4.30. Hogmanay
City Centre, Glasgow
Three days after I agreed to try to find him, Dougie Bell passed within a yard of me on the street. He walked quickly, shoulders hunched, hands buried in the pockets of his Parka, as if he had somewhere he needed to be. And indeed he did, though he didn’t know it. His mother was in a coma in the Royal Infirmary and not expected to recover. If someone didn’t tell the boy soon it would be too late; he would never see her alive again.
It was late in the afternoon: dark and bloody freezing. The morning forecast of heavy snow by evening looked a safe bet; the road was already covered in a frosty glaze.
I was standing on the pavement outside the Italian Centre, opposite the old sheriff court, listening to Patrick Logue rant about Auld Lang Syne, waiting for a break in his monologue so I could make my excuses and get out of the cold. Bell’s eyes met mine. He half-nodded to me in one of those odd reflex moments when strangers mistake each other for someone they know. Patrick’s passionate defence of Scotland’s national poet kept me from recognising him immediately, and lost precious seconds in what would happen next.
Pat’s breath came in smoky clouds. ‘There’s an excuse for a Sassenach like yourself, Charlie.’
I’d been born in Edinburgh – as he well knew.
‘Don’t expect you to know better. But when people on STV and the like sing “For the sake of auld lang syne…” I want to kick their ignorant arses. Robert Burns was a genius. The idiots…’
I cut him off. ‘It’s him!’
Bell must have heard because he took to his heels and raced towards Royal Exchange Square with me and Pat Logue behind him.
In my office, his father had studied his hands and admitted the two men, constantly arguing, may have contributed to the massive stroke which would probably take a wife from a husband and a mother from a son. The last head-butting session on Christmas Day ended with the boy running out of the house with his new mobile – a present from his mum and dad. Bell Senior couldn’t remember what had started the row. How sad was that? But he told me this wasn’t the first time young Dougie had pulled a disappearing act, though he had always come back home when he calmed down. Not this time. And he wasn’t answering his phone, either. Stressed out of her mind and worried sick about her son, his mother collapsed on the kitchen floor on Boxing Day and hadn’t regained consciousness.
A sorry story any way you looked at it. The irony didn’t escape me. My relationship with my own father, although better now than it had been, remained uneasy; being in the same room for any length of time was still a trial for both of us.
From his picture, Dougie seemed no different than a thousand sixteen year olds in Glasgow; smiling and acned, eager and immature; into music and football. Beyond that, I knew little about him, apart from something that suddenly became very clear.
This guy could run.
Patrick had distracted me just long enough to give him a ten-yard start. That, plus a couple of decades, might be the difference between catching him or losing him. I considered myself pretty fit, but I wasn’t sixteen. Bell raced along Ingram Street, twisting through the traffic without slowing down. One car skidded on the icy surface and missed hitting him by inches. People stood aside to let him pass, astonishment on their faces. Nobody tried to stop him. I could hear Pat Logue somewhere close. It would be a mistake to depend on him bringing the boy down; his entire lifestyle was against it.
Dougie charged across Queen Street into Royal Exchange Square, past the statue of the Duke of Wellington, with the old soldier, as usual, wearing an orange traffic cone on his head – a Glasgow tradition.
Bell looked over his shoulder, the hood fell away and I saw his young face stretched tight with fear.
Why was he running?
Who did he think we were?
What had he done to react like this?
He was pulling away from me. Winning. Through the arch at the far side of the square I gained a little ground when he collided with a group of women coming out of the Rogano. He stumbled, almost fell, and re-gained his balance.
Dougie swerved right, into Buchanan Street. My legs wouldn’t carry me and my chest was on fire. I didn’t have any more to give. I wasn’t going to catch him; twenty-odd-years was just too big an advantage. Pat Logue came round the corner, puffing and blowing like an old man, his face the colour of ash. We stood together, watching the boy glide between pedestrians, like the teenager he was, still full of energy.
He must have sensed we had given up because he stopped and looked back at us, grinning. Then, with all the arrogance of youth, he held up his middle finger.
Patrick said, ‘Cheeky as well as fast.’
I didn’t see it like that. This young man was about to lose his mother. His future wasn’t what it used to be. There was a guilt trip coming that might never let him go. I felt for him. At sixteen, you could do things older people couldn’t do – like run – that left a helluva downside; the best part of a lifetime to regret. And everybody makes mistakes.
The boy threw a last victory wave at us, grinning like the cat that got the cream. From where we were, it was too far to be certain what exactly happened next. Tripped or slipped, I couldn’t say, but Bell went over and didn’t get back up.
We started running. When we got there Dougie was sitting on the ground, holding his ankle, blood oozing from his nose, his trousers torn at the knee. He looked through the crowd gathered round him, saw us, and blurted an unaskedfor confession.
‘It wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with it.’
‘Not sure I believe you, Dougie. Even if I had the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.’
His expression creased in confusion. ‘So why’re you chasing me?’
‘Why’re you running? Your father needs to speak to you.’
He realised we weren’t who he thought we were and assumed the surly default position his age group kept for adults; expressionless face; monotone voice. ‘He can fuck right off. I’m not interested.’
‘Yeah, you are. Can you stand?’
Patrick helped him to his feet. He winced, clearly in pain. My guess was a sprain rather than a break. Painful, not serious.
Pat said, ‘Think you’re out of the big game on Saturday, squire.’
Joseph Bell’s number was unobtainable. Of course it was. He would be at the hospital with his wife. I sent a text and two minutes later he called me back, sounding relieved when I told him I had his son. The son glared defiance.
‘If that’s my father, I’m not talking to him.’
Patrick told him to shut it, and I spoke quietly into the phone. ‘How are things, Mr Bell? Any change?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘No change.’
We helped the boy walk to St Vincent Street, supporting him between us until a taxi stopped. Pat Logue and Bell got in the back. I spoke to the driver and paid the fare.
Dougie didn’t ask where he was going. His father was waiting at the Royal Infirmary with news that would devastate him. Whatever the outcome, they would have to deal with it together, and it wouldn’t be easy. Maybe it wouldn’t even be possible.
Finding Joseph Bell’s son was my last piece of work in what, in many respects, had been a good twelve months for me. Most of my cases had come out all right. Of course there were exceptions. Shit happens and that’s a fact. Sometimes, there’s just nothing you can do.
The door closed and the black cab drove away, leaving me on a pavement in the centre of Glasgow with the world turning to ice around me.
I stood on the steps outside the Concert Hall, behind the statue of Donald Dewar, and followed the lights on Buchanan Street to St Enoch’s Square in the distance. It was five minutes to five now, and the flagship department stores and up-market shops were closing. Most people had gone home to get ready for midnight; only stragglers remained. A lone piper in full Highland dress, stood at the entrance to the underground – known locally as the Clockwork Orange – a phantom in the snow that had started to fall, playing a lament that hung in the air. Bagpipes weren’t my favourite instrument but their sound touched something in me. I closed my eyes for a moment and listened.
Scotland invented Hogmanay and tonight, all over this country, Scots would say goodbye to the old year and welcome the new with handshakes and songs, laughter and tears. Auld acquaintance would be forgot and never brought to mind as sadness gave way to hope, and the promise of a clean slate. A fresh start. A chance to try again.
Who didn’t wish for that?
Pat Logue was right: Robert Burns was a genius.
Of course it wouldn’t last. It wasn’t supposed to last. But while it did, it was magic.
The piper was putting his pipes away – he’d been a brave man to stick it out so long. Later, he’d be in big demand. I wandered into Buchanan Galleries for a final few minutes of window shopping. When I came out, the brave man had gone, and the city was a white desert.