SEVEN

The Valley of the Shadow

The cell block might have been new but the system of hard labour in use in Barlinnie Prison was as old as punishment itself. Reforms were in the government pipeline but Daniel Malone knew nothing of them and would not have cared if he had. He ground through each stage of the so-called Progressive System by which a convict’s will was broken, lived only for that day when, having been ‘a good lad’, he would earn the privilege of exercise in the open yard and would be able to see not only the sky but the wall and the lie of the land beneath it.

In first term Malone sweated for six hours each day on the crank, cawing a long iron handle which rotated a blade sealed inside a box full of heavy gravel. One thousand revolutions was the daily requirement. He was supervised by warders to ensure that he did not slouch or slacken his pace; nor did he, not even when his palms cracked and bled and his fingers swelled up like Pollock’s sausages. After stint on the crank he was obliged to sit cross-legged on a canvas mat and, without tool or implement, to pick apart twists of old rope, oakum, with what was left of his fingernails. Three pounds weight of coarse hair-like matter had to be produced per shift. Festering sores developed on his hands. They were treated by the prison surgeon who painted them with saline solution and permitted him to wear bandages for seven days. At night he slept on a plank board. He was fed on bread, gruel, tea and broth, potatoes and, every fourth day, a flake of meat. At first he craved meat, hungered for alcohol and most of all for tobacco but those appetites died in due course. To his surprise, he missed connection with women not at all. He earned no money, of course. He received no letters, no visitors and was cut off from communication with other prisoners.

Daniel Malone was too old for such a harsh regime. Dealings with ‘toffs’ and indulgences that his profits had bought had made him soft. From Billy and other unfortunates he had heard of the horrors of imprisonment. But he had not been able to predict the tortures of solitude and grinding monotony, had not supposed that he would be stripped of every vestige of power, that within Barlinnie’s walls he would have no reputation, no edge of authority, no identity at all.

A shaven head and coarse serge seemed fitting for a man known only as No. 679, who was addressed only by number during the first interminable weeks of incarceration. How long each term was slated to last was a question to which Malone received no answer save a smirk and a shake of the head. How many ‘good marks’ he had accumulated was also a mystery. The first indication that he was ‘getting somewhere’ came on his seventh Sunday in Barlinnie.

Sunday was the worst day for a convict on hard labour. Sunday was a day of infinite monotony, passed without occupation. When the body was rested the mind churned with self-pity. By the time the leaden hours of morning had passed the prisoner longed for the crank or the oakum basket, for something, anything to do to still his thoughts.

Warder Caine unlocked the door. Malone stopped pacing the eight steps that measured the length of his cell and looked up guiltily. Was pacing a ‘crime’ too? Would he be docked ‘good marks’ just for putting one foot before another?

Warder Caine said, ‘Do you want a pastor, six-seven-nine?’

‘What?’

‘Read my lips, you idiot. Do – you – want – a – cleric?’

‘Yes,’ Malone declared.

‘What are you?’

‘Number six-seven—’

‘Religious bloody persuasion, you idiot.’

‘Protestant.’

‘You can have a visit of ten minutes,’ said Warder Caine.

‘Is . . . am I . . . have I . . . earned it?’

‘You also get a mattress, two nights a week.’

Questions gushed into Malone’s mouth. How soon would he earn the next privilege? How long before he could have a visitor? Receive a letter? Be let out into the yard? He squeezed his lips tight; he had learned to say as little as possible in case he gave offence.

The chaplain was a retired minister of the Free Church who believed in punishment and in the expiation of guilt by servitude. It was not his business to convert the pagan or offer solace to souls in torment. God alone could do that. Nonetheless as a servant of God he would not deny a man, even a convicted felon, the right to raise up his spirit and seek union with Christ Jesus, mediator and saviour of all sinners. Reverend Grimmond found Malone, in tears, on his knees.

‘Are you praying?’

‘I – I canna pray, sir. I canna make the Lord hear me. Oh, Christ in Heaven, I need help to make my prayers rise through my unworthiness.’

‘No man is irredeemable.’

‘It’s not a man, sir; it’s a woman.’

Reverned Grimmond prided himself on being able to spot a charlatan at a thousand paces. But he was taken in by Daniel Malone, by the fact that he did not howl in mock contrition or try to wheedle favours out of him. Malone, it seemed, was gnawed by concern for his sister, a widow sick with ‘tubercoles’. Malone did not know if she was dead or alive. Reverend Grimmond sat on the bed, ordered Malone to kneel before him, put a hand on his bristle and prayed for him. He prayed for the Lord’s mercy and intervention, prayed for the Lord to lift the burden of guilt that tormented the soul of No. 679. Malone clung to him and – without overdoing it – thanked him profusely when the prayer was done.

The following Sunday Reverned Grimmond was again taken in and, one week later, he brought permission for No. 679 to write a letter – one page – under supervision and have it despatched to his sister’s address.

‘What’s her name?’

Warder Caine peered suspiciously over No. 679’s shoulder, admired the swiftness of his fist and the speed with which the pen capered over the coarse brown paper.

‘It’s Gusset.’

‘Gussie?’

‘Gusset, sir.’

‘Heh, like in drawers?’

‘She’s my sister, sir.’

‘Does she no’ wear drawers, then?’

‘She’s my sister,’ said Malone again.

‘Why are ye no’ writin’ to your wife?’

‘It’s my sister that’s sick, sir. It’s her I’m worried about.’

‘Got a chill in her whatnot, eh, no’ wearin’ drawers?’

Malone completed the letter. It was literate, properly spelled, and contained not one word that would damage the credibility of his story.

In due course a letter from Mrs Noreen Gusset was received at the prison office and examined before being taken down to No. 679’s cell and read aloud to the prisoner.

Malone knew that Noreen had not written the letter. In spite of her obvious attributes Noreen had never learned to read or write. He had, however, counted on her being smart enough to show the letter to somebody who would ‘get the message’ and was delighted to hear that the subterfuge had been sustained. Poor Noreen, said the missive, was on her last legs and might soon be summoned to meet her Maker.

Malone wept convincingly.

On a cold January day four weeks later, No. 679 was granted a fifteen-minute visit from his beloved sister.

He was escorted from his cell to the long hall where such meetings took place and had his first real chance to study the landscape of the prison.

The long table had two chairs at it. They were separated not only by the table’s width but by a fence of heavy wrought-iron which reared up from the oak surface to a height of four or five feet. A warder, stranger to Malone, was already stationed at one of the hall’s two doors. His arms were folded, his gaze steady and attentive. Warder Caine brought Malone to the chair, leered at Noreen, then retired to a chair by the entrance door where he sat with his sabre scabbard across his knees.

Noreen was wrapped in a ragged shawl. Apparently she was nursing a head cold. Her eyes were pink and her nose was running. She looked convincingly unwell and coughed raucously, like somebody in the last throes. As he seated himself Malone wondered what he had ever found attractive in the girl. He felt not the least regret at his enforced celibacy.

Softly, and without preamble, he said, ‘Who wrote the letter?’

‘Jamie.’

‘Jamie Dobbs?’

‘Aye.’

‘Where is he then, Noreen?’

‘Who? Jamie?’

‘You know who I mean.’

‘He joined the polis.’

‘Is he still in the Greenfield?’

‘Aye, at Ottawa Street.’

‘House?’

‘Canada Road, top end.’

‘Cough.’

‘What?’

‘Cough, damn it. You’re supposed to be dyin’.’

Noreen did her bit. On the first spasm the act became reality so that she choked and barked until the echoes of her distress filled the great bleak hall. She rocked back and forth, hands clutched to her breast. It was a full two minutes before she recovered.

Malone waited patiently until she regained her breath.

‘Tell Jamie I want him done,’ he said.

Wiping her eyes on the shawl, Noreen darted a scared glance at Warder Caine then inched the chair back from the table.

She licked her lips. ‘Jamie says – Jamie says he’ll no’ nobble a copper.’

‘He’ll get paid double.’

‘Jamie says it’s too bloody risky at any price.’

‘Tell him I said to do it.’

‘How’ll he get paid, but? Twelve year is a long time, Danny.’

‘What?’

Fist on the hilt of his sabre, Warder Caine stiffened and his colleague by the exit door unfolded his arms.

‘Vincent’ll no’ do it either,’ said Noreen. ‘Vincent says there’s been enough trouble wi’ the bloody blue boys.’

‘Billy’s brother?’ Malone hissed through clenched teeth.

Noreen shook her head. ‘Naw.’

‘Christ, after all I done for them.’

‘Vincent says you’ll just have t’ wait. Nobody’ll do it, Danny.’

Malone’s fist closed on the wrought-iron staves. Warder Caine’s voice rang out: ‘Hands off.’

Malone let go the iron and drew his hand back, closed the fingers into a fist in mid-air. Cowering, Noreen coughed again.

In a soft, soft voice Malone said, ‘They’ve wrote me off – am I right?’

‘Aye.’

‘All o’ them?’

‘Aye.’

‘Are you livin’ with Jamie?’

‘Aye.’

‘So they think I’m finished, do they?’

‘Aye, Danny.’

‘Well, I’m not.’

‘Danny, it’s—’

‘I’m bloody not.’

‘Danny—’

‘You tell them, Noreen. You tell them I’m no’ finished.’

‘Jamie says I’ve no’ to come here again.’

‘I don’t need the likes o’ them. An’ I don’t need you either.’

‘God, Danny! Can ye not—’

‘I’ll do it myself.’

‘Do what?’

‘Make certain he gets what’s comin’ to him, what he deserves.’

‘Danny, it’ll be twelve year—’

‘The devil it will. Stuff them. Stuff them all. I’ll be out o’ here soon, you mark my words.’

