13

Malcolm lived with his mother in an ex-local authority house in the Castlehill part of the town. When his father died a few years before, Malcolm took advantage of the generous discounts on offer for council tenants and bought it for his mother. His father would never have agreed to it while he was alive. Anything that could be attributed to Maggie Thatcher’s government would not be a good thing, according to his way of thinking. No matter how many figures Malcolm showed him, he would not change his stance.

I’d met Malcolm’s father only once. He was a small, bald man with a ready smile and a cauliflower ear, who would call a spade a bastardin’ shovel. You were never in doubt as to what was in his mind for it played from his lips before the thought was fully formed. He liked to test anyone who came into the house, see how they reacted to his direct and forceful words. If you looked him in the eye and answered back, you were a good man. If you couldn’t meet his gaze and flustered a reply, he would never trust you.

‘You another one o’ these poofy cunts that work in the bank?’ he had challenged me that first time.

Malcolm had warned me what he was like, besides which, I was used to having frank and often brutal exchanges with the guys at the rugby club.

‘Nice to meet you too, you ol’ bastard,’ I replied, softening my answer with a grin. He wheezed with laughter and patted me on the back.

‘Thank fuck,’ he grinned. ‘Our Malcolm’s got a pal that’s a real man for a change. Have a seat, son. Can I get you a beer?’

Sitting in a plush armchair, feet barely touching the ground was Malcolm’s mother. She tutted disapprovingly at our exchange.

‘George,’ while addressing her husband, she winked at me. ‘Don’t be talking like that in front of your son’s guests. This man’s a banker…’

‘That’s a hard word to say with your fingers in yur mouth, int’t?’

‘George.’

‘Only teasing, Joan. The fella doesnae mind. Do ye, son?’

‘Not at all, George. What happened to my can?’ While playing to George, I grimaced at Joan in apology and hoped she would understand this wasn’t my normal behaviour.

George laughed, ‘A man after my own heart. Can you no’ teach that son of mine to be a wee bit more like you. Him with his vodka and all that nonsense.’ He walked into the kitchen, but we could still hear him talking. ‘Never trust a man that doesn’t like his beer.’

I only swapped insults with George a few more times, each of them on the phone. It was more likely that Joan would answer.

Since I’d married, my outings with Malcolm had lessened until we barely met up at all. I reasoned, therefore, that if I spoke to Joan to ask for Malcolm’s whereabouts, she’d be less suspicious if I spoke to her in person. A voice down the phone would not win her trust.

Standing at her door, my hand poised to announce my presence, the wind snatched a child’s cry and whisked it past my ear. It sounded like Ryan. With a twist of pain, I knocked at the door, wondering what he was doing right at that moment.

Malcolm’s mother answered the door with a huge smile.

‘Andy. How are you, son? Come in.’ Her effusive welcome surprised me. I didn’t think that she would remember me that well. ‘God, I haven’t seen you for ages. Malcolm’s not in, by the way, but you’re welcome all the same.’ This last phrase let me know that whatever Malcolm was up to, his mother knew nothing about it.

‘Right, let me put the kettle on and you can tell me everything that’s been happening to you. I was sorry to hear about Patricia, she was a lovely girl. Only met her the once but I could see she was lovely. Lovely looking too. Beautiful hair. I can remember beautiful hair. Sit down, son. Sit down.’ She pointed to an armchair then ambled to the kitchen.

Noises from the kitchen suggested ceremony and organisation. A ritual of welcome that was performed in almost every house I’d ever visited. A kettle was filled, a teapot emptied and biscuits rung onto a plate. China issued a perfect note and hot water rushed into a pot in a melody that brought an answering flush of saliva into my mouth.

‘I don’t get that many visitors now that George is dead.’ Joan walked into the room holding a tray. She placed it on a low table. Her back almost squeaked as she sat down. ‘I’m getting old, Andy.’

‘Nonsense,’ I answered. ‘You look as young as the day I first met you.’

‘Aye, and I was an old crone then.’ She laughed.

‘I was sorry to hear about George,’

‘Aye, son. It wasn’t nice.’ The smile wavered while she remembered. ‘Prostate cancer. He had trouble with his waterworks for years. Refused to go and see a doctor. Said nobody was sticking a finger up his arse. Silly bugger. A wee cup of tea, son?’ She poured into a small, china cup. I picked it up carefully. It looked like a child’s toy in my hand. Satisfyingly hot, it moistened my mouth.

‘Oh, that’s lovely. You can’t beat a good cup of tea,’ I said.

Joan beamed. ‘Aye, George always said I made a cracking cuppa.’

Silence.

‘You’re no’ lookin’ so good, son.’ She studied my face. ‘I don’t like to say anything …’

‘I’m fine,’ I said and recognised the sharpness of my tone. Offered a small smile of apology.

‘Have a biscuit, Andy. They’ll only go to waste.’ She read my smile, backed off and changed the subject.

‘Thanks.’ From the multitude on offer, I chose a Kit-Kat. She must have emptied her biscuit tin. There were enough biscuits to keep a child’s playgroup fed for a day.

