christ,’ she said as she turned away from Ian and strode towards the exit.
As she got on the bus, she threw a random tape into the Walkman. A Spanish woman’s voice, lots of reverb, then a riff. She looked at the box – Jane’s Addiction,
Ritual de lo Habitual
. A guy with a squeaky voice shrieking over some funk-metal. Strange.
She pulled the printout of Ian’s obituary from her bag. Smudged her thumb against the picture of him, pint glass aloft. Tried to imagine the decomposing corpse in the graveyard, or his smashed-up body underneath North Bridge.
She read the obit for the sixth time this morning.
Sometimes the word ‘colleague’ just isn’t enough. Ian Lamb, who died in the early hours of Monday morning after falling from North Bridge, was a distinguished colleague of everyone he worked with at the
Standard
newspaper, but he was so much more besides.
From his early days as a trainee reporter on the
Standard
’s sister paper the
Evening Standard
, through to his more recent days as an accomplished and astute news editor, Ian was a companionable and compassionate presence, always ready to listen to the usual workplace gripes, but also to provide vital encouragement to all around him.
Back in 1991, Ian was studying journalism at Edinburgh University. I first met him around this time, through a mutual love of the indie and grunge music scenes. Ian was a decent guitarist, I remember. He never treated that side of things as anything more than an interesting hobby, although by general consensus he could have made a career out of music if he’d set his mind to it.
In fact, that applied to most things about Ian. Ahead of anyone else in his journalism class, he landed a prestigious work placement as a trainee crime reporter with the
Evening Standard
, at a time when the newspaper industry was flying high and competition was fierce.
Ian was already working as a freelance writer, penning gig and album reviews, and contributing heavily to music fanzines and magazines both local and national, but he craved something more serious. His nose for news stood him in good stead at the
Evening Standard
, where he rose quickly through the ranks of crime reporting and then news journalism.
He was responsible for breaking any number of high-profile stories at the paper over the years, from the Hearts FC tax scandal to the terrible revelations about the disposal of remains at Mortonhall Crematorium.
When a vacancy came up at the
Standard
for a news editor, Ian seemed the obvious choice. He brought to the role something of his dark sense of humour, as well as a down-to-earth quality that marked the paper’s newsgathering for the subsequent years.
Latterly, Ian was less than enamoured with the way things were going within the newspaper industry in general, and at the
Standard
in particular. He was heard to comment on more than one occasion that in a few years all this would be gone, and yet he maintained impeccable levels of professionalism from the moment he entered the office until the moment he left.
Outside of the office Ian was an intensely private man, and mostly kept himself to himself. I suppose I knew him as well as anyone, and indeed it was he who first persuaded me to apply for a job at the
Evening Standard
where he was working, so really I have my whole career to thank him for.
Anyone who knew him knew that Ian was private for a reason. He had suffered on and off from depression over the years, and it occasionally hung over him like a cloud. In later years, however, he seemed to have found a combination of treatments that worked effectively at keeping his mood swings under control.
However, the overwhelming memories of Ian are happy ones. Consulting with colleagues here in the office, we were continually to be found laughing at recollections of his anecdotes and wit.
Ian Lamb was brought up in Edinburgh by his widowed mother where he was a bright and popular pupil at Sciennes Primary School then at Boroughmuir High School. He claimed it was his mother’s proudest moment when he received an unconditional acceptance to study at Edinburgh University. The fact that he never finished his degree – instead becoming a full-time employee at the paper – always annoyed him, for her sake, but he was nothing if not a pragmatist in the workplace, as in life.
His mother died at the end of 1992 from a stroke, shortly after he began working at the paper, and that death always cast a shadow over Ian’s life and considerable achievements, in his own eyes at least.
Nevertheless, in the two decades that followed, he carved an impressive life and career out for himself, creating a lasting impression not only on the people he leaves behind, but on the institution of the press in this country.
Ian is survived by his daughter Martha and by his son Calvin.