‘But how, Danny? How?’ cried Noreen.

Abruptly Malone got to his feet. He wrapped his arms over his face. Shoulders heaved with emotion. He made no attempt to touch his ‘sister’ on the other side of the fence. Even so, Warder Caine came clattering down the stone-flagged hall with his sabre out of its scabbard.

‘Oh, God! God!’ howled Daniel Malone. ‘Noreen, my Noreen!’

Still weeping in great grating paroxysms he was led away while the girl, dry-eyed and terrified, stared after until the door slammed.

Eleven days later No. 679 received another little concession – a straw-filled bolster – which indicated that he had progressed again. Within the month he was even favoured with a half hour’s exercise in the high-walled yard.

Walking round and round and round the cinder path, head hung and eyes alert, Daniel Malone searched for things that would help him to find an answer to Noreen’s final question, anything that would aid the planning of his inevitable escape.

 

‘It’s the time of year as much as anything,’ said Doctor Godwin.

‘Dampness and lack of ventilation account for so many conditions; and, of course, a general absence of cheerfulness.’

‘I’m cheerful enough, Doctor.’

‘I’m sure you are. Are you getting enough nourishment, Mrs Nicholson?’

‘I – I think so.’

‘Whole milk?’

‘I buy two pints every day.’

‘Not from Thom’s cart, I trust?’

‘From the Greenfield Dairy.’

‘Oh, that’s all right.’ Doctor Godwin rolled up the rubber sleeve that he had wrapped about her arm and inflated with a bulb. ‘I cannot find anything to suggest a problem. You’re certainly quite large in the cavity.’

Kirsty wished that he would keep his voice down. Only a wooden door separated the closet-like consulting-room from the crowded waiting-room. Men as well as women huddled miserably on the wooden benches out there and the thought of strangers sharing the details of her intimate condition made her cringe with embarrassment.

‘I suppose,’ said Doctor Godwin, ‘that you did not mistake the date of first conception or of the first absent period?’

‘I – I don’t think so.’

‘How severe is the pain?’

‘It comes an’ goes.’

‘On stooping?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘On pressing at stool?’ Doctor Godwin seemed to roar out the question and Kirsty’s cheeks glowed.

‘No.’

‘Does your husband treat you well?’

‘He’s a policeman,’ said Kirsty.

Doctor Godwin nodded, as if he needed no more assurance than that. ‘Internal gases. Not uncommon.’ He reached for his prescription paper, uncapped a fountain pen with his teeth. ‘I’ll give you a bottle, Mrs Nicholson.’

‘Is that all it is?’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing. However, if the pain – the discomfort, shall we call it – persists, then come back next week. I’ll make no charge.’

‘Oh, I can pay.’

‘I suggest that you call upon Mrs Fernie. She’s the best midwife in Greenfield and handles many of my cases. Registered, of course.’ He scribbled away, turned the paper. ‘I’ll put her address on the back.’

‘What have I got to see her for?’ said Kirsty.

‘To inform her when she may expect to be called.’

‘I thought that you—’

‘I will attend, of course, if it’s necessary.’

Again Kirsty said, ‘I can pay.’

‘Do you really want me at the delivery, Mrs Nicholson? If you wish, I’ll come. But I do assure you that Mrs Fernie is completely reliable and experienced in home births.’

Kirsty felt betrayed. The atmosphere of the Banff Street consulting-room was so different from that of the elegant house in Dowanhill. Though his examination had been thorough, as far as Kirsty could tell, she could not accept Doctor Godwin’s casualness or believe that he was telling her the whole truth about her condition. He gave her the prescription and was out of his chair and stepping to the door before she could fumble the half-crown from her purse.

‘Oh, yes, thank you, Mrs Nicholson.’ The silver coin disappeared into a cashbox in a drawer of the desk. ‘Now don’t worry about a thing. You’ll be in good hands.’

Without more ado he ushered her out into the waiting-room. It was lit by a smoky oil-lamp suspended from a beam, heated by a paltry wee coal fire. Some patients paid her not the slightest attention, absorbed in their own aches and pains. Others, though, glowered at her as she steered her stomach between them and pulled open the outside door.

The street glistened with the day’s rain. Now that night had come there was a snell wind off the river.

Kirsty turned up her coat collar, shivering. To add to her other woes she had a frayed welt on her shoe and water had seeped in and made her stocking damp. She felt thoroughly miserable and abandoned as she waddled down Banff Street to a gas-lamp where, holding up the paper, she squinted at the address the doctor had given her.

It was streets away, in the opposite direction to Canada Road. Besides, she had to have the doctor’s bottle, needed relief from her discomfort – and she still had to buy something for Craig’s supper. She would call on Mrs Fernie some other time. After all it was thirty-five or -six days before the baby was due. All she wanted was to be at home by the fire with Craig.

She set off towards Dumbarton Road and the hot-pie shop, shuffling, a nagging sort of pain under her ribs and one foot wet. Within minutes it began to rain again.

 

The Madagascar was the worst slum in Greenfield. It was not on Craig’s beat and he had been there only once in all his months on the Force. He knew it by reputation, though; a delta of decaying eighteenth-century tenements and cottage rows that protruded out into the Clyde at the head of a timber quay where once the Madagascar Coal Company had ferried in its wares from Ayrshire’s coastal pits. The Madagascar Coal Company had long since gone bust but the name remained and the earth was still black with ancient leavings and nothing but weeds grew on the packed black mounds from which not even the coal-pickers could sift out a harvest. The Madagascar Tavern had put up its shutters years ago. There were two or three shebeens in operation in the hovels and no legitimate publican could hope to compete with the appeal of dirt-cheap alcohol, a raw and colourless distillation that could drag a man or woman into oblivion faster than a clout with a crowbar. Now and again Sergeant Drummond would muster a team of six burly constables and make a raid on the illicit distillers but not even Mr Organ had the heart to insist on it, for drink was all that most of the denizens of that district had and oblivion their only pleasure.

It was Craig’s first ‘investigation’. He was handed it – an Incident Report – from the fair hand of old Drummond when he tramped in at shift’s end. He had planned on going on to the gymnasium that evening. He could not abide going home early these nights, could not stand the sight of Kirsty all bloated and pale, could not put up with her uncomplaining misery. Archie Flynn was to accompany him on the investigation. Normally it would have been a more experienced constable, the night-duty man, Armour, whose beat it was, who would have picked up the report. But Armour was off with a whitlow on his foot and three other men had gone off the roster sick.

Craig was not displeased to be entrusted with an enquiry. He glanced at the slip of paper.

‘What’s the name?’

‘Austin Galletti,’ said the sergeant.

‘Queer handle, Sergeant Drummond,’ said Archie.

‘Queer handle or not,’ said the sergeant, ‘Mr Galletti’s entitled to call on our services.’

‘Theft of what?’ said Craig, peering at the slip.

‘The tools of the trade.’

‘What trade?’

‘He’s a professional hunchback,’ the sergeant said.

It took Craig and Archie the best part of half an hour to locate Mr Galletti. He lived in a dwelling that had no number in a lane that had no name. If he had been less well-known in the Madagascar the policemen might not have found him at all for the folk on the streets of the delta scurried off at first glimpse of a uniform and refused to open their doors to polite enquiry. It was only by nabbing a small bedraggled girl child, too stupid to flee, that Archie elicited the information that ‘hunchie’ lived in the old pig mews behind the ruin of the public house.

Even on a cold night after a day’s rain the stench from the mews was overpowering. The pigs were long since gone and the sties had been taken over by families and the place glimmered with candles and dim lanterns like something out of a grim old fairy-tale. Hands on their sticks Craig and Archie walked shoulder to shoulder along the lane.

‘No muchee likee,’ said Archie, from the corner of his mouth. ‘I’m no’ knockin’ on any doors here.’

Craig said, ‘There he is.’

Mr Galletti lived in the last room in the mews. It was, Craig thought, like a farm bothy; a single apartment with a door that opened straight in from the cobbles. The stench here was particularly strong for the mews ran on to a slope of rank earth where a sludge pile filtered its foul wastes down through dross into the river. Austin Galletti was almost a dwarf and a small lump rose from his left shoulder. He had thick white hair, salt stubble on his rounded chin and could have been any age over sixty. Craig felt no pity for the wee chap for in his face was a fire of bitterness and hatred.

‘What bloody kept ye?’ Galletti demanded.

He had been loitering at the door of his home. He was not dressed for February, wore only a shirt, a ragged leather vest and a pair of breeks made out of patchwork.

Archie said, ‘Are you Mr Galletti?’

‘Jesus an’ Joseph, would there be two like me?’ The man danced with rage and peered up into Archie’s face. ‘Were ye no’ told what happened?’

‘Did you make the report in person?’ said Craig.

‘Aye. Who’d leg it t’ Ottawa Street for the likes o’ me? Him wi’ the stripes told me you’d be here directly.’

Craig said, ‘I believe you had some property stolen.’

Archie backed away from the prancing little chap and glanced nervously down the mews. Men had slithered from shelter and slouched in shadowy doorways watching the coppers with sullen malevolence.

‘Property!’ Galletti said. ‘Jesus an’ Joseph, he calls it property. It’s my bloody livelihood, that’s what was stole.’

‘What exactly?’ said Craig.

‘My cart, my drum, my mouth harmonium, my bloody flags,’ Galletti answered. ‘Even my guns.’

‘Guns?’

‘What I use for firin’ in my performances. Have ye no’ seen me perform? Jesus an’ Joseph, what kind of coppers are ye if ye haven’t seen Galletti’s act?’

‘Tell me about the guns,’ said Craig.

