The Mitchell Library is an imposing sandstone building that sits proudly in the heart of Glasgow. This grand building would, I hoped, provide some answers to my questions.
Collins was sure Thomas was dead, a certainty he said was shared by my parents, so perhaps I should let this go.
I couldn’t.
The library’s hushed ambience was soothing, and it occurred to me that this place was some kind of link to my lost brother. He’d been here. He’d walked along the stacks of books and selected something that he might enjoy reading.
I explained to a young woman at the reception area what I was looking for and she directed me to the fifth floor. ‘Special collections,’ she said. ‘They’ve got all the old newspapers on film up there.’
At the fifth-floor reception, I decided lying was easier: I explained that I was researching a book on local history and asked to look at back copies of the Evening Times.
‘This way.’ She stood up and began to walk across the large room, towards a line of grey, shoulder-high cabinets. ‘What time period are you after?’ she asked.
‘Around Easter, 1990,’ I replied. ‘March and April. And May as well, please,’ I added.
She pulled out the relevant small boxes and then marched over to one of the tables that housed the microfilm readers. She directed me to take a seat and then taking the March film out of its box she fed it through the viewer and explained how to work the reader.
‘Thanks,’ I said, and with a nod she left me to it.
I sat back in my chair, momentarily reluctant to continue. What if I found something I didn’t want to know? My dad’s face flashed into my mind. He and Mum didn’t want Chris and me to know about Thomas. Why? Was my investigation betraying his memory?
Looking around me, as if delaying the moment, I took in the rows of Formica-topped tables, four chairs at each cushioned with red cloth. Then down to the orange-and-brown patterned carpet that must have been the height of fashion at one point: a colour scheme that hadn’t aged well.
Someone sat in the chair opposite me and their microfilm reader whirred into action.
Right. Get on with it, I told myself.
I pressed the green forward button and words and images blurred across the screen. I released the button and the film stopped on the sports pages. A young man with a Rangers strip was being tackled by another young man in the hoops of Glasgow Celtic. I scrolled on.
A nun aged forty-two had been sexually assaulted in Bellahouston Park.
A man aged twenty-eight was on a murder charge after stabbing his victim repeatedly.
Frank Sinatra would receive a million pounds if his concert were to go ahead in the city that summer as part of the European City of Culture programme.
So far, nothing about my brother’s disappearance, or the Shows.
Then I was on to a series of small ads. Sunbeds, caravans in Saltcoats, and singing telegrams were apparently popular with Glaswegians in 1990. I moved on. The financial pages showed the pound at 1.635 US dollars, and the FTSE100 at 2221.6.
The next article was about women receiving tax independence. Their income would now be taxed on an individual basis rather than being aggregated against their husband’s.
Married women’s financial independence and singing telegrams. This was just less than thirty years ago but apart from the ‘anchor’ of Celtic and Rangers enmity it was feeling like a different world.
Enough, I told myself. I was here to research my brother’s disappearance, not to get a glimpse into life in Scotland when I was a toddler.
With improved focus, I carried on reading and searching.
Lost in what I was doing, I was surprised to feel a tap on my shoulder. It was the librarian.
‘We’re about to close.’
‘Already?’ I asked, looking at my watch. It was almost eight p.m. ‘Is that the time?’ What had I been doing the last three hours? ‘Are you open tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ she replied with a distracted smile, suggesting she was keen to be on her way home. ‘We’re open from nine to five on Fridays.’
The next morning I phoned the school and in a pathetic voice explained that the doctor wanted me to take the rest of the week off. Red-faced with shame at my lies, I squirmed when the school secretary told me to take care of myself.
Friday held more of the same. The same sort of crimes, the same advertisements, the same focus on Glasgow’s main football teams. Some hours later, I stretched my aching back, and rubbed at my eyes. I should go home. I was getting nowhere.
Patience, I reminded myself. This ‘case’ was more than thirty years old. I wasn’t going to find something in a matter of hours.