By Gordon Harris
It was well written but cagey. All obits were cagey, they hedged around the less savoury elements of the subject’s life, but this seemed especially vague. Concentrated almost entirely on his work at the expense of anything else. Virtually no mention of his upbringing or early life. Martha wondered about that. Tried to think what Elaine had mentioned about Ian’s life over the years and came up blank.
She liked that bit at the end, ‘Ian is survived by his daughter Martha and by his son Calvin.’
Simple, direct, to the point.
She was a survivor, it was official.
It felt strange to be a survivor.
The guy on the tape was singing about being caught stealing. There were dogs barking all over the song. What the hell? Martha had been nabbed on the take once, eight years old. A Wispa out of McColl’s. Everyone was doing it, it was a dare, a rite of passage. She was the only one got caught. Elaine gave her total shit for it.
Martha didn’t get off the bus at the Bridges, she was deliberately two hours early. Instead, she headed all the way south to Little France, to the ERI.
To see Gordon.
She pictured his face, smeared across that room in Leith Links.
She didn’t know why she was going to see a man in a coma.
She looked at Ian’s obituary again. This time rubbed her finger over the byline, ‘Gordon Harris’.
She switched off the screechy guy’s band and slipped in that tape, the tape of her conversation with Gordon.
The bus stopped and started down Clerk Street and Newington as she listened, her hands tight around the Walkman, squeezing it, feeling the give in the lid, the springs on the hinge tensing and relaxing.
Bang.
Her shouting again. Silence. Then Billy. More silence.
Then that noise again.
It didn’t sound right. Didn’t feel right. Something was wrong with all this.
That’s why she was going to see a man in a coma. To shake him awake. To ask him what really happened.
Different nurse at the intensive care desk.
‘I’m his daughter,’ Martha said, putting on sad eyes.
Electronic click. She pulled the handle and was through.
Stood at the other side of the door waiting for it to glide shut. Pressed her back against the wall for a moment, closed her eyes and opened them again.
The light was dimmer in here, less stressful. The whir and hum of machines was louder, the constant buzz of keeping people alive.
Martha wondered what it would be like to work here saving lives. And watching people die.
She had a tension across her forehead. Pressed her thumbs into her eyebrows and rolled them downwards. Heard a familiar crunch and pop, like a stiff back having the knots massaged out. She wondered about that sound, what was making it exactly? Muscle, sinew, cartilage? A nurse would know, maybe she should ask one. She looked around. There was no one in the corridor.
She made her way to Gordon’s room, fourth on the left. Stood in the doorway. Samantha was at the bedside, same as before. Martha wondered if she’d been home at all, to face the mess her husband had made. Maybe better to stay here forever.
‘Mrs Harris?’
Samantha turned. All energy had drained from her face since yesterday and she gave off an air of deep sadness and resignation. She shook her head at Martha, an aimless, almost involuntary movement.
Martha walked towards her. ‘I’m Martha, we met yesterday.’
Samantha shook her head again, more forcefully this time. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember.’
‘I work at the
Standard
. I was covering the obit desk when your husband phoned in.’
Samantha’s face crumpled a little more. Increments of grief.
Martha put a hand on her shoulder but it felt wasted and awkward. There was nothing here between them. Martha was worse than useless, she was here to pester and intrude and she knew it.
She took her hand away.
‘I remember now,’ Samantha said.
Martha looked at Gordon in bed. There was very little change from yesterday, except he seemed somehow smaller, like he’d shrunk away from the world. His face was still covered in gauze, the oxygen mask on, the machines pumping and wheezing.
Martha stared at his hand on top of the white sheet, where a drip was feeding in. The tape holding the tube had come away from his skin at one corner, and she reached forward and smoothed it down, then felt weird about touching his hand in front of his wife. Martha didn’t know him but she felt connected. The phone call. The sound of it, the feel of it. She was linked to all this now, linked to him for as long as he remained alive. Maybe longer.
She pulled up a seat next to Samantha and laid her hands in her lap.
‘How is he?’
Samantha shook her head. ‘No change overnight. The machines are keeping him alive. Brain function is low. His body is still in shock.’