‘So…’ She sipped at her cup and set it down on its saucer. ‘You’ve not visited this old lady just to sample her tea. What’s our Malcolm been up to?’

‘I don’t know if he’s been up to anything,’ I said through a mouthful of chocolate. ‘I just need a wee word with him.’

‘You cannae fool me, Andy son. A mother knows when something’s up. First Malcolm comes in here in a sweat. Tells me nothing. Packs a bag. Says he going down to London for a couple of weeks and asks me to phone in sick for him.’ The lines on her face seemed to deepen as she spoke. ‘Andy, tell me. I’ve been worrying myself silly the last few days. What’s he up to? Is it drugs? You young ones are all into drugs these days. What is it? Marijuana?’ She pronounced the name of the drug as if she’d only ever come across it in print – ‘maridge-a-wana’.

‘Joan, don’t worry yourself. As far as I know Malcolm’s not into drugs, other than the socially acceptable ones.’ I thought about what I should tell her. ‘I can’t really tell you what it is. I’m sorry, that’ll have to come from Malcolm himself. Do you know how I can get in touch with him?’

‘Sorry, Andy, I don’t. He phones every night, just to tell me he’s okay. But he won’t tell me where he is. London was all he said. Could be Timbuktu for all I know.’

Joan then steered the conversation onto, for her, less contentious ground. I had to give her every detail of Ryan’s birth, tell her how Pat was doing at school and describe Anna.

‘Want a fresh pot, son?’ she asked.

‘No thanks.’ I saw my opportunity, with this break in the conversation. ‘Honestly, I’ll be running to the loo all day now. Thanks, Joan. That was lovely, but I really have to go.’

‘Okay, Andy. Thanks for listening to an old woman and her problems. I’m sorry that boy of mine wasn’t here to talk to you. But I’ll tell him you were looking for him when he phones tonight.’

Disguising my disappointment behind a smiling mask, I went to the front door. I’d hoped to leave with something more concrete than a phone message. My name was not going to be on the branch information board at the bank for much longer unless I spoke to Malcolm. All the bank had was me, and in his absence I feared that would be enough. And if I lost my job, I could surely say goodbye to the boys. Any slim chance I had of winning custody would be blown away like tissue in the teeth of a gale.

As the door closed behind me, Joan’s farewell clipped off by the wood, I felt rather than heard someone approach. Footsteps could soon be heard, the walker hidden by a high hedge.

‘Malcolm.’ I knew it was him even before he appeared in my line of sight.

He stopped at the top of the path, his face blanched with surprise. ‘Oh. Andy.’

‘You and I need to talk.’

‘Aye, aye.’ He put his bag on the ground and stuck both hands in his pockets. He looked anywhere but at me.

‘Why don’t you go in, say hello to your mum, dump your bag and we’ll go for a drink.’ I stood aside to let him pass.

‘Aye, right. Back in a minute.’

 

A few minutes later, Malcolm opened the car door and got in beside me.

‘Somebody been using you as a punch bag?’ he asked, in a half-joking tone.

‘I doubt there’ll be any pubs open yet,’ I said, ignoring his comment. ‘The Coffee Club do?’

‘Aye.’ Malcolm slumped into the seat, his chin tucked into his chest.

We drove off in silence. I didn’t want to speak to him until we were face to face; he just didn’t want to speak.

At the Coffee Club, Malcolm was first in and chose a seat near the door. For a quick exit, I thought. In silence, we waited for the waitress.

‘She’s had one too many helpings of chocolate fudge cake,’ Malcolm said unkindly after she had taken our order.

‘Right, Malcolm. Suppose we start at the beginning…’

‘Aye, well. I was in some bother. So I filled in a couple of slips at the bank…’

‘A couple of slips?’

‘They were all against folk who had plenty money in their account.’ He studied the menu, despite the fact he’d already ordered.

‘So that makes it alright does it?’ I barely stopped myself from shouting. ‘That excuses your theft does it? They had plenty of cash in their account?’

‘No it doesn’t,’ he answered, his face long with shame. ‘I was being flip. Anyway what’s eatin’ your gusset?’ He looked me up and down. ‘And why are you not wearing a bank suit?’

‘What clown initialled and authorised your bogus withdrawals?’

‘You did.’ He flinched as the implications of this registered.

‘Aye, and who do the bank think is your accomplice?’ My face was only inches from his. He leaned back, to recover his space.

‘Andy. I am so … I am so sorry. I had no idea they would try and pin it on you. I’ll hand myself in tomorrow.’

‘Will you fuck. You’ll do it today.’ I grabbed his arm, which was resting on the table. I squeezed it, hard. He pulled away and rubbed at the pain.

‘Right, right. I’ll do it today.’

‘And I’m coming with you.’

‘What? Do you not trust…’ he changed his mind about asking that question. ‘I suppose not. Andy believe me. I am so sorry. I never imagined…’ He paused while the waitress set down our steaming cups.

‘What’s happened to you?’ he asked while rubbing at an invisible stain on the table top.

