Everything She Forgot (12 page)

Moll watched him. The lazy eye gave her a duality, so that she was at once a tearful seven-year-old missing her mother and also a wise, detached older child scrutinizing everything that was happening. George felt observed by Moll, even when she was looking away. It was as if he could no longer get away with anything.

“I promise you, you're beautiful and you can't let anyone tell you different.”

Moll put her chin down to her chest. She was shivering and her breaths were unsteady. George was unsure if it was the cold or her tears that caused her to tremble, but nevertheless
he dared to touch her again. He reached out and ran a hand through her hair.

“C'm'ere.”

He put his arm out. While she did not pull away, neither did she fold into him, as he had hoped. She didn't resist him, however, and he was able to shelter her under his arm and soothe her.

After a moment, she broke free of him.

“I need the toilet.”

“Have you ever peed outside?” Moll nodded, her chin up.

George helped her out of the car and indicated toward the trees. The trees were tall pines and it would be dark beneath them. “There you go. Don't go in too far or the foxes'll bite your arse.”

Moll looked at him strangely, and he was not sure if she was afraid of the foxes or afraid of him.

“I'll wait here for you,” he said, hands in his pockets.

She looked over her shoulder at him, and then disappeared behind the first fir tree. He took out his packet of Benson & Hedges and smoked again, counseling himself to relax, telling himself that it would all be fine. The wean would come around to him and they would be on the road and ready for their new life in no time.

He could glimpse the white of her face from behind the tree as she squatted. He heard again the scalded bark of the fox. They were unlikely to be discovered here, but George conceded that it was an eerie place to spend the night. The pines reached out to him, like limbs of the dead.

George took a drag of his cigarette and called into the forest.

“You all right?”

There was no sound. George took another drag, wincing.

“Moll?” he shouted, exhaling. He waited, butt pinched between forefinger and thumb, then let it fall. “Moll?” He raised his voice and a fox howled back.

George walked into the darkness of the forest. Sun-deprived, bleached pine needles broke under his feet.

“Moll,” he shouted again, beginning to panic.

There was no sound. He reached the tree that he had seen her crouch behind, but she was gone. He stared into the dark graveyard of trees, not knowing in which direction she had run.

George ran into the forest, calling for her, tasting the sharp tang of the pine trees at the back of his throat. It was like a nightmare, so that as he chased into the forest after her, he had the sensation that he too was being chased.

As a child, he had often dreamed that his father was chasing him, and then sometimes his father caught him and they would fight. It had always been bloody, violent retribution. Yet in real life George had never fought his father. He was the only McLaughlin boy not to have punched Brendan McLaughlin. His father had been dead ten years, yet still he dreamed of confronting him, fighting him man to man.

“Moll-y,” he screamed, with abandon, feeling the tendons in his neck.

After running a few hundred yards he stopped, exhausted, and bent over to put his hands on his knees. George knew that if he didn't find her she would perish. The trees were expansive. There seemed to be no way out—even the sky and the moon were obscured. He began to run again but tripped three times on invisible roots.

The trees organized into a tunnel and George ran down it, looking to either side for Moll. He saw a flash of white on his right-hand side. It was her white school shirt illuminated in the
moonless dark of the trees. She saw him too, glanced at him over her shoulder and then began to run harder, and George had to pick up his pace just to keep her in sight.

He was out of breath and felt the fatigue in his body, but he pushed himself, caught up, and managed to grab her by the collar.

They both fell on to the soft bleached cushion of pine needles. She was sobbing, struggling, unable to breathe, kicking him away from her.

“Stop,” he whispered, taking both of her arms and pulling her tight into him. “You're all right.”

“I don't like you,” she was saying. “I want to go home.” George pulled her tighter and held her, until she stopped wriggling. When she was still, he got up, pulling them both to their feet. Once again, she was hysterical with tears. He took her by the shoulders.

“I don't want . . . let me go . . . I don't want . . . I want . . .” she sobbed.

He just wanted her to stop.

He considered what to do. They were alone in the forest. There was no call for panic. No need for harsh control. It was just him and Moll.

He knew now that she didn't like to be held or restricted—she had bit him the last time he tried it—but he didn't want her to run off again. She was crying so hard, out of breath, that he thought she might hyperventilate. He thought of hitting her, but couldn't do it. In a moment of inspiration, he got up and lifted her off her feet. He stood tall and raised her up, high above his head.

She stopped crying almost immediately. He turned slowly in the forest with Moll raised above his head.

“I don't want to hurt you,” he said, speaking up to her. The weight of her was almost nothing, although her shoes gently kicked his chest. “Just don't run away from me.”

“I want to go home. I want my mum,” she said. He didn't know if he would ever be able to win her over.

He lowered her down until he was holding her in his arms, but she sat back, away from his body, so that he had to put a foot forward to support the weight of her and maintain his balance. He sensed the stubborn strength of her and knew that he would have to yield.