And if I was frustrated after just a few days, how would my parents have felt? It must have been a torment. Was Thomas alive or dead? The agony of the uncertainty, waiting to hear something, anything, must have been unbearable. How did parents cope with that? Their lives would have been on hold. How much sleep did they get? Did they force themselves to eat? Did they share their distress with one another or did they not want to show the other how much they hurt, thinking that would save the other some anguish?
I tried to think about how my parents were with each other when I was a child. My lasting impression was one of remoteness. Two people who had nothing in common other than the building they inhabited, a child-shaped void, and the huge mistake of having a further two love-starved boys.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t subject any children to that. Having observed plenty of distant parenting in my time in the classroom I knew how damaging that could be to a young person’s growing sense of self.
A pain was growing across the back of my skull and down my neck, and my head felt too heavy. I pushed myself away from the library desk and rubbed at the muscles either side of my spine just under my cranium. Of course it did nothing to ease the pain. I crossed my arms, feeling a growing sense of something. Unease. That the things I needed in my life were just moving beyond my control. Angela, work, family. I needed to get a grip. Perhaps a coffee would help to shift my mood.
Down in the café in the large atrium of the library, as I was ordering my drink, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Angela.
‘I’ve got a baby-sitter tonight. Fancy going to that Italian place on Bothwell Street? There’s something I’d like to chat with you about.’
We arranged a time and hung up. Then after finishing my coffee I returned to my investigation, looking forward to an evening with Angela, and a chance to remind myself how important she was to my sanity.
Over a welcome large glass of red wine in the restaurant, I explained what I’d been doing the last couple of days. As I spoke I was aware of a tremor in my voice and a feeling that something was hovering in my mind, just out of reach.
‘Ah, right,’ she said. ‘Your phone call the other night was a bit muddled.’ She paused. ‘I love the romantic phone calls, John, but could they not be so late, and could you not be so drunk?’ She gave me a look that suggested her patience was beginning to fray. ‘So, there’s an actual birth certificate?’
‘Sorry,’ I could feel my face heat in a blush. ‘I’ll stop that,’ I added quietly. ‘But yeah, I have, sorry, had another brother.’
‘That’s crazy.’ Her mouth fell open.
‘And doing the arithmetic, I must have been about two when he died.’
‘Bloody hell.’ She shook her head slowly. ‘Why would your mum and dad keep that from you?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘How horrible. You must feel so betrayed.’
Betrayal. Such a good word.
‘And you can’t possibly ask your mum about this now,’ she continued. ‘Goodness knows how that would affect her.’ She reached across the table top and squeezed my hand. ‘How awful for you.’
‘It explains so much,’ I said. ‘Why Mum was so pissed off whenever I came home later than I said I would. And why there often seemed to be an atmosphere between her and Dad.’
‘God, yeah,’ Angela agreed. ‘If anything happened to…’ She broke off, clearly thinking of her own daughter. ‘And you’re going all private detective on us?’
‘I don’t know why I can’t let it go,’ I replied. ‘I need to know what happened, you know?’
The waiter arrived with our food, and as we ate we allowed our conversation to drift to less-demanding topics. But when the waiter delivered our coffees I remembered that Angela had said there was something she wanted to chat about.
‘On the phone,’ I picked up my coffee and had a sip. ‘You sounded like there was something on your mind.’
‘Yeah.’ She picked up a teaspoon and stirred her drink. She gave a faint shake of her head. ‘That doesn’t matter. It’ll keep.’
‘Oh c’mon, honey. It’s all been about me tonight. And that’s not fair. What’s up?’
‘I can’t,’ she said and looked away from me for a second. ‘After all the stuff about your brother…’ She picked up a sachet of sugar and dropped it again.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked. I was suddenly sure I wouldn’t like what was on her mind but felt compelled to force the issue. ‘Talk to me.’
‘We’re going to have to have that conversation soon,’ she said slowly after a long pause. She lifted her eyes to meet mine. ‘Where this is going…’
The cast of her eyes eased my nerves only a little. She wasn’t going to dump me just yet. Provided I offered her some reassurance.