‘Pop. Pop. Pop,’ said Galletti. ‘Toy guns. Three o’ them. He took them an’ all. He took every bloody thing.’

‘Hold on, Mr Galletti,’ said Craig. ‘You talk as if you know the thief.’

‘Aye, I bloody know the thief.’

‘Did you impart this information to our sergeant?’

‘What?’

‘Did you tell the stripes?’

‘Aye, ’course I did.’

‘What did he say to it?’

‘Said he’d send men t’ investigate my alginations. Here, all he sends is a couple o’ weans.’

Craig said, ‘How was the theft carried out?’

‘I told him all that already.’

‘Tell us again, Mr Galletti.’

‘The bugger broke down my door an’ took all the stuff away in my cart. He went over the stink-pit wi’ it – that way.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Saw him, so I did.’

‘Why didn’t you try to stop him?’

‘I’d just come back from up the road. I’d been for a wee refreshment. I saw him comin’ out my house wi’ my cart. I shouted but he ran away.’

‘Did ye no’ give chase?’ said Archie.

‘Me? Look at me. Jesus an’ Joseph,’ Galletti shouted as if poor Archie Flynn had cursed him with deformities. ‘It’s no bloody mystery who stole my stuff. I want it back. I need it, see, if I’m t’ earn my daily bread.’

‘Can you name the person who stole your gear?’

‘Name him, aye: Sammy Reynolds.’

‘This person, Sammy Reynolds, is known to you?’

‘Christ, he should be known to me. He’s been trailin’ me about for bloody years. He sits by the railin’ o’ the park when I’m doin’ my act. He hides in a close opposite the Palace when I’m turnin’ for the queue. He even dogs me up t’ the Groveries when I go there, summer nights.’

‘What does he do?’

‘He watches me.’

‘Does he annoy you in any way?’

‘Naw; just watches.’

‘But why, Mr Galletti?’

‘He’s jealous.’

‘Jealous?’

The fierce contorted little visage thrust out of hunched shoulders. Short arms sawed the air as if beating an invisible drum. ‘The bastard wants t’ be me.’

Craig paused. ‘What age is Sammy Reynolds?’

‘Twelve, thirteen.’

‘Where does he live?’ said Archie.

‘In Rae’s tenement.’

Craig nodded; he knew the building.

He said, ‘Let’s look at your broken door, Mr Galletti.’

‘For what?’

‘So I can put a report in my notebook,’ said Craig.

‘An’ then?’ Galletti shouted.

‘An’ then,’ said Craig, ‘Constable Flynn an’ me will walk over to Rae’s tenement an’ fetch your stuff back.’

‘All of it?’

‘All of it,’ Craig promised.

 

They did not have to track him down or root him out of hiding. Sammy Reynolds did not have the wit to hide. They heard him, unmistakably, as they picked their way across waste ground that surrounded the solitary habitation. Rae’s tenement was the last survivor of a clump of workers’ dwellings, a century old. Once it had sheltered the Madagascar’s loaders and heavers but not a breath of their labour remained. The brickwork was pitted, holed and scarred as if it had endured bombardment under siege. There was little evidence of present occupation, only a flickering candle or the wan glint of a lantern in the windows, more life among the rats that scampered over the middens that fronted the place on what had once been a cobbled street.

‘Hear it?’ said Archie.

‘Aye, I hear it.’

‘Where’s it comin’ from?’

‘Over there,’ said Craig. ‘Down there.’

‘God!’ said Archie. ‘The cellar.’

They skirted the big midden. The effluvia of the dump, dampened by rain, mingled with coke fumes and the low smoky reek of fried meat. Inside the building a dog snarled viciously and a voice, guttural and androgynous, barked back, made the animal yelp and be still. The constables reached a doorway in the base of an oval tower up which a staircase tottered. Gas had not been piped to this tenement and the close behind the stairs was as black as pitch. The policemen needed no light to guide them, however, for the tinny strains of a mouth harmonium and the dull thud-thump of a drum floated up from the well that led to the cellar.

‘Does he live down, there, do y’ think?’

‘I suppose he does,’ said Craig. ‘Got your stick handy?’

‘Right in my fist.’

‘All right; down we go.’

A sprinkle of light from a candle in a bottle marked the bottom of the well, for Sammy Reynolds, as if to lure an audience to his first performance, had left the cellar door ajar.

The cellar was narrow, windowless and cold. No fire smouldered in the sodden ashes in the hearth, no cooking-pot bubbled. There was no table in the room, only one wooden chair and two beds, fashioned of straw and tattered blankets. A bottle had been shattered on the hearthstone and shards of glass littered the floor. On a tin plate, smeared with gravy fat, was a heel of bread upon which fed a one-eared cat, quite undisturbed by the clack of stolen clogs or the thumping of a stolen drum. In the drab cellar Galletti’s little toy cart looked anomalously gay and new.

‘Sammy Reynolds?’ said Craig.

It was as if he had been expecting them, had rehearsed the dance for their benefit. He pressed his knees together, splayed out his feet and bounced the painted wooden shoes hither and thither while he accompanied himself with a daft wee yee-yaw chant upon the mouth organ. The instrument was attached to a harness of leather and soft wood that presented the harmonium to Sammy’s lips and left his hands free. The drum, of no great size, was strapped against his left hip. He beat on it unrhythmically with a stick feathered in sheepskin and at the same time waved a flag, the Scottish standard, one of three that were stuck in his belt. A popgun of painted tin and stained boxwood hung from a string down his back.

‘Dear God!’ said Archie. ‘Reynolds, stop that bloody—’

‘Wait, Archie,’ Craig said.

They watched the boy who, eyes crinkled with merriment, watched them in turn. He blew harder, beat harder and danced more furiously as if he had put his agility on trial and might earn by it not money or approval but discharge from his crime. Winded at last, he twirled the flag and stabbed it into his belt, fumbled the toy gun into his hand and with a final loud chant on the mouth harmonium fired off a salvo of one cork – and bowed.

Craig applauded. ‘Very good, Sammy. Very good. Did Mr Galletti teach you that?’

Sammy shook his head. He was slender and his complexion reminded Craig of Kirsty; freckles too. He looked pale but not unhealthy, though his teeth were bad. When he nodded his auburn-reddish hair bobbed with natural curls.

‘How did you learn?’

‘Watchit him,’ said Sammy. ‘Good, eh?’

Craig said, ‘Did Mr Galletti lend you his gear, Sammy?’

Sammy frowned. He looked down at the buckle of the drum strap and began to pick at it with a bitten thumbnail.

Archie said, ‘Where’s your mother, Sammy?’

‘Deid,’ said Sammy.

‘Your father?’

‘Oot.’

‘You did wrong, Sammy,’ said Craig.

‘It was good. I done it good.’

‘You shouldn’t have kicked down the door.’

‘Wouldnae talk t’ me.’

‘Did you take any of his money?’

Surprised, then outraged, Sammy stared at them, the drum trailing on a loosened strap. ‘Naw. Aw naw.’

The colour of his hair, the texture of his skin, and that expression of unabashed innocence – it was Kirsty, Kirsty long ago when he had first noticed her at school. Irked at the bizarre memory Craig spoke sharply. ‘You stole Mr Galletti’s gear, didn’t you?’

Sammy concentrated on another buckle, worked at it with his fingers. In his left hand the popgun’s cork dangled impotently from its string.

‘He’s an old man,’ said Archie. ‘A hunchie-back.’

‘He’s a dancer,’ Sammy shouted. ‘He’s the best dancer in the whole toon.’

‘Take that stuff off,’ said Archie.

‘You’ll have to come with us to the police station,’ said Craig. ‘It’s a charge, Sammy. Do you know what that means?’

‘Aye,’ said Sammy dismissively.

‘You can’t steal—’

‘It was good,’ said Sammy Reynolds. ‘I done it, an’ it was good.’

‘It’s theft, Sammy.’

‘Tell me it was good.’

‘You danced just fine,’ said Craig.

‘Good.’

‘Yes, Sammy,’ Craig said. ‘You were very, very good.’

 

Greenfield Police Court convened on Thursday morning with Bailie Smith on the bench. Bailie Smith was an iron merchant, a well-to-do and compassionate Christian familiar with all the ins and outs of criminal behaviour at ground level. He was a severe-looking man, however, and had that day a full bill of hearings to get through. He was not about to stand for eloquence or hair-splitting in the case of Samuel Reynolds. Craig was no longer nervous about giving evidence. Amid the unruly bustle of a court coppers were expected to be calm, concise and laconic. Mr Galletti was positioned in the public pews. He was called first before the Bailie. He would have given a performance of great flourish, dance and all, perhaps, if Bailie Smith had not curtailed it, drily remarking that he did not require the facts set to music, thank you.

Constable Nicholson came before the bench, told what he had found in Madagascar Mews and in the cellar of Rae’s tenement.

‘Did Reynolds deny the theft?’

‘No, sir. He did not.’

‘Did he make a confession?’

‘At the station, sir, he admitted all.’

‘Mr Galletti’s possessions?’

‘Returned to him, sir, intact an’ unharmed.’

‘There was no attempt to resist, Constable Nicholson?’

‘None, sir.’

The proceeding lasted no more than six or seven minutes. Samuel Reynolds had been kept in a cell at Ottawa Street overnight. His father, Robert Reynolds, had not returned to his place of residence the previous evening.

‘Has he been found now?’ the Bailie asked.

It was Sergeant Drummond, who had accompanied his constables to the court, who answered. ‘Robert Reynolds has been found, Bailie. He was in a partially intoxicated condition and appears to have spent the best part of the night in the company of a woman of loose moral character.’

‘What does he do – Reynolds?’

‘He is an occasional labourer,’ said Sergeant Drummond, consulting a notebook on his hand. ‘What’s known as a “tar-macadam man”.’