‘But he’ll come out of the coma, won’t he?’
Samantha sighed. ‘They say it’s still too early to tell. I don’t think they’re very hopeful, but they’re not telling me that.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
Martha noticed a small bunch of lilies in a vase on the table next to the bed. She got up and examined them. Similar to the flowers on Ian’s grave. Small, white flowers, the petals unopened. Weren’t lilies supposed to be for dead people? She fingered the stems, looking for a card. Nothing.
‘Lovely flowers,’ she said.
Samantha stared at her, then the vase. She looked as if she hadn’t noticed the flowers before.
‘Who sent them?’ Martha said. ‘A relative?’
‘I don’t know.’
Martha smelled the flowers. Not much of a scent with the blooms still closed. She sat down again.
‘How was he?’ Samantha said.
‘What?’
Samantha didn’t take her eyes off Gordon in the bed. ‘When you spoke to him yesterday. How was he?’
Martha thought about it. ‘Very upset. Distressed.’
Samantha’s head dropped a little and she closed her eyes.
Martha looked at the creases around the woman’s eyes. So tired. ‘How did he seem when you last saw him?’
Samantha shook her head. ‘Fine, that’s the bizarre thing. I mean, he’s suffered from depression in the past, on and off, but not for years.’
‘Maybe he was hiding it from you.’ Martha found herself taking the other woman’s hand in hers. ‘That’s very common for people suffering from depression, to hide it really well from loved ones.’
‘How would you know?’
‘I’ve suffered from it all my life. Diagnosed eight years ago, but I knew there was something wrong way before that.’
Samantha looked up. ‘Really? But you’re so young.’
‘It has nothing to do with age,’ Martha said. ‘It’s a mental disorder, that’s all.’
Samantha sighed. ‘I read all about it, the leaflets when Gordon was diagnosed, then weeks online, looking for answers. Buying loads of books, getting medicated, looking for alternatives.’
‘That all sounds very familiar.’
‘But that was years ago. There has been nothing recently, no signs it was coming back.’
‘Like I said, maybe he was hiding it.’
Samantha pulled her hand away abruptly. ‘And what am I supposed to do with that information?’ Her tone had hardened. ‘What the hell am I supposed to do in the face of that little nugget of wisdom?’
Martha put her hand up, placating. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offence.’
‘You have no idea what it’s like,’ Samantha said. ‘The deceit of it all, the disregard for others, the selfishness.’
‘Actually, my dad killed himself a fortnight ago.’
Samantha stared at Martha for a long time. Her breathing slackened and the fight seemed to go out of her. ‘Then you do know.’
‘I’ve felt suicidal in the past,’ Martha said, ‘and even I don’t understand it. There’s no point attributing rational thought patterns to people in that mindset. I think of myself when I was like that and it seems like a different person, a ghost almost.’
‘A ghost,’ Samantha said, like an echo. ‘A ghost who somehow managed to get hold of a gun and keep it secret from his wife in their own home.’
Martha angled her head. ‘You’ve no idea where he got it?’
‘I never heard him talk about a gun. Ever. I certainly wouldn’t have had one in the house, I told the police that.’
‘There are apparently pubs in Leith where you can buy firearms.’
‘You’re saying it was planned, there was premeditation.’
Martha shrugged. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just trying to work out what happened.’
Samantha rubbed at her eye. ‘Why?’
Martha felt the tension return across her forehead, longed to push her knuckles into her eye sockets. ‘Don’t you want to know what happened?’
Samantha’s eyes were wet now. ‘I know what happened. My husband tried to kill himself.’
Martha thought about the cassette in her bag. The noise at the end of the phone call. She thought about bringing it up.
Didn’t.
She got up and stood over Gordon’s body. His chest was rising and falling softly, in time with the wheeze of the life-support machine. She caught a faint whiff of the lilies from the bedside table, just a tiny trace.
Samantha was sniffling into a tissue.
Martha touched Samantha’s shoulder as she walked away. It felt like the most useless gesture imaginable.