‘It will be two years this summer, John. I’m not asking for a ring on my finger or anything, but it’s like we lead separate lives. You’re in your flat, I’m in mine … I have a daughter you’ve barely spent any time with.’ Her mouth twisted a little and I thought for a moment she was going to cry, but she blinked hard and recovered. ‘I’m in love with you, John, but after all this time I barely know you—’
‘Honey…’ I gripped her hand and tried to interrupt. My head felt light, as if my brain was shifting inside my skull.
‘Please, let me finish.’ She coughed. ‘I’m not sure much longer I can go on like this. I can’t mess about. I’ve got Cathy to consider. I need to know either way if we have a future.’
I studied the table for a long moment. Everything suddenly felt too much. My mum, my new secret brother, Angela’s unhappiness … I felt a surge of something approaching panic: a tightness in my chest and my pulse was a weighty thump in my neck.
I should get up and leave.
Go.
But I couldn’t move. If I went now I’d never see her again.
Dampening down my anxiety, I forced a long, deep breath and considered what she had been saying. She was right. I had let our relationship run in a way that suited only me. I had an occasional girlfriend and all the space I needed when I wanted to retreat from the world.
I was being entirely selfish. She needed more from me.
Suddenly, I had the answer.
Perhaps it was time to grow up. Perhaps it was time to show that I wasn’t my parents’ son. I could have a loving, sharing, warm relationship, and this woman was the person to show me how to do that. Besides, life without her in it would lose too much of its spark. And maybe there was a way to help me feel like I was pulling my life back into a shape of my own devising.
Without fully realising I was doing it, I’d pushed my chair back, moved round to her side of the table and got down on one knee.
Her hand was at her mouth. ‘John, what are you doing?’ Her face was pale, her eyes shining.
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I love you. I can’t go on treating you like this. And I can’t live without you.’ As I said those words I felt the truth of them linger in my heart.
‘John, don’t be daft. This was not what I was getting at.’
Even as the words were spilling from my mouth, a voice in my mind was demanding, what on earth are you doing?
‘Will you marry me?’ I asked.
First thing on Monday morning, I was in the car park, my back glued to the back of my car seat. My pulse thundered in my ears. My mouth was dry. My hands shaking where they rested on the steering wheel. I could make out my chest moving up and down under my suit jacket and tie. What was happening to me?
My heart pounded faster and harder. Even faster, even harder. I tried taking a deep breath to calm myself, but my breathing was sharp and shallow, the air barely reaching my lungs. My vision narrowed, getting darker and narrower.
Shit. I was having a panic attack.
‘It’s okay,’ I said out loud. ‘It’s not fatal. It’s. Not. Fatal.’
I squeezed my eyelids together, hard. Forced a breath. And made myself pay attention to it as air finally flowed into my lungs. I breathed in again and exhaled slowly, saying the word ‘calm’ over and over again as I did so.
My reaction surprised me. My actions felt almost like a habit.
Jesus, I’d had these before. Of course.
And the doctor sent me to a woman. I could see her in my mind. Shoulder-length black hair, an expressionless face and hands clasped on her lap as she taught me to focus on my breath and think of that one word. I said it out loud again.
‘Calm.’
How could I have forgotten these attacks had happened all those years ago? And why was it happening again now?
Twenty minutes later, feeling a tremble in my thighs, like a hangover from my panic attack, my heels echoing the pattern of my stride down the long school corridor, I saw Mr White, ‘the Headie’, as the kids called him, waiting at the door to my classroom.
‘Mr Docherty.’
As was usual when confronted with this man I felt my hackles rise.
‘Morning, Mr White,’ I managed to say.
‘In my office, Mr Docherty,’ he ordered. ‘You and I need to talk.’ Without waiting for a reply, secure in his absolute authority, he performed a heel turn and marched down the corridor. I followed in his wake, like a schoolboy preparing himself for ten of the best.