‘I’ve been suspended, pending an investigation.’ I poured sugar into my cup, ‘Since they thought I was involved they didn’t want me around in case I tampered with any evidence.’ I took a sip and burnt my lip. The coffee was too hot. ‘What on earth were you thinking, Malcolm? Did you think the customers wouldn’t notice? Did you actually think that we wouldn’t trace you once they did? Did you actually think?’

‘I’ve made a mess of things haven’t I?’

‘You got that fucking right.’

He leaned forward and rested his forehead on his right hand. His eyes fixed on the table as he spoke. ‘Someone,’ he began slowly, ‘had some evidence, photographic evidence of me in a compromising situation. They threatened to send it to Head Office.’ He ran a finger round the lip of his cup. ‘And they were going to send stuff to my mum. I couldn’t allow that. My mum would have had a heart attack. I didn’t give a fuck about the bank, it was Mum I was worried about.’

‘This someone was bribing you then?’

He nodded. ‘Ten thousand the first time, fifteen the second.’

‘There was a first time?’

‘Afraid so. The bastard lied to me. Said he destroyed the photos. Then he came back for more.’

‘Where were you when Dallas was on the telly? They always come back for more. What was in the photos?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Does it matter? I don’t want you to know. I don’t want anyone to know.’

‘Where did you get the money from the first time?’

Malcolm said nothing, his concentration deep in the sugar bowl.

‘Oh, Jesus.’ It came to me. ‘Those cash differences. That was you! You fucking idiot, Malcolm, how could you? I spoke up for you. I trusted you.’

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. If I could undo it, believe me I would. I was a clown to think I could get away with it.’

‘You said this last time you handed over fifteen thousand. We could only account for three and a half?’

‘I actually managed to take five. The rest…’ he ran a finger along his lips, ‘… the rest I took from my mum.’

‘Oh, Malcolm.’ This was too much. ‘Your own mother?’

‘I couldn’t let her find out, not like that, not ever.’

‘Malcolm what’s so bad that you’d steal from your own mother?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Did you murder someone?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Did you rape a ten-year-old?’

‘Andy.’

‘What? Cos it must be something downright fucking evil for you to steal all this money.’

‘I’m not telling you.’

‘Why did you run away to London? Why did you then come back?’ I was relentless, I wanted answers. This was something I could have an impact on.

‘What is this? Why don’t you just shine a torch in my eyes and get it over with?’

‘Believe me, if I thought it would work, then I would.’ ‘I ran away because it was all getting to me. I couldn’t handle it. Taking money from my mum was the last straw. I knew I’d reached bottom. Then I got another letter from the blackmailer.’

‘He wanted more?’

Malcolm nodded. ‘So I ran away. I couldn’t go on stealing.’

Looking at Malcolm as he spoke, I could barely believe that this was the same guy I’d known all these years. His famous sense of humour, crushed under the weight of his problems, his long fingers never still as he fidgeted with every item on the table, his eyes searching the face of everyone who came in the door.

‘What made you come back so quickly? You’ve been barely gone a week.’

‘I knew that the blackmailer would carry out his threat when I didn’t give him the money. After all, he’d got plenty from me already. Each day I was away I spoke with Mum, I knew from her voice that she’d received nothing. So I thought, if I came home I could intercept the mail before Mum got to it. The bank, I would just have to take my chances. I know that if there is any potential of embarrassment they don’t bring a case to trial. I hoped that they would just sack me.’ He started playing with the salt cellar.

‘You’d be as well telling me what’s in these photos if they’re going to be sent to the bank anyway.’

‘Andy, I can’t tell you. Not face to face. I’ve known you too long. I don’t want to see the expression on your face when you find out.’

‘Okay.’ In the face of Malcolm’s contrition, I suddenly felt ashamed of myself for pressing the point. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘Will you take me into the bank to face the music?’

‘Sure. If you want me to.’ Now that he was going to own up to his actions, my anger at him had dissipated and I was keen to offer my support.

‘Who’s conducting the investigation?’

‘Roy Campbell.’

‘Fuck.’

 

Conversation and noise hit the brick wall of Malcolm and my appearance when we entered the banking hall. Heads looked up from printouts, fingers hovered over keyboards as everyone watched our progress through the hall and into my office.

‘Ah. The very man.’ Roy Campbell was sitting behind my desk. His eyes were on Malcolm as he spoke.

‘Malcolm’s here to tell you everything. Including the fact that I had nothing to do with any of this,’ I said.

‘We know,’ answered Roy, still staring at Malcolm. His expression a mixture of loathing and disgust.

‘What do you mean, you know? Why the fuck have I been suspended then?’

‘We’ve just only worked it out. This was handed in, over the counter this morning.’ He opened a large brown envelope and threw the contents across the desk at me. ‘The police are on their way.’

‘Oh no,’ I heard from behind me, then felt a gust of movement as Malcolm sprinted from the office.

‘Malcolm,’ I shouted and turned to go after him.

‘Leave him. We don’t want to see the disgusting animal in here again.’

‘Roy, what the…’

‘Andy, look at the pictures.’

I followed the line of his accusatory finger.

‘Oh … shit …’