‘Where is he?’

‘Not here, Bailie,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘Because of work?’

‘Because of refusing, sir.’

‘I see,’ said the Bailie.

He summoned Sammy to stand before him and lectured him briefly upon the seriousness of stealing away a man’s source of earning.

Craig listened, for he had not been dismissed, and wondered if Sammy was taking in any of the points that the Bailie was making.

‘Do you understand me, Reynolds?’

Sammy nodded, glanced round at Craig and grinned innocently. He had been well fed at Ottawa Street, had not been beaten. He had slept in a clean dry cell. He had been given breakfast and Sergeant Drummond had stood over him while he had washed his face and combed his hair. It had been an eventful morning and he had been the centre of attention. Even Mr Galletti had noticed him, had shouted at him.

‘I will not have it, Reynolds,’ the Bailie said. ‘I have witnessed the penalty of leniency in young boys of your calibre. For that reason, for your own good, I sentence you to receive six strokes of the birch before release.’

Sammy frowned.

‘Will you see to it, Sergeant Drummond?’

‘I will, sir.’

‘Let the usual protections be taken.’

‘Yes, Bailie.’

‘That is all for this case.’

For a moment Sammy had nobody to turn to. He shuffled aimlessly in front of the bench. He had not been given an opportunity to offer explanations or reasons and Craig knew that he did not really comprehend the nature of his punishment. A beating would be nothing to Sammy Reynolds, hardly punishment at all.

Sergeant Drummond gave Craig a dig. ‘We take him.’

‘Where to?’

‘Next door.’

Craig took the boy’s arm and drew him away. Sammy was still smiling at the Bailie who, though not disconcerted, had chosen to ignore the dealt-with offender and was signalling to the court clerk to usher in the next petty criminal.

‘Come on,’ said Craig.

He led Sammy to the side door. Archie, who had not been called, and Sergeant Drummond followed on.

From the corner of his eye Craig sighted Galletti in the short tiled corridor. Bow-legged, crouched, Galletti beamed and winked and shouted out in a soft hoarse voice, ‘Gi’e him bloody licks, the bastard. Make him wriggle.’

The punishment room was situated in the basement of Police Headquarters in Percy Street. That building shared the site with the court and the warren of chambers and storerooms and cells below street level were all burgh property and served the ends of justice indiscriminately.

Craig had never been there before. Sergeant Drummond knew the way well enough. He went a step ahead of the constable and the delinquent, pushing doors, stepping down staircases and, somewhere en route, shed Archie who was dismissed to return to his usual duties.

Sammy did not like the basement. His step faltered and he might have shrunk back if Craig had not kept him firmly in motion, giving him a little push with the flat of his hand. The odour of disinfectant, or something more sinister, impregnated the walls here, for, Craig realised, they were in the vicinity of the morgue. They turned a corner into a long gas-lit corridor. Sammy’s steps faltered again. Ahead, by a pebble-glass door, waited the police surgeon, the same elderly terrier who had attended Craig’s injuries on the night of Malone’s capture. He gave no sign of recognition, however, but fell into step with Drummond and marched to a dark wooden door, unlocked it with a key and pushed it open.

Craig said, ‘Do I—?’

‘He’s your prisoner, Constable Nicholson,’ the sergeant told him.

High on the far wall of painted brick was a slot of a window, an iron grille fixed over it. The room was not spotless by any means but had traces of dust here and there, motes swirling in gelid daylight. The floor was of unmatted stone. There was little by way of furniture in the room, only a big cabinet on the right wall and a series of devices whose purpose was immediately obvious to Craig; a wooden triangle with leather straps, manhigh; a padded bench, raked to an angle, with more straps; a stool, a wooden chair and four metal pans like those used for milk in a dairy which, Craig supposed, were used to catch blood or urine. He suppressed a shudder. His mouth was dry as cotton and his stomach muscles knotted tight. He eased Sammy Reynolds forward, though the boy struggled a little and cowered back against the uniform.

‘How many strokes?’ said Deedes, the surgeon.

‘Six,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘Do you have a signature?’

The sergeant handed the surgeon the slip that he had been given by the Bailie but, Craig noticed, the surgeon hardly glanced at it.

The surgeon said, ‘Are you Samuel Reynolds?’

Sammy nodded.

‘Speak out, lad.’

‘Aye, sir.’

To Drummond: ‘Where is the parent?’

‘Not present.’

‘The father has the right to be here, to administer the strokes if he chooses,’ said the surgeon. ‘I presume he’s been informed of the privilege?’

‘Let us just say that the father has waived the right.’

‘I see,’ said the surgeon. ‘So the constable will do it.’

‘What?’ said Craig. ‘What’s this?’

‘No,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘I will be doing it myself.’

Craig heard himself say. ‘I thought there was a—’

Softly Drummond told him, ‘Punishment of a juvenile is a matter for the arresting officer.’

‘I – I can’t—’

‘I’m not expecting it of you, Constable Nicholson. Nonetheless it’s you who must hold the lad.’

‘Dear God!’ said Craig.

Surgeon Deedes said, ‘He should have been told. Did nobody tell him?’

‘He’ll know next time,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘Reynolds, take off your clothing,’ said the surgeon.

For some reason Sammy looked at Craig.

Swallowing, Craig said, ‘Better do it, Sammy. Get it over with.’

It was so grey in the basement chamber, so still and silent. Blue serge and brass buttons, the polished belt, seemed to draw Craig on to the cruel side of the law. He tried not to look at Sammy as the boy peeled off his ragged shirt and unbuttoned his trousers. He stepped out of them, out of his soiled drawers, left them in a pool of grey on the grey floor, like shed skin.

‘Boots and stockings too, please,’ said Deedes.

Sammy stood naked in the down-fall of light from the slotted window. He was not mature. In shame he covered his genitals with his hands. He shivered with cold and fright. His fair skin was bruised about the shoulders and Craig, staring at the boy’s nakedness, could even make out the welt of a strap down the side of his slender neck. Deedes came forward with a doctor’s sounder, moved Sammy this way and that. The boy was unprotesting. He appeared to be utterly malleable, vulnerable, innocent. Once again Craig experienced that strange sickening sensation of identification with Kirsty. He rubbed his palms against his trouser leg and watched Sammy bend, heard him breathe to the surgeon’s orders.

Sergeant Drummond removed his tunic jacket, hung it neatly on the wooden triangle, though that was not its purpose, not at all. Deedes, meanwhile, proceeded to examine the victim.

‘How did you acquire these bruises?’

Sammy did not answer the surgeon.

‘Did somebody do this to you?’ Deedes said. ‘Your father, perhaps?’

‘I fell,’ said Sammy.

‘You fell,’ said Deedes. ‘You weren’t struck?’

Sammy remained loyal, mute.

‘As you wish,’ said Deedes. ‘Sergeant, be careful to strike the buttocks only.’

‘Aye, Mr Deedes, I’ll be very careful.’

From the cupboard Deedes brought out a tray upon which nestled three birch rods. Craig did not know what he had expected the weapons of punishment to look like but their crudity surprised him. They were just that – birch rods. They resembled the switch brooms that tinkers sold for sweeping out awkward corners, bundles of twigs thonged to a wooden handle. Deedes placed the tray on the chair and beckoned to Sergeant Drummond, who, with sleeves rolled up, examined the objects.

Deedes said, ‘How old is the boy?’

‘Thirteen.’

‘Then it must be that one,’ said Deedes, pointing. ‘Forty inches in length and nine ounces in weight. Do you wish me to put it on the scales, Sergeant?’

‘It will not be necessary, sir.’

Drummond lifted the rod that Deedes had indicated and, turning discreetly away from Sammy, gave it a testing swish.

Sammy, making no sound, was weeping.

Deedes said, ‘Proceed then, Sergeant Drummond. I don’t have all day, you know.’

Drummond came to Craig. He held the rod discreetly by his side. He had strong forearms, thick with muscle and downed with dark hair.

He whispered, ‘I have a notion of what is on your mind, Constable Nicholson, and I might tell you that it is not my wish that this thing should be done – nor do I take any pleasure in doing it.’

‘I didn’t suppose—’

‘Just listen,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘I’m needing you to hold him steady. Put his head between your thighs and your hands on his shoulders. Brace and support the poor lad for he will surely buck and squirm and I intend only to hurt him a wee bit and not to injure him. You must do your part and hold him still so I can strike accurately.’

‘How hard will you hit him?’

‘Hard enough. But not as hard as I can,’ the sergeant said. ‘Now, Constable Nicholson, secure him, if you please.’

However brave or daft Sammy Reynolds might be he did not surrender without a show of resistance.

Craig hated having to lay hands on the naked boy, the scuffle that ensued before he snared him and forced him into position; hated the position itself, the intimacy of it. Once Sammy’s head was firmly clasped between Craig’s thighs, though, the lad stopped wriggling and braced himself to receive his punishment like a man.

‘Hold on,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

He measured the stroke and swished the spray of birch twigs downward across the boy’s buttocks. Sammy yelped and jerked. Craig pressed his thighs together, hands gripping the soft cold flesh.

‘Two,’ said the sergeant. ‘Hold still.’

The twigs did not break the skin but left a series of thin cat-claw welts across the narrow hips and, after the third blow, a glowing flush that had Craig wincing in sympathy.

‘Wait,’ said Deedes.

Panting, Sergeant Drummond stepped to one side and allowed the surgeon to examine the boy without having him released.

‘Very well,’ Deedes said. ‘Continue.’