I followed him into his office and sat down. The desk before me was of dark polished walnut and was unadorned save for a pad of pristine white paper and a silver fountain pen.
‘Am I to understand that congratulations are in order?’
‘Sorry?’ How on earth did he know about that?
‘I was there, Mr Docherty. In the Italian restaurant where you publicly proposed to your girlfriend.’
‘Ah.’
Shit.
I was back in that space, people applauding, Angela wordless with emotion, nodding her answer and drying her eyes with a napkin. Me, wondering if I had just made a huge mistake.
‘And…’ He cocked his head to the side. ‘You made a quick recovery. What was wrong with you again?’ He looked at the pad of paper in front of him. ‘Stomach flu?’
‘I can explain.’
His eyes drilled into me. ‘That would be interesting. Can you also explain what is happening here in school? I’ve been getting complaints from your colleagues about the noise coming out of your classroom. Whisky coming off your breath. What’s going on?’ He clasped his hands on the desk in front of him. ‘I promoted you to head of department despite your relative youth because of your work ethic and your relationships with your pupils. Don’t prove me wrong.’
‘I … eh … can explain … em … everything, Mr White,’ I stammered.
‘I do hope so, Docherty.’ Mr White had a formidable weapon in his arsenal of intimidation. He would pause after you had stopped speaking, which had the curious effect of making you say more than you intended.
‘My mother had a stroke a few weeks ago and was recently taken into a nursing home…’ I opted to go for the truth in the hope he would understand. I looked over at him to assess how he was taking my explanation. I got nothing back. ‘I took the time off to meet with the staff there and discuss her care. And I have to clear the house to pay for it all…’ I tailed off.
Silence.
I rushed to fill it with a lie, constructing it as I spoke, hoping my words would have the ring of truth. ‘And I was feeling a little better. The meal had been arranged for our anniversary. An occasion I felt would work well for a proposal. I’d gone to a bit of effort and didn’t want to let Angela down just because I was a bit poorly.’
He raised an eyebrow, the rest of his expression carved from stone. ‘I’m sorry about your mother, John, but there are weekends, emails, and you can actually pick up the phone and call people. Why do you need to take time off?’
‘But…’ I couldn’t think of anything that might appease him. He lifted a hand as if to silence what I was about to say.
‘Nonetheless, if one of my members of staff is ill, I do not expect to see them eating out … and my real concern is that your colleagues have gone to the extent of dobbing in one of their fellows. We leave our problems at the front door, John. We do not take them into the classroom.’ This last sentence was delivered in a more caring tone. Entirely fake, I thought, but the attempt was there. ‘There are protocols to be observed.’ He was reminding me that only a small amount of self-certified days off were tolerated before a formal attendance interview was arranged. ‘I’m giving you an unwritten warning, Mr Docherty. I always prefer to take care of these matters in-house if I can. But your disregard for your colleagues and the young people in your classroom is very disappointing. If this happens again I will have no choice but to take formal disciplinary action.’
‘Right,’ I shouted when I got back into my classroom to see that children were dotted around the room in clumps rather in sitting at their own seats. ‘Everyone back to their desks.’ Seeing that I was in no mood to be disobeyed, everyone did as they were told.
I began the lesson for the day.
‘I want to talk about the narrative choices…’
Twenty-five teenagers groaned.
‘…made by the writers of the second Thor movie.’
They instantly perked up.
‘Aye, sir,’ somebody shouted from the back of the class. ‘That was the worst wan.’
‘Why didn’t it work?’ I asked them all. ‘Have a wee think? Write something down and we’ll come together as a class to discuss.’
Once they all had their heads down, I took time to consider what Mr White had said. There had been complaints from colleagues? Jesus, I prided myself in my work. If I didn’t have that…
Rubbing my aching temples with my fingers I had to grudgingly admit that I hadn’t been myself of late, but what had I been doing that had led to other staff members going behind my back to White? Sure, a few comments were made after I was awarded the promoted post, but were noses out of joint solely because of that?
