15

Eddie Mallon woke at first light. He was stiff from his spine-crunching sleep on the sofa. He rose slowly, rummaged inside his bag, finding toothbrush, toothpaste and comb. He left the room, guessed correctly that the frosted glass-panelled door across the hallway led to the toilet. He doused his face in warm water, brushed his teeth, ran the comb through hair that had always been too thick and springy to discipline.

He looked at himself in the mirror: sweet Christ, it was like seeing a younger Jackie Mallon just for a moment, a shade gazing back at him from the glass. It startled him, as if he’d stepped through the mirror into some other universe where the dead were resurrected.

Time zones and bad sleep, he thought.

He dried his face and went inside the kitchen. There was a note on the table with a Yale key placed on it. Joyce had scribbled: Here’s your key. If you wake before me, don’t wake me. Appreciated. Love J. He stuck the key in a pocket of his jeans, opened the refrigerator. He found a half-empty bottle of Chablis, a bunch of puckered black grapes, eggs, a can of Irn-Bru, a slab of cheese and a bruised orange. He plucked some grapes and opened the drink and sat at the table. Early light had begun to suffuse the backs of the sandstone tenements visible from the kitchen window. Brick changed from grey-black to red-brown as the sun rose. Pigeons flew among the tall chimney stacks.

He finished the drink and the last of the grapes. He left the flat and went down the stone staircase and out into the street where the colour of the sky awed him, because it wasn’t a city sky thick with smoke and smog, it was limpid and sea-blue. Something unusual had happened to the weather here, a strange inversion, as if all the sun destined for the Mediterranean had gathered over Glasgow for a couple of days, creating this rarity.

He walked to the corner of Ingleby Drive and Whitehill Street then turned left and went south in the direction of Duke Street, a route that would take him past his old school. I must have come this way a thousand times, he thought. On either side of him the tenements were silent. Soon alarm clocks would rouse people and the day’s outpouring of life begin, men and women rushing to their cars or hurrying to board crowded buses, children beginning another day of the long summer holidays.

Eddie could already sense heat building. He thought: All this was home once. These buildings, these streets and intersections, the school just ahead to his right.

He stopped suddenly. Where was the damn school?

That formidable 1890s dark red stone edifice, which had seemed so indestructible, had been demolished and now only the segregated entrance gates stood, one marked Boys, the other Girls; and where the school had been was a deep green forest of thistle and nettle and dock leaf and thorn. Shocked, Eddie stared into this density of foliage. You turn a corner, you expect a familiar landmark – but it’s gone, the world has altered. This was the school he’d attended for almost two years before flight had been forced upon him. He remembered the narrow staircases, the classrooms, the toilets where everybody learned to smoke.

The disappearance of the school was one less thing to hook him to his boyhood. He wished he could blink his eyes and magic it back into existence if only for a minute, and see kids crossing the yard and the wind blowing scraps of paper into the bicycle shed. He wished he could see again the pretty brown-haired girl he’d fallen in love with at the age of thirteen: Dorothy, the name came back so easily. How miserable and how ecstatic that first love had been. This is how the heart works, young Eddie: welcome to the House of Paradox.

On a cold black winter afternoon in Alexandra Parade, she’d kissed him and he’d tasted sugar on her lips. He’d experienced his first real erection, and she must have felt it too, but it was a wonderful shared intimacy more than an embarrassment, and it added to the intensity of his love for her. Where was she now? in a middle-aged marriage? did she live in this city still? He had a sudden urge to see her, as if he might retrieve by looking at her the ferocious sensation of that kiss, that moment –

What the hell was he thinking? She was gone, a casualty of time. She’d drifted into the same slipstream that carried everything and everyone away. Eddie Mallon, 13, had been ferried off in the same spate as Dorothy McCallum. And drowned.

He continued to move, passed the corner of Roslea Drive. Nearby, in Hillfoot Street, there had been a snooker hall called Dan’s that you reached by going along a dank narrow corridor, and he’d sneaked into it a few times to watch older kids stick coloured balls across green baize under lamps where cigarette smoke billowed. It was daring to enter this musty demi-monde. But the pool-hall would be gone by now, turned into something else. Bingo, he imagined. A video arcade. He didn’t want to look to be certain.

He crossed Duke Street, the main thoroughfare that ran east-west in a long straggle of tenements and small shops. A few early buses blew foul smoke, a bakery van made a delivery of morning rolls to a store, newspapers lay stacked and twined outside a newsagent’s door.

He stopped. He had a strange feeling, as if somebody had just touched his back lightly in a sensitive spot; it was shivery, and he couldn’t attribute it to anyone because there was nobody within a hundred yards of him. Somebody walking on your grave, Eddie. More buses passed, a couple of lorries, passenger cars; he caught a tick-ticking sound, a metallic tapping, maybe a car with a flaw in its engine.