Drummond’s eye met Craig’s for an instant. He shook his head slightly, frowning. A tiny bead of sweat clung to the corner of his eyelid and he brushed it away with the hand that held the rod. Taking his stance and aim he brought down the spray for a fourth time and, swiftly, for a fifth. Sammy had by now gone silent. He uttered not a whimper and did not flinch as the last blows fell. He was stiff as statuary and he did not lose rigidity even when Sergeant Drummond announced, ‘It is all done and over with. You may let him go now, Constable Nicholson.’

Stepping back, Craig lifted Sammy up from his fixed position. Freckles were livid on the boy’s ashen cheeks and his hair, damp with perspiration, clung in auburn kiss curls to his forehead.

‘Sammy, it’s finished,’ said Craig; and to the sergeant, ‘What happens now?’

‘You escort him home,’ said Drummond.

‘What? Right away?’

‘As soon as he can walk,’ the surgeon said.

 

Sammy Reynolds limped by Craig’s side along the Greenfield’s pavements and said not a word no matter how Craig coaxed him to converse. Sammy had been made to wash his tear-stained face and Sergeant Drummond had seen to it that he was tidily dressed and his bootlaces tied before he was taken from the basement and released into Constable Nicholson’s care to be returned to his father.

It was a long hoof to the Madagascar from Percy Street. Craig did not hurry. He made a little detour to take in Dinaro’s Café and, from the back door, bought two mugs of hot tea and a couple of jam doughnuts. It was still only mid-morning. He gave Sammy one of the mugs and one of the doughnuts and the boy, though he did not speak, accepted them. Craig and the boy leaned on the wall at the back of the café, ate and drank and stared at the traffic, such as it was, that flowed along Morrison Street. All the questions that Craig asked of Sammy – did he not go to school; could he read and write; would he become a labourer like his father – remained resolutely unanswered. The act of punishment had estranged the boy from the man who had given him attention. Craig let him sulk. In ten minutes or a quarter of an hour Sammy Reynolds would be off his hands and would no longer be his concern, unless he transgressed the law again. They drank tea together and licked their sticky fingers and, leaving the mugs on the back doorstep, turned right for the Madagascar.

There was still little sign of life to the tenement, though mongrel dogs and several large cats had taken possession of the summit of the midden and a pack of very young children could be seen on the crown of the waste ground, silent and still, watching the distant figure of the copper as if they planned to swoop upon him.

The boy stopped suddenly.

‘Here’s where I live,’ he said.

‘All the way home, Sammy,’ said Craig.

‘Nobody there.’

‘Right to the door.’

The cellar door was still ajar but there was not even the flutter of a candle to give a touch of warmth to the room. Nothing, at first, seemed to have changed, except that the cat was gone; then Craig noticed the man on the straw. He was motionless, curled up, his back to them.

‘Is that your dad?’ said Craig.

‘Aye.’

‘Mr Reynolds.’

The man did not respond. For a fleeting second Craig wondered if he was dead, had succumbed to drink and dissipation, if poor Sammy was free to become a ward of the state and enjoy its disciplines. He went down on one knee and shook the man’s shoulder. The man rolled over but did not waken. He was drunk as a lord, a bottle without a cork clutched to his chest like a baby. He had vomited down his front and the hair on his chest and the dark stubble on his chin were matted with the stuff. The stench was foul. He opened his mouth, gave a belch and a blubbering snore, rolled on to his side once more. Craig got to his feet and stepped back.

What more could he do? He had carried out the Bailie’s instructions to the letter. Sammy Reynolds had been arrested, charged, sentenced and duly punished for his crime and had now been delivered safe home and put into the custody of his parent. He, Constable Nicholson, must leave him here, turn and walk out, walk back to his regular beat, fulfil the duty, go home come evening to his loving wife, his supper, his clean warm bed. Sammy knew it too. Sammy watched him from the corners of his eyes, his face pale as fungus in the cellar’s half light, his freckles plainly visible.

Craig cleared his throat. ‘No more pinchin’ things that don’t belong to you, Sammy. It’ll be jail the next time or the Bad Boys’ school.’

‘If the sun shines later,’ Sammy said, ‘he’ll be up in the park wi’ the drum.’

‘Sammy—’

‘Dancin’.’

It was an impulsive gesture, quite wrong, not a thing for a grown man to do. Craig could not help himself. He put an arm about the boy and hugged him. Sammy winced as if kindness hurt him like a seventh stroke of the birch, and tore himself away.

Craig turned on his heel and went out. He climbed three or four steps noisily, paused and stealthily returned to the cellar door.

Sammy was on his knees at the side of the straw bed. He had clasped a handful of the drunkard’s hair and was shaking the man’s head gently from side to side, trying vainly to rouse his father to sensibility.

‘I was good, Paw. I tell ye, the mannie said I was good.’

Without a word, Craig stole upstairs and hurried out into daylight once more.

 

With money that Craig had given her she had bought a comfortable loose-flowing house-robe and a pair of low-heeled slippers, and padded about the kitchen with the waddling gait of a woman three times her age.

‘Were you in court this mornin’, dear?’

‘Aye.’

‘Was it that boy who stole the drum?’

‘Aye.’

‘What did he get?’

‘Ten-bob fine,’ said Craig without a pause.

‘How did he manage to pay it?’

‘His father was there. He paid it.’

‘I’ll bet he got a lickin’ when he got home.’

‘I’ll bet he did,’ Craig said. ‘Listen, I’m thinkin’ I should take a jaunt to Dalnavert.’

‘Oh!’ said Kirsty. ‘When?’

‘Soon,’ said Craig. ‘I’m worried because I haven’t heard a word since Gordon went back.’

‘She’ll be mad at you.’

‘I know,’ said Craig. ‘I want t’ see how the land lies.’

‘The baby’s due—’

‘Aye, it’ll be before that.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘What for?’

‘I thought—’

‘It’d be better if you stayed here,’ said Craig. ‘I’ll only be gone one night or two. I’m due three days’ leave in early March. Before I start night duty.’

‘Night duty?’ said Kirsty. ‘You didn’t—’

‘It pays more,’ said Craig. ‘Anyway, I’ve no choice. It’s my turn. We’ll be goin’ on to three shifts in May an’ that’ll make a difference. Anyway, I thought I’d go to Dalnavert the first weekend in March. If you don’t fancy stayin’ here alone—’

‘I could always go to Walbrook Street.’

‘If you like,’ Craig said.

She hesitated, hovering heavily behind his chair.

She said, ‘Craig, you will – I mean, you won’t stay there?’

‘Stay where?’

‘Dalnavert. I mean, you will come home again?’

‘Don’t be so bloody daft,’ Craig said.

 

The Prince Consort peered blearily up at him for a final moment across the garden of Charlotte Square before swaddling North Sea haar wrapped up the city for the night. Edinburgh haar was not at all like Glasgow fog. It had no body to it, was ghostly and wet and clinging, a sea-fog that stole up from the Forth at all seasons and, that evening, swiftly consumed the statue that gave a landmark to travellers along George Street and provided David Lockhart with a focus from the window of his rooms in Albany Place.

It was a lodging of quality in one of the more salubrious parts of the capital. Uncle George had found them for him and footed the bill without a moan. Uncle George was a downy bird who knew that while a young fellow might spend his student days sleeping in a shoebox and living on ale and ambition, a Doctor of Medicine deserved better, that advances in age and station required advances in gentility and comfort. The house in Albany Place was divided into four suites and was governed by a certain Mrs Fotheringham, a woman in situation similar to Mrs Frew but in temperament far more refined. Indeed Jack had once observed that when compared to the formidable Fotheringham old Aunt Nessie seemed like a fille de joie.

David lowered the curtain and returned to the long table that served him as a desk. It was positioned before a cheerful fire and had upon it a double-bracket oil-lamp in green glass and polished brass. A hexagonal cabinet on castors kept his current library close to hand and a little slope-front bureau held pens, inks and sheaves of legal foolscap. Here David composed his essays on matters spiritual. Here too, once each month, he fulfilled his obligation to his father and wrung out two pages of bland facts. Tonight, however, he must write another sort of letter, set down facts that were barbed, that would wound and that would bring a volley of recrimination from far-off Fanshi.

Perhaps this letter would do what nothing else had done – induce his parents to return to Scotland on furlough from the mission. No, he thought, his father would not come. His father would not leave China for any reason, not if Noah’s flood swept over Europe and left Jack and him adrift in a basket on the dreary tide, not if the seven trumpets of St John all sounded in unison. His father was tied to China not by bonds of selfless love but by an addiction to the status that he had found there, the Good White Man.

When this thought had first come to David it had seemed heretical. When he ransacked his memory, however, he discovered to his dismay that many of the episodes that had seemed innocent and amusing when he was a boy in China were not so at all, that his view had changed with knowledge, changed so radically that he felt alienated from those growing years, from the man who had spawned and raised him, who had planned his destiny so meticulously.

Jack too had doubts about their father but he refused point-blank to discuss them with his brother. David did not press. He had sought advice from Professor Landels, a moral philosopher. To his astonishment the professor did not accuse him of bad faith or betrayal, did not urge him to stand firm and do his duty as was expected of him. Old Landels had been very understanding, had explained that doubt is the core of the human condition, the inheritance of the Christian, and that a man who does not suffer doubt about his actions and beliefs is a man who does not grow. David had also written of his problem to Uncle George who had replied quickly and told him in plain terms that he must make up his own mind what to do but that he, George, would stand by him in any event.

David seated himself at the table. He lifted his father’s last letter to which he must now reply. Like all the letters that had gone before, it was not a letter at all really but more of a sermon.

‘I ask you to remember,’ David read, ‘that the salvation effected by our Redeemer includes infinitely more than deliverance from the guilt, power and pollution of sin.’