I was really worried about Mum’s illness, perhaps that had leaked over into my work. I chewed down on this for a few minutes, and resolved to do better. Aside from everything else the kids under my care deserved better from me.
After the final class of the day one of the kids hung back, wanting a word with me. Norrie McKee. He often waited to have the last word if the topic was something that interested him. But at times he had an ulterior motive.
‘That was bang on, sir. What you said about Thor 2. It was a pile of shite.’
‘We try not to use language like that in school, Norrie,’ I said as I packed my lesson materials into my briefcase. His eyes strayed to the bag of food sitting under my table. I’d learned to buy extra sandwiches and fruit at lunchtime, knowing how many of my kids’ parents were reliant on food banks, and how many of them went without lunch. ‘You got a use for these?’ I asked him as I sat the bag on my desk. ‘I swear my eyes are bigger than my belly. They’re only going to get chucked if you don’t take them.’
He claimed the bag with alacrity then asked, ‘You going to see the new Avengers movie, sir? My cousin downloads them all so we can watch them. That new one looks like a belter.’
That evening I was back in the library, aware that this need for answers was driving my behaviour and was in danger of becoming an obsession. I should have been with my fiancée planning the next stage of the rest of our lives, and as I positioned myself in front of the viewer I sent her a silent apology and prayed that she understood.
The first microfilm I chose displayed the same set of information I’d looked at before. I re-spooled the tape, returned it and jumped a couple of weeks. Back at my desk, with the new tape inserted, and at last there was something of interest.
An advert for a travelling funfair setting up in the East End of the city: waltzers, dodgems and a helter-skelter. Cheap entry on the first day. I assessed the advert and considered how exciting that would have been to the young people in the area. They would have heard of places like Alton Towers, but few families would have had the money to go there.
I scrolled on to the next day.
The front-page headline told of the disappearance of a local teenager. His photo shined out at me. Bright eyes, cropped dark hair, a light strip of fuzz over his top lip and a chipped front tooth. I read down through the article. The boy’s family were from the East End. I read the street name, and then scrolled back to the advert to read the address there. My knowledge about that part of the city was sketchy, but I knew enough to realise that the two addresses were only a few streets apart.
Walking distance.
Could this disappearance be a coincidence? Did two missing children – one presumed dead – constitute a pattern? Could there be more? A shudder passed though me. I had hoped to find something, but this? What had I uncovered? Two schoolkids had disappeared round about the same time that the Shows had been in the area. What if there were more?
I was jumping to conclusions, and vowed to keep a clear mind as I ploughed on.
In the news a week later, a body was found. The same picture of the same boy smiled out at me. His death, according the police, was to be the subject of an ongoing enquiry. They had few leads, but would keep looking.
His poor parents. That was not the final answer they’d been hoping and praying for.
I jumped a few months forwards. The fair had moved to a small town called Bridge of Weir – a place I’d never visited, on the outskirts of the city. The same advert was showing, except this time with the new address.
This gave me a new base line. I could go back and forward from this date and see if there were any more missing children. A week or so passed by in a blur on the screen. I noted that my breath was shorter and that my stomach was feeling tight. I needed to calm down and take this more slowly.
There.
Another boy. He was from Lochwinnoch – another place I’d never been to, but I did remember Paul as a kid, talking about an uncle taking him to the bird reserve there. On this piece there was no photo of the boy, but there was an image of the parents outside a police station, the man’s arm over the woman’s shoulder. Both of them wearing haunted expressions.
Three boys.
All three were in their early teens.
All three lived near a site where the Shows visited.
One I know for certain died.
One was suspected to be dead.
And now a third boy missing.
I took a long breath. They could all be unrelated incidents. The Shows arriving at each area at the same time as a child went missing could be just a coincidence, couldn’t it?
Something jumped out at me from the screen. The third child’s name was Robert Green. That was Paul’s mother’s maiden name. And his uncle had lived in Lochwinnoch.
I had to speak to Paul.