He walked a couple of blocks then turned right into Bluevale Street. There was something new in the skyline, two tall concrete high-rise towers that resembled architecture he’d seen in photographs of old Communist countries, a suburb of Moscow or Minsk. The towers, drab and lifeless, had an oppressive quality.

He reached the warehouse at the foot of the street. The doors and windows were steel-shuttered and splattered with freaky Technicolor graffiti, and the enigmatic sign ‘J MALLON, TRADER’ needed a coat of paint. Trader: Jackie had chosen a description of his occupation that could mean almost anything. Eddie walked to the high wire fence that protected the open-air yard where the overflow from the warehouse was stored.

He saw a sign: BEWARE OF GUARD DOGS. He hooked his fingers into the wire and gazed at the stock: weathered bricks taken from dismantled chimneys, old sinks and cisterns, bird baths, rolls of chicken wire, rusted wheelbarrows, broken tools that had served no apparent purpose. He also saw a large white delivery van, a Mercedes with the name J MALLON on the side panel and the address of the warehouse.

He found himself wondering if Jackie’s killer had ever come down Bluevale Street, on foot or in a car; if the killer had ever gazed through the wire fence and watched Jackie in the yard; if Jackie’s murderer had tracked his victim and created a timetable of the old man’s movements and knew where to locate him for the purpose of assassination – but that implied premeditation. That meant Jackie had been marked for death. I want to believe it was utterly random, Eddie thought. Jackie was killed in the course of a robbery that went wrong, an innocent party.

He imagined this. The killer says, I want your wallet.

And Jackie replies, Fuck off.

And then a struggle, hand to hand, a gunshot more accidental than intentional –

A dog barked from the yard, but there was no sign of the animal. I played here, Eddie thought. This was my kingdom. He gazed for a while, half-expecting Jackie to come out of the warehouse and cross the yard.

A man appeared and walked between the clutter towards the fence and stopped about twenty feet from Eddie. Sunlight made gold discs out of the man’s glasses. He was in his early sixties and stooped and he wore a navy-blue warehouseman’s coat with big breast pockets stuffed with pens.

I know this man, Eddie Mallon thought. What the hell was his name?

‘You looking for something? You a reporter?’

‘I’m Eddie Mallon.’

‘Eddie Mallon? You? No way. You’re kidding.’ The man whipped off his glasses, came a few steps closer. ‘Eddie Mallon. In the name of Christ! So you are! Wee Eddie. Bloody hell. I wouldn’t have recognized you in a hundred years. Look at the height of you! Jesus Christ almighty.’

The name came to Eddie. ‘You’re Joe Wilkie.’

‘The very same Joe Wilkie that used to chase you out of here when we had a shipment coming in and we didn’t want wee boys underfoot and getting squashed.’

Eddie lowered his hands from the fence. He realized he’d been gripping the wire tightly and it had left indentations on his fingers. He was tense without fully grasping why: this place so resonant with Jackie’s life, so stuffed with reminders of his own boyhood, unsettled him.

Wilkie said, ‘I’ll unlock the doors and you can come inside and I’ll make a cup of tea.’

He opened the gate in the fence and Eddie stepped through. Together, they entered the warehouse which smelled as it had always done, of rust and mildew and bird droppings. The ceiling was high and dark, pigeons infested the shadows, and shit covered whole areas like calcium deposits. In the poor light of the big metal building, Eddie saw Jackie’s inventory in dim outline, the statues, stone columns, urns; it might have lain undisturbed for thirty years.

Suddenly a dog bounded out of the shadows, a massive Alsatian that circled Eddie and snarled, until Joe Wilkie said, ‘Sit, Chet. Sit sit sit … Good boy,’ and he thumped the dog’s body with the flat of his hand a couple of times, and the pacified Alsatian slunk off to lie down a few yards away.

‘He’s all sound and fury,’ Joe said. ‘What are you, Chet? A right pussycat, eh? I always call my dogs after jazzers. Remember that? Chet Baker. The Alsatian before that was Lockjaw, after Eddie Lockjaw Davis. Then I had one I called Basie before Lockjaw. Oh, aye, and I had a Thelonious once too.’

‘Wasn’t there a Django?’ Eddie asked.

‘Django, aye, you’re right. What a memory. He was a fierce bastard. I’d forgotten about him.’

Wilkie went inside the office, a small cubicle marked PRIVATE. Eddie followed, conscious of the dog’s unbroken stare. Joe Wilkie plugged an electric kettle into the wall; the gas ring that had been used in the past was history. And so was the paraffin heater, replaced by an electric fire. The desk was the same – massive, strewn with invoices and phone messages on a long metal spike. The telephone was a clunky old black Bakelite job.

‘No computer, I see,’ Eddie said.