David sighed. He did not know what the words meant. Sin was a ‘problem’ not an experience, a puzzle in morality, not a burden that he felt upon his soul day after day. In Lutheran dogmatics the whole life of a Christian was dedicated to repentance from sin. But what that sort of sin felt like, how it was expressed, David had no idea. He read on.

‘And when millions of ages shall have elapsed and millions more have run their course, His felicity shall be ever on the increase. Yes, David, though now you scarcely possess a clay-built hovel, though your garments be coarse and your fare scanty, Jesus is your Saviour and Heaven is your home.’

To whom had his father written those words? Not to him. His rooms, thanks to Uncle George, were solid and comfortable, his garments fine and his fare anything but scanty. What had gone through his father’s head when he had penned those platitudes?

Impatiently he flicked the letter aside, got up, went to the window once more and lifted the curtain. He could see only the orb of a street-lamp and the railings directly below.

It was on a night like this that he had first met the young woman, Kirsty Nicholson, in Walbrook Street. The memory of that encounter was vivid and unfading. When he thought of her it made him feel warm. He did not know why this should be. Such emotions had not been discussed with professors of divinity or explained by demonstrators in medicine. Perhaps that feeling was sin, a pollution for which he should suffer tormenting guilt. Perhaps that was the thing that had escaped him when he cut into the leathery dead flesh of the corpses in the anatomy rooms and separated veins from arteries and muscles from bone. If so it was not as he imagined sin to be, though she was wife to another man and big with another man’s child. He did not want to possess her. He wanted something for which there was no exact definition. There were no girls like Kirsty Nicholson in Fanshi, girls with auburn hair and freckled noses and smiles that could warm even the coldest winter night.

The only person in the whole wide world for whom he felt love was his brother; yet he must part from Jack, sacrifice Jack to appease his longing to remain here in Scotland, to cling to the place and its people, to be part of it. Yes, that was what he wanted; all he wanted. He did not want to have strangers about him. It was after all no great enigma, no problem in faith. It was simplicity itself.

David dropped the curtain and shut out the haar. Quickly he stepped to the table and seated himself. He was sick of bland obedience, of half-truths, of holding himself at a distance. He slipped a sheet of foolscap from the drawer, uncapped the ink bottle and picked up a pen.

Dear Father,

I realise that it will come as a great surprise to you and as a disappointment but I have decided not to return to China and to Mission Work but to remain here in Scotland and seek a parish of my own.

He applied blotting paper and sat back. He read what he had written. He could hardly believe that he had done it, had been so direct, so explicit. He had nothing more to add, nothing more to say.

He laughed with sudden relief and, elated, signed his name.

 

Mrs Swanston and Mrs Walker came into the close together. Each carried a large wicker shopping-basket from which wafted the delicious aroma of friend fish.

‘It that yoursel’ up there, Mrs Nicholson?’ said Mrs Walker.

‘It is.’

‘What’s that you’re doin’?’ said Mrs Walker.

‘Cleanin’ the lavatory.’

‘You’re a night early, are you not?’ said Mrs Walker.

‘I had time tonight.’

‘My, my! But should you be doin’ that at all?’ said Mrs Swanston.

‘I’m all right, really.’

‘I must say,’ said Mrs Walker, ‘that you do look a bit peaky.’

‘I’ve a wee pain, that’s all.’

‘When’s it due?’ said Mrs Walker.

‘Twenty-six days,’ said Kirsty.

‘A little light exercise will do you no harm,’ Mrs Walker said. ‘Before I had Charles I papered the back room.’

‘Aye, but Charlie wasn’t your first,’ said Mrs Swanston.

‘I had no trouble with Jim either,’ said Mrs Walker.

‘Well, I had trouble wi’ them all,’ Mrs Swanston confessed. ‘Before birth, durin’ birth, an’ ever since.’

‘Have you been to the doctor?’ said Mrs Walker.

‘Aye.’

‘Who is your doctor?’

‘Doctor Godwin.’

‘We go to Doctor Newfield. Up in Hillhead.’

‘I thought he was a chest doctor?’ said Mrs Swanston.

‘He’s a highly-thought-of gentleman in the medical profession,’ said Mrs Walker. ‘A consultationist at the Western. He charges a considerable fee. Frank thought it was worth the expense, you know, to see me right.’

‘Aye,’ said Mrs Swanston, unimpressed.

‘Doctor Godwin’s all right,’ said Kirsty. ‘He gave me a bottle.’

‘Och, a bottle,’ said Mrs Walker. ‘I had pills.’

‘Pills for what?’ said Mrs Swanston.

‘For – something we ladies don’t talk about.’

‘The constipation?’ said Mrs Swanston.

‘I’m getting this fish in before it turns cold,’ said Mrs Walker, and went into her apartment without another word.

‘Her!’ said Mrs Swanston. ‘She’s right, though. I’d better dish up supper to my crowd before they come lookin’ for me wi’ knives at the ready.’

‘They’ll be needin’ a good hot meal tonight,’ said Kirsty, ‘with the weather so cold an’ raw.’

‘Aye, no hint of an early spring.’ The woman patted her arm. ‘Are you sure you’re feelin’ all right, lassie?’

‘I’m just tired.’

‘Cheer up. It’ll soon be over.’

‘Goodnight, Mrs Swanston.’

‘Goodnight, Mrs Nicholson.’

 

Breaking Warder Caine’s neck proved far easier than Malone had supposed it would be. When he was younger and making his way in the world he had snapped the odd arm at the elbow and had, for a year or so, specialised in breaking folks’ fingers but he had never been employed to kill a man with his bare hands.

Once, long ago, Billy had shown him how it should be done; hand over the mouth and chin, elbow locked about the windpipe, a jerking motion upwards to separate the bones at the top of the spine. Malone wondered if he had strength enough for the task but found himself charged up and more than equal to it. He had decided during his afternoon promenade that he would not have a better chance and with the plan laid out in his mind he had elected to go for it. Come what may, once he laid a finger on Warder Caine he was utterly committed to escape from Barlinnie and to stay out of the clutches of the law for evermore. If something went wrong, if luck ran against him, then he would die at a rope’s end. No leniency would be shown to him. He would be topped for sure – and that would be that, the end of Daniel Malone.

Warder Caine never really knew what hit him. He had brought in the tin mug and the tin plate with No. 679’s dinner on it. He had seen No. 679 only three hours before when he took him out for air. He should have been in long before dinner-time to collect the oakum pickings and give No. 679 a brush with which to sweep out the cell, but he had gotten into an argument with Warder McIntosh and had ‘bent’ the regular routine just a little, would do it all at the one visit, not just with No. 679 but with the four other hard labourites in the new block.

It was this irregularity in Caine’s routine, plus the fact that the day had been misty, that determined Danny Malone to play his hand. The first part of it was easy, dead easy. Caine was only seconds into the cell, had just put the tin mug and the tin plate upon the bed and had turned to look at the oakum pile on the canvas rug on the floor when Malone, without any warning at all, gripped him round the jaw and, with one twist of arms and shoulders, broke his vertebrae as if they had been made of porcelain.

Danny Malone lowered the warder’s body to the floor and knelt by it. He unbuttoned the uniform and unlaced the boots. Caine was a lot skinnier than he was but he got himself into the gear as best he could, strapping on the belt very tightly to draw in his girth. He put on the hat too and hastily scooped the quantity of plucked oakum into the centre of the canvas, folded up the corners and made a bundle of it. He took the keys, only three on the ring since Caine had not been an official turnkey, from Caine’s fingers and hoisted the bundle up into his arms so that it hid his face. He dragged the warder to the bed and put him into it and went out of the door, which had not been closed, into the corridor.

He held the oakum bundle aloft with his left hand and arm and kept his right hand free so that he could reach quickly for the hilt of the sabre which dangled at his side in its scabbard of varnished leather. Possession of the sabre, and the satisfaction he had gained from doing for the bloody warder, heated Danny Malone’s blood, imparted such a welling of encouragement that he discarded his plan to keep cool and use stealth and, when he got within twenty yards of the elderly warder who kept the block gate open at the corridor’s end, flung away the bundle and ran for it.

The elderly warder was taken by surprise. He rushed at the big iron gate to slam it shut but Malone was already upon him. The man did not even have time to cry out. He was old, older than Danny, and wore a particularly high collar. Malone did not attempt to find a grip that would enable him to practise his new-found skill. He throttled the old bastard, thumbs dug deep into the windpipe. It was done quietly, very quietly. The old boy slumped without a peep, only the iron gate grating and clanging a bit when his knees pushed it on its oiled hinges. Malone unclipped the big round ring from the man’s belt and also took the small ring from his fist. Now he had about a dozen keys and, if his observations had been accurate, only two doors to clear before he got into the yard. He dragged the old warder into the end corridor and locked the gate on him.

Behind him was a short corridor and a warders’ cubby which, he thought, gave on to a staircase that led up to the main halls. To the right, beyond the cubby, steps went up to an exposed gallery which in turn led across to a door in the prison’s inner wall and gave access to the promenade. He had been that route with Caine. Gas had not yet been installed in this part of the block and the corridors were lit by long-barrel lanterns. He took one of the lanterns from its hook.

Behind him somebody, a prisoner, shouted, ‘What’s that? What’s happenin’? Where’s my bloody grub?’

Malone was tempted to tell the bugger to shut his mouth but he restrained himself and, with the lantern in his left hand, stole towards the arch of the cubby.

Inside the room were two warders. He recognised one of them as McIntosh but the other was a stranger. Luck was running his way, however, for both warders were poring over a newspaper that was spread open on a table, a racing-sheet most like. Trays with prisoners’ dinner on them cooled on a dresser by the serving-churns.

