In the weeks that followed, I was with Bernie from morning to night. There were days when we scrubbed floors and cleaned toilets, others when we cleared drainpipes, swept the backyard and washed the windows.
I didn’t have a chance to run away. Bernie was always very careful to attach the chain round my neck when he collected me in the morning. And he never unlocked the padlock before we were back in the cellar in the evening.
I didn’t see much of Carl and Kevin. They usually spent their days collecting debts round the city. One of Moira’s businesses involved lending money at very high rates of interest. People who borrowed ten pounds from her would have to pay twenty back. Sometimes even more. People had to be in real financial difficulties before they turned to Moira for help.
Now and again I heard them talking about a place called Twilight Quay. I came to understand that Twilight Quay was an isolated spot somewhere among the docks where Carl and Kevin used to take the poor souls who couldn’t repay what they’d borrowed from Moira. When Carl and Kevin came back from Twilight Quay they’d go to the tap out in the backyard and clean their knuckledusters and flick knives. Borrowing money from Moira was not only expensive, it was dangerous. Very dangerous.
Bernie and I worked the door at Lucky Lucy’s several nights a week. There were other nights when a dense fog lay over the River Clyde and we and other members of the gang would go out on the water with the skinny skipper and his steam launch. Bernie was terrified every time and sometimes he’d get the shivers and be sick over the side.
By listening to their chatter on the launch, I was able to work out what these mysterious river trips were really about. Moira dealt in stolen valuables and to prevent the police tracing them back to her she had arranged for them to be smuggled over to Ireland. They were sold on the black market in Dublin. The smugglers were Irish fishermen returning home with their holds empty after unloading their eels at Bridgegate Fishmarket.
The whole business was planned and I understood why the constables had referred to Moira as the queen of Glasgow smugglers.
Moira’s many shady dealings had made her rich. I saw her wealth when Bernie and I had the job of topping up the coal in her fires. She lived in a big apartment on the top floor of the building and I could hardly believe my eyes the first time I went there. Every room was filled from floor to ceiling with antique furniture, works of art and ornaments. Bernie was in a constant cold sweat in case he accidentally knocked something over or left a trail of coal across the valuable Persian carpets.
Working with Bernie wasn’t easy. Even though we were chained together, he insisted on pretending that I didn’t exist. He never spoke to me and only looked at me when he absolutely had to. I assumed it was because he found it embarrassing to be working with an ape as his workmate. I wasn’t surprised at that, nor did it bother me. That kind of thing had happened to me before.
But the chain was a problem. So as to avoid all the tugging and jerking when the chain was taut, I attempted to learn how Bernie moved and to adapt my movements to his. It was difficult. Time after time the chain would tighten up and every time it did so it made my neck more painful.
In the end it cut into my skin and sores developed under my fur. Since I was wearing the chain every day, the wounds on my neck had little chance to heal.
I tried to show Bernie I was in pain, but he didn’t understand what I meant. As time passed, I became more and more anxious. During my incarceration my fur had become tangled and dirty and there was a risk of the wounds on my neck becoming infected.
And that’s what happened.
I woke one night feeling so cold my whole body was trembling, yet the skin under my fur felt on fire. I had a fever—a very high fever.
When Bernie came down with my breakfast, he must have recognized immediately that something was wrong. He stood staring down at me for a long time, his face as expressionless as ever. Then he became confused, his eyes flitted here and there, and he opened and closed his mouth several times.
“Are you ill?” he said in his gruff voice.
I nodded and pointed to my neck. Bernie hesitated at first, but then he kneeled down beside me. I held my fur apart so he could see the wounds. He took a deep breath—they can’t have been a pretty sight.
“I’ve had injuries,” Bernie said softly. “Lots of injuries…”
He stayed there for some time, trying to decide what to do. Then he got to his feet, strode out of the cellar and I could hear his lumbering footsteps grow fainter as he passed along the corridor.
It took me a little while to realize that something was different: why hadn’t I heard the door closing?
I turned round and looked—the door was open! In his haste Bernie had forgotten to close and lock the door.
I forced myself up on to my elbows, my head spinning from the fever. My heart was pounding hard and fast. With a huge effort I managed to get up. My knees threatened to give way and I had the unpleasant feeling the room was tilting. Slowly and with great care I moved towards the open door. As I reached it, I heard the faint sounds of voices and footsteps approaching along the corridor.
There was no time to waste! I hurried towards the staircase that led to the door to the backyard. Dizziness made me stagger and almost fall. The voices were much louder now and I realized I wasn’t going to get out in time. The unexpected opportunity was lost, so I turned back on unsteady legs and collapsed breathless on the cellar floor.
Moments later Gordon came through the door, the Noon Record under his arm and a pencil behind his ear. Bernie was at his heels. Gordon sniffed the air and pulled a face. The room stank of dirt and disease. Holding his nose, he came closer to get a better look at me. My breathing was still coming in jerky, uneven pants after my failed attempt to escape.
“She’s not well,” Bernie said. “She’s bleeding. Her neck…”
Gordon nodded sombrely.
“Yes, I can see that,” he said. “It must be the chain that caused the wounds. And it’s no wonder, given the way you pull and jerk it all day long.”
Bernie looked blank at first, and then he suddenly seemed to understand. His jaw dropped and he stood there open-mouthed.
“Oh,” he muttered unhappily. “I didn’t mean…”
Gordon paid no attention to him. He lit a cigarette and looked at me as he smoked. Then he said to Bernie, “Make sure you keep those wounds clean and we’ll see if we can get them to heal. If they don’t, we’ll put the beast down.”
Bernie jumped.
“There, there,” Gordon said to calm him. “If the ape dies, it’s not the end of the world. It’s only an animal, after all. And I promise Moira won’t be angry with you.”
And with that, Gordon threw his cigarette on the floor, crushed it under his heel and left.
Bernie was left standing there, shoulders hanging.
“Put the beast down…” I heard him repeating quietly to himself.
I don’t know how long my body was racked by fever. A week, perhaps, maybe two. When I wasn’t sleeping, I was too confused even to know where I was. My only memories are images of Bernie, leaning over me with a bottle in one hand and a rag smelling of spirits in the other. I remember the searing pain in my neck and that something was preventing me moving my arms and legs. I think it was Bernie, who had to hold me down in order to bathe my weeping wounds with brandy.
When the fever eventually began to ease, it was like waking up after a long, bad dream. The first thing I noticed was that I was no longer lying on the floor. Someone had put a mattress under me and I’d even been given a blanket.
It was strange. Even more strange was the fact that I no longer stank. Someone must have combed all the mess out of my fur.
I was so hungry that my stomach was rumbling. Thirsty, too. My food bowl was empty, but there was plenty of fresh, cold water in a jug. Once I’d had a drink, I lay down again, but couldn’t go back to sleep.
After a couple of hours I heard the key turn in the lock and Bernie came in. I was sitting on the mattress, leaning back against the wall with the blanket over my shoulders.
Bernie’s eyes opened wide in surprise and he took a step back before saying, “Are you better? Not ill any more?”
I felt all round my neck with my hand. Thick, itchy scabs had formed over the wounds, but they were no longer painful. So I shook my head.
And them something completely unexpected happened.
Bernie smiled.
For one brief instant his big, ugly, battered face changed completely. It was like the sun breaking through a rent in black storm clouds.
And then Bernie went back to being his usual old sullen self. He left the cellar, locking up behind him.