Joe Wilkie laughed. ‘The idea of Jackie in the age of the Internet defies understanding, Eddie. I had to beg him to buy a bloody electronic calculator two years ago …’ He opened a cupboard and took out a tin of tea bags and two china mugs.

Eddie found a chair and sat. ‘It really hasn’t changed much.’

‘Not so many employees,’ Wilkie said. ‘There used to be four or five, now there’s only me and my son Ray, and we run the place between us. Jacks of all trades. Nightwatchmen. Drivers. Stocktakers. We do it all.’ Wilkie cleared phlegm from his throat and replaced his glasses. He sounded emotional. ‘Your dad … You ask yourself: what’s this bloody world coming to – but you don’t get any answers. Scum’s taken over everything.’

‘It’s no different anywhere else in the world,’ Eddie said, a feeble response to Wilkie’s remarks, yet all he could come up with.

Joe Wilkie made tea, handed Eddie a mug. Eddie tasted the tea, which was hot and unsweetened.

‘Your dad was awful proud of you, Eddie,’ Wilkie said. ‘My son’s a cop in New York City, he’d say. He’d show a photo of you in uniform every chance he got. He kept it in his wallet. He never tired of it.’

Eddie had no idea that Jackie carried a picture in his wallet, and showed it to people. The notion touched him.

‘I heard Dad was selling.’

‘So he said.’

‘Did he have a buyer for the place?’

‘He never mentioned one,’ Wilkie said. ‘A guy came a couple of times, and they shut themselves away in your dad’s office. I could hear them arguing sometimes. I got the impression he might have been interested in buying the business, but maybe he didn’t want to pay Jackie’s asking price, whatever that was … I couldn’t say for sure, I just know they had violent shouting matches and Jackie always looked furious afterwards.’

‘You know the man’s name?’

‘I know his name all right. Roddy Haggs. A lot of people know him and his reputation.’

‘And what’s his reputation?’ A son’s curiosity about his murdered father’s life: that was justification enough for asking a couple of questions. He wasn’t trespassing on anyone’s jurisdiction.

‘Bent and bad,’ Wilkie said. He shuffled papers and looked tense. He didn’t want the warehouse sold. This had been the only employment he’d ever known in his life. Without it, what was he supposed to do? His white face was a map of uncertainty and loss. ‘I told the police Haggs was here,’ he said. ‘I told them about the arguments.’

‘How did they react?’

‘One of the cops – his name’ll come back to me in a sec – wrote something in his notebook. That was that … Got it. Perlman. Detective-Sergeant Perlman.’ Wilkie snapped thumb and middle finger together.

‘When was Perlman here?’

‘Yesterday afternoon. Nice enough fellow, a wee bit on the shabby side. But he has one of them faces that doesn’t tell you what’s going on in his brain.’

Eddie thought, The deadpan approach: give nothing away. He imagined Perlman, who looked as if he’d worked the streets for ever, would be adept at this.

‘How’s Senga?’ Wilkie asked.

‘It’s a bad time for her. I don’t know how she’s handling it.’

‘She loved Jackie. She used to come down here and help out now and again. I’ve often seen her roll up her sleeves and get stuck in. Never afraid of hard work. Some woman. Where are you staying?’

‘At my sister’s.’

Joe Wilkie said, ‘How is Joyce?’

‘Doing the best she can …’

‘She’s a good girl.’

Eddie, who realized he wanted to get out into the sunlight and away from the memories this place blitzed him with, finished his tea. ‘Speaking of Joyce, I better get moving. She’s probably wondering where I am.’

Wilkie walked with him into the yard and unlocked the gate in the fence. He held out his hand and Eddie shook it.

Eddie asked, ‘You’ll be at the funeral.’

‘I’ll be there,’ Wilkie said. ‘I knew your dad when we were growing up in the Gallowgate. That’s a long time ago, Eddie. I wouldn’t miss his send-off.’

Eddie clapped the old warehouseman’s arm, then turned and walked slowly up Bluevale Street. And that was when it struck him again, the unsettling feeling he’d had before, the sense of something having brushed against him. The heat was sucked out of the day and he was cold for a moment as he gazed towards Duke Street where traffic was growing and bright red buses trawled along.

He stood still. He was conscious of the tenements looming over him, their dark secretive entranceways and the severe geometry of their windows, and suddenly he loved them as he’d loved them as a child because they were permanent, some part of himself would always belong here, but he had the feeling that these buildings, where people lived and bred and died, formed a protective shield around the mystery of his father’s death, that if you could somehow penetrate to the hidden heart of the massive sandstone constructs you’d find the answer in the form of a man sitting at a table cleaning a gun, surrounded by oily rags and bottles of solvents, a cigarette crushed in an ashtray, pale lager going flat in a half-empty glass, and a cartridge clip lying alongside a lighter.

If you could find him. If you knew which stairs to climb, which door to knock.