Malone crept softly past the arch and turned on to the narrow flight of steps that went up to the gallery. He had counted out the steps, fourteen. Caine had always made him go up first and had kept well behind him in case of monkey business. Sometimes there was a warder on duty at the top of the steps. Not tonight, though. The main cell blocks, where ordinary prisoners were housed, were above him. He thought that he could hear them muttering, a sound like waves on a pebble shore; only imagination. He wanted to make a dash for it, to clatter along the iron gallery, but kept control of his emotions, moved casually on to the span that crossed some fifteen feet above the communal well of the block.

Never had he felt so exposed, so vulnerable. Warders walked below him. Locking up? He could not be sure of the routines here. Yes, locking up. Clash of doors, the clack of keys, hearty voices, prisoners calling out to each other. He looked down at the pinching boots and through the fretwork of the gallery to the heads below. As a hard-labour prisoner his contact with warders had been limited. He did not know them and they would not recognise him on sight, though a close inspection would reveal him for what he was. The door in the inner wall seemed miles away. He did not hurry, though. He walked steadily along the gallery carrying the lantern, as if he had a purpose, a duty to perform.

Though made of wood the door had a vertical iron handle and a huge metal lock. Malone had no notion which of the many keys in his possession would fit the lock. He had no option but to stand at the end of the gallery and fumble, try one key after another until, at last, one dropped the tumblers with a noise, he thought, as loud as the firing of field artillery. He looked down. One young warder was staring up at him through the gridwork. Malone held his breath and then made a sign, a greeting, which the fool returned before going on about his business. Malone pushed open the wooden door, lifted the lantern and stepped into the exercise yard.

To his right, across the yard, was a big square door. It was open. Light streamed from it into the yard. He could see circular tracks on the cinder pad, the section of high wall that he intended to climb. Four hooded arc-lamps had been erected on the prison’s inner gable but apparently they were not connected to the pipes yet and gave no light. He did not like that open door. It was one of only two that led into the yard. He stood in the other. He stepped into the yard, closed the wooden door behind him but did not lock it. He did not dare race for the wall, for that section where old stonework and new brick met. He stood quite still, breathing high in his chest, listening. He could hear, of all things, music. Somebody was squeezing a tune out of a concertina. Behind him and above the cells reared like a great cliff of stone. He did not look up. If any man behind those tiny barred windows spotted him and knew what he was about they would keep silent, of that he could be certain. He was so close to escape, so close. Behind that wall lay the farmlands of Riddrie and horse-tram routes into the city. Glasgow was not far away. He could almost smell the berry, smoky stink that tainted the farm mists that wreathed the prison and made the dark sky grey.

Two warders, laughing, came out of the big door. Malone put his hand on the sword hilt and drew the weapon quietly from its scabbard. He lowered the lamp, watching. The warders came no distance into the courtyard, separated and, to Malone’s surprise and relief, made water against the wall. It would be ‘against regulations’ to do so but perhaps the lavatories were in another block. The men met again, laughed and returned through the big door, closing it behind them, shutting off light and the concertina’s cranky tune.

Malone walked across the cinder, crossed to the corner where new brick met old stone. The wall seemed smoother in the darkness, higher too. At the top were bent metal staves but he did not think that the crown had been wired. He knelt and unlaced Caine’s boots, sat and worked them from his feet. He tied the laces together and hung the boots about his neck. He got to his feet and glanced about him. It was uncannily quiet. He blew out the lantern and discarded it. He approached the rearing mass of the wall, sought a hand-hold, found one, found another. He scrambled for purchase with his stockinged toes and hoisted himself from prison ground.

Luck was still running with him. He could hardly believe it. The junction had not been mortared properly and presented a ladder of hand- and foot-holds. He climbed cautiously but without difficulty and soon flung his arms over the top between two bent staves. There was no wire in place, no glass. He hauled himself up and straddled the wall.

Grasslands sloped away from the prison without impediment, open fields shaped by the mist and, not far distant, the lights of the villages that clung to the hem of the city. Malone breathed deeply, filling his lungs. He could smell Glasgow now all right, hear its pulse. The sensations excited him. He slung his legs over the wall and lowered himself. The outer facement was smoother but provided just enough friction to support him. He dropped the last ten feet to the ground.

As he rolled on to sweet wet winter turf a bell clanged within the prison and, a moment later, a steam siren screamed out. Malone did not flinch. He had left fear behind. He was clear of confinement and surged with confidence. Chuckling, he sprinted down the slope towards a thorn hedge behind which lay lights and a roadway.

He had done it. He had escaped from Barlinnie.

Now he would show the bastards.

Now he would write his name in blood.

 

The hue and cry that followed the brutal double murder in Barlinnie prison and the escape of felon Daniel Malone involved almost every officer and man in the City of Glasgow and the co-operation of police forces in burghs far and wide, Greenfield not least among them.

Superintendent Affleck was put in charge of a team of detectives and was also consulted by uniformed superiors on the best strategy by which the fugitive might be laid by the heels. Description of the wanted man was telephoned and telegraphed to police stations in all port areas, west and east, and City of Glasgow contract printers were roused to late-shift work to set and run off one thousand copies of a Wanted handbill. Before midnight senior constables and sergeants had been despatched to search the dwellings of Malone’s known associates and Noreen Gusset had been dragged protesting to Partick Police Headquarters where Hugh Affleck, in person, interrogated her for over an hour.

Across the city a pair of detectives, Glover and Prentice, had traced the means by which Malone had gotten himself from the wilds of Riddrie into the city centre. The hackney cab driver had been so frightened by the man in warder’s uniform, and by the sabre laid against his neck, that he had put antipathy to blue boys to one side and reported the incident at the nearest cop shop to the Saltmarket, where he had dropped his ‘fare’.

Seasoned veterans of several manhunts, Glover and Prentice extracted every drop of information from the wide-eyed cab driver and had him take them to the exact spot at which the passenger had alighted; just beyond Glasgow Cross and only yards from the doors of the Central Division Police Station, one of the city’s most populous areas.

‘Where did he go then?’

‘Vanished,’ said the cabbie.

‘Into thin air?’

‘You might say so. One minute he was standin’ on the pavement, next he was gone.’

As instructed, Sergeants Glover and Prentice made report by telephone to Superintendent Affleck who was on the point of leaving Partick for Greenfield. Superintendent Affleck suggested to the senior officer at Central that men be despatched to question citizens in the area in the hope, rather faint, that a man in a warder’s uniform, complete with sabre, might have been spotted and remembered. Every straw had to be clutched at and progress made before Daniel Malone could strike again.

‘Do you think he will,’ said Sergeant Drummond, ‘strike again?’

Hugh Affleck sipped from the cup of strong black coffee that had been brewed for him in the room behind the counter in Ottawa Street station.

‘I’m damned sure he will. It’s the reason he escaped. He has nothing but vengeance on his mind, scores to settle.’

‘Did Noreen Gusset tell you that?’

‘Not in as many words. She didn’t collude in his escape, not directly. She visited him once, apparently. All Malone wanted from her was information about Nicholson. The last thing that were Noreen wants is Danny running loose. Nobody wants Danny on the streets, not even his so-called friends.’

‘Especially his so-called friends,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘Have you sent word to Maitland Moss?’

‘I spoke to him on the telephone,’ Hugh Affleck answered. ‘Oh, he pretended to be totally unconcerned but it’s my guess that our Mr Moss will contrive to have urgent business in some far part of the country and will not return until Danny’s caught.’

‘Does Moss have money belonging to Malone?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ the superintendent said. ‘What concerns me is that Malone may have cash salted away. He’s always been extraordinarily clever.’

‘It was not very clever to butcher two prison officers.’

‘He felt, I suspect, that he had nothing to lose.’

‘Except his life.’

‘Have you put a watch on the Maitland Moss yard?’ said Hugh Affleck.

‘One man inside, one on the street.’

‘Enough men for a change of shift?’

‘Everybody on the roster has been recalled,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘Except Nicholson.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘Nicholson.’

‘I went round to see the Walkers, who reside in the same building as Nicholson. They got themselves quietly together and have manned the close, front and back. If Malone is mad enough to make an attempt on Nicholson tonight he’ll find a warm welcome awaiting him.’

‘You’ll need sleep, Hector.’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

Hugh Affleck finished his coffee and glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Time I was off to report to Mr Organ.’

‘At this hour?’

‘The Chief Constable is deeply concerned, Hector,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘He knows what Malone might do. What sort of man we’re dealing with.’

‘Armed and dangerous?’

‘Very dangerous,’ the superintendent said.

Chief Constable Organ gave no thought to the lateness of the hour or the fact that he had been dragged away from a dinner party at Bailie Smith’s house between the soup and the joint and had eaten nothing since. The circumstances surrounding the arrest of Daniel Malone were still too fresh in his mind, and in the memory of the public at large, to allow him to shirk his most punctilious duty. He had, of course, already spoken with Superintendent Affleck upon the telephone but was anxious to engage the detective in a more prolonged and private conversation and, shut in his oak-panelled office in Percy Street headquarters, wasted not a moment on politeness.

‘Let me ask you, Hugh,’ said Mr Organ, ‘if you believe that Malone will come back to the Greenfield?’

‘I do, Mr Organ.’

‘Because of the statements made by the Gusset woman?’

‘Partly,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘More, perhaps, because of the nature of the man. I think he’s hungry for revenge.’

‘Now that he’s out, however, do you not think he might change his mind and simply make a sprint for it?’

‘No, sir, I don’t. Malone is proud, he’s vicious—’

‘As his slaughter of two prison warders proves, yes.’

‘– and it’s my belief that he’ll come back to the Greenfield in search of Nicholson.’

‘Who shopped him.’

‘We must protect Nicholson at all costs.’

‘It would certainly be a black mark against us if Malone did manage to harm one of our constables.’

‘Nicholson must be sent away.’

Chief Constable Organ stuck his tongue into his cheek, paused, said, ‘Or kept on duty, perhaps.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Day-shift, of course.’

‘Do I understand, sir, that you—’

‘Is he a brave lad?’

‘As brave as the next one, I suppose. But—’

‘If, as you believe, Malone is intent on revenge and single-minded in his purpose then there’s no saying what sort of mischief he might get up to if his purpose is thwarted.’

‘Tether a goat?’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘I’m not for that, sir.’

‘For it or not, Superintendent, it has value as a suggestion, do you not feel?’

‘You can order Constable Nicholson to remain on duty, Mr Organ. It will not, however, be a popular decision with the sergeants.’

‘It’s not my intention to despatch him on to his beat alone and unprotected. He’ll be watched, watched like a hawk at all times.’

‘For how long?’

‘Until Malone shows his hand.’

‘What if Malone does not show his hand?’

‘All well and good. After a reasonable period of time has elapsed we may assume that Malone has evaded our best efforts and has slipped away out of Scotland, and our jurisdiction.’

Hugh Affleck shook his head. The theory had one fatal flaw; the administration of the Force itself. While Craig Nicholson might be willing, even eager, to play the hero and set himself up as live bait, if Malone elected to remain underground for three or four weeks then the sheer cost of maintaining a roster of protectors for one young constable would scupper the watch. Besides there was always the possibility that Malone would not attack during duty hours.

Chief Constable Organ said, ‘Have you considered the threat to yourself, Hugh?’

‘Me?’

‘To your family.’

‘What?’

‘It was at your sister’s house, was it not, that the arrest was made, the ‘trap’, as Malone sees it, sprung? Our desperado might not be too fussy upon whom he wreaks revenge.’

‘Yes, I do take your point, sir.’

‘Can your sister be removed from harm’s way?’

‘If necessary.’

‘What about Malone’s cohorts; Jamie what’s-his-name?’

‘Dobbs. He’s livin’ with Malone’s mistress now, I believe.’

‘Reason enough for Malone to do him harm. What of Malone’s legal wife?’

‘She knows absolutely nothing. She’s heard not a word from Danny since the day of his arrest. I think that line of enquiry would not be profitable, not if I know Malone.’

‘McVoy?’

‘Still in prison.’

‘Ah, yes, of course.’

Hugh Affleck rubbed his eyes with his palms. He had foreseen a long campaign of patient detective work, particularly if Malone had cash hidden away and was able to buy a safe hiding-place or – and he wouldn’t put it past the man – flee from Scotland for five or six months before he returned to pay his debts in blood. He had no doubt at all that, sooner or later, Malone would make an attempt on the life of the Nicholson boy. Perhaps it would be better for all concerned, including the Nicholsons, if it was sooner.

To a degree he felt responsible for the threat now laid on Craig Nicholson’s life. His zeal had led him into this nasty mess. He had underestimated Malone, had not imagined that the man would escape.

Chief Constable Organ said, ‘What do you say, Hugh?’

‘I’ll talk to the constable first thing in the morning.’

‘It’s for the best, don’t you think?’

‘I hope so, sir.’

 

Craig sensed that there was something in the wind when Constable John Boyle, looking even glummer than usual, picked him up at the close mouth. John Boyle was a Percy Street officer and had no time for those minions who served in the sub-station at Ottawa Street. He had addressed hardly a civil word to Craig in the weeks since the Nicholsons had moved into No. 154 and it was soon clear to Craig that Constable Boyle had not lingered to accompany him out of friendship.

Craig said, ‘What’s up then, Mr Boyle?’

‘I have business at Ottawa Street. I’ll walk with you.’

‘If you like,’ Craig said.

He fell into step with the elder man, glancing at him curiously.

Craig said, ‘I take it you haven’t been made down?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Sent to join us.’

‘I have a message, that’s all.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Craig, and increased his pace a little as he rounded the corner into Williams Lane.

Ottawa Street was buzzing like a hive of bees. Constables and sergeants, some of whom he had never clapped eyes on before, were coming and going, hither and thither. The telephone on Drummond’s desk was ringing, unanswered. Boyle accompanied him into the station and then, without a word, turned on his heel and walked out again.

‘Archie?’ Craig called, spotting his friend at the door of the Muster Room. ‘What the hell’s goin’ on here?’

‘You’re wanted, Craig. Back room.’

‘Me?’ said Craig. ‘Who wants me?’

‘I do.’ Hugh Affleck beckoned from the space across the counter. ‘Step in here, please, Constable Nicholson.’

There was an air of informality in the room that Craig had not before encountered within the precinct. Cups, a milk can and teapot littered the table and the atmosphere was thick with tobacco smoke. Sergeant Drummond, tunic unbuttoned and collar loosened, was seated cross-legged on one of the chairs. His chin and jowls glistened with beard stubble and his eyelids were heavy with fatigue.

‘Sit yourself down, Craig,’ Hector Drummond said.

The superintendent’s clothing was not untidy but he had the same sort of look as Drummond, and Craig guessed the pair of them had been up all night long.

‘You may smoke if you want to,’ Hugh Affleck said.

It was as if they had brought him here to tell him bad news. He experienced a moment of stupid panic, thinking of Kirsty. He had left her, however, only five minutes since, waddling about the kitchen in her robe and slippers. He thought next, for no logical reason, of his mother and of Gordon and, as his panic increased, reached for the tin in his tunic pocket where he kept his cigarettes and matches.

Superintendent Affleck said, ‘It’s Malone. He’s escaped from jail. Killed two warders in the process. We have a suspicion that he may be headed for Greenfield.’

‘Ah!’ said Craig, relieved. ‘Comin’ for me, you mean?’

‘Listen to the lad,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘What a conceit.’

‘It would be natural,’ said Craig carefully. ‘I shopped him, after all.’

He lit a cigarette and listened obediently while Hugh Affleck told him what had happened and, making no bones about it, explained what the Chief Constable required of him. Craig felt no great stirring of fear of Daniel Malone and did not think that the Chief Constable had made an outrageous request. Here in the inner sanctum of Ottawa Street Police Station he was secure. Even on the streets of the Greenfield he would be within hailing distance of a fellow copper at all times. Besides, after what he had lived through this past six months Malone seemed tame.

Hugh Affleck said, ‘I don’t want you to be careless, Constable Nicholson. Malone has deliberately burned his boats. He has nothing further to lose. If it’s in his mind to make an example out of you, to try to regain his status and his power, then he will not be dissuaded by mere difficulty.’

Craig said, ‘I’m not scared of him, Mr Affleck.’

Hector Drummond said, ‘I would be, if I were you.’

Craig said, ‘You want me to go on duty, as normal?’

‘Yes,’ said the superintendent. ‘It’s not my idea.’

Craig said, ‘Is Malone carryin’ a weapon?’

‘We believe he has a sword.’

‘A sword?’

‘Taken from one of the prison warders.’

‘But no firearm, no gun?’ said Craig.

‘Not to our knowledge, no.’

‘That’s all right then,’ said Craig.

Sergeant Drummond uncrossed his legs and sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘What do you mean, lad – “that’s all right”?’

‘He can’t shoot me in the back. He’ll have to catch me close before he can—’

‘Good God, Nicholson!’ Hugh Affleck exclaimed. ‘Do you think this is a game of tig? Malone’ll not adhere to the rules of fair play, believe me.’

‘Do I go alone?’

‘Yes, unaccompanied.’

‘Follow my usual routes?’

‘Yes.’

‘My usual length of shift?’

‘No different.’

‘But I’ll have somebody on my tail?’

‘Constables Boyle and Rogers, from Percy Street.’

‘Sound and experienced officers,’ said Sergeant Drummond.

‘What happens tonight, when I go home?’

‘You’ll be accompanied to your door.’

‘I see.’

‘You will be required to do your part, Constable Nicholson, but nobody expects you to put your safety at risk,’ said Hugh Affleck. ‘After all, there’s a distinct possibility that Malone isn’t interested in you, that you’re not his target.’

‘Oh, aye, I’m his target all right,’ said Craig.

‘I trust you’re not proud of that fact.’

‘Not proud, Mr Affleck. No, not proud.’

He had been seasoned by the past months, by the scalded child, the naked boy wincing under the birch, the body in the river. He realised that he was proud, that it was pride in what he had already endured that made him impervious to fear of Malone. He felt a strange little prickle of excitement.

‘An’ after I’m home?’ said Craig. ‘After dark, what then?’

‘Stay indoors,’ said Sergeant Drummond. ‘Keep the door barred and bolted. Even Malone would not be daft enough to attack you in a building stuffed with blue uniforms.’

‘In addition,’ said Hugh Affleck, ‘a constable will be on permanent guard in the close.’

‘Who?’

‘One of the Walkers, most like,’ said the sergeant.

‘How long will you sustain the watch?’

‘For two weeks at least.’

‘It won’t take that long,’ said Craig.

‘What makes you so sure, lad?’

‘He broke from the jail to get at me,’ said Craig. ‘He’s clever but he has no patience. He’ll try something very soon. Do you have any idea, Mr Affleck, where he is right now?’

‘None at all.’

‘I’ll bet he’s in the Greenfield. I’ll bet anythin’ you like he’s here already,’ said Craig. ‘If that’s all the word you have for me, Mr Affleck, I’ll get out on my beat.’

Craig got to his feet, dropped the cigarette and ground the butt under his heel. He brushed a fleck of ash from his chest and tightened his belt.

‘Constable Nicholson,’ said Hugh Affleck.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘No heroics.’

‘Not me, sir,’ Craig said.