“OK,” he said, giving her one of his best smiles. “I'll take you back, if that is what you want, but I need to get settled first.”

She looked at him, sucking in her lower lip. Her left eye looked askance. Her cheeks were wet with tears.

“We can't go back right away,” he said, looking into her face. “They'd arrest me. I'd go to jail. But I can take you back when the time's right; when I'm set up. If you really don't want to be with me, I'll let you go back.”

“When will it happen?”

“You come with me till we're sorted, and then I'll let you go. I don't know how but I will.”

“I want to go back now.”

“You can't right now, but in a while it will be OK. Once everything's quietened down. I promise you.” He tossed her in his arms for a second and something resembling a smile appeared on her lips.

“Will you just trust me? I'm your real dad after all!” he said, spinning, so that her hair flew out behind her. Despite the tears, she smiled. He took faith from it, and threw her up in the air and then caught her again. She smiled again and put two hands on his shoulders to support herself.

Out of breath, George put her down. “It'll just be a while we're away.”

“You promise?”

“I promise. It'll be just like going on holiday—a holiday with your real daddy. Let's go back to the car and get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

It was dark now, and chill. As they walked back, she fell into step beside him and he let his hand fall loose by his side. After a moment, she took it and he was grateful. Her hand felt small and cold in his.

He knew what he had to do when they got back to the car, and he wanted to use this moment, when she was calm, when the roads were quiet and the pall of darkness was upon them.

They had abandoned the car with open doors and George cleaned the back seat of crumbs and rubbish and spread out the traveling rug for her again. He shut the doors to keep the heat in.

George was a city boy and the pure darkness of the countryside unnerved him. Seven o'clock now and it was pitch black. There was not a single streetlamp, and the new darkness was absolute. It reminded George of his childhood home when his father entered—sucking out the light and the chatter, so that all that remained was his father's dark energy and the heaviness of his footfalls.

“You can stretch out and sleep in the back seat. I'll sleep in the front. Tomorrow, we'll go and get you some clothes, something warm to wear.”

She nodded, sniffing, wiping her nose on her cuff. He opened the boot. She was standing by the car door, jumping up and down.

“We'll go to sleep in a minute,” George said, as he opened
the bag he had brought with him from Glasgow. “There's just something I want to do.”

“OK,” she said, still jumping up and down and counting.

In the bag, George found what he was looking for: a hunting knife that he had taken with him in case he got into trouble or his family came looking for him. He took it out of its sheath and tested the blade against the skin of his hand. It would do the trick. He didn't want to frighten her, but he didn't have anything else he could use.

CHAPTER 13

I
T TOOK
A
NGUS JUST OVER SIX HOURS TO DRIVE
FROM
T
HURSO
to Glasgow. It was a Saturday and he had to leave at four thirty in the morning, to make sure he was there by ten thirty. He could have waited until Monday morning, but as soon as he had checked that the registrar's office was open on Saturday mornings he had decided to make the journey. The early start had not caused him any difficulty. As a child, his mother had woken him every morning at five and even now Angus rose at that time, waking his own children according to his mother's strict clock and then going out to tend to Maisie.

His appetite had been whetted and he was eager for his scoop. He could taste it. The only thing that worried him as he drove was thoughts of Maisie.

When Angus left Thurso, Maisie was still not in labor, although she was swollen and in obvious discomfort. She had not eaten when Angus tried to feed her just before he left. He had given Hazel strict instructions to call the vet if Maisie should show signs of labor while he was away. The Sabbath was fast
approaching. It was a sin to work in any way at all on the Sabbath but calling the vet on a Saturday was not a problem.

Of course, Angus hoped that his heifer would wait for him. He had whispered as much to her, lips to her muzzle, before he left her that morning, the cock yet to crow and the moon still high in a sky scattered with stars. Angus wanted to be there to help her. It was difficult to tell if the calf had turned again.

He had grown up with cows, had reared a small number on his land in Thurso over the years, and knew from experience how dangerous birth could be. One of the Campbells' neighbors in Barra had killed a newborn calf while assisting a cow in labor. The farmer had pulled on what he had assumed were the calf's back legs protruding from the cow's rear. But it was the front hooves that were presenting and the head had not been manually turned into position. When the farmer pulled, he had broken the calf's neck.

As a teenager, Angus had assisted in one breech birth. He knew that it was not an easy matter. A breech birth was what Angus feared most for Maisie: a calf presenting rump-first could not be born without assistance. Angus had merely studied what to do, but avidly so, and he felt he was ready. He would reach inside Maisie and push the calf back inside her, until he found the feet. It would be hard work: his muscle against Maisie's muscle, but he would get the calf into position so that Maisie could push her calf out.

He parked near Queen Street station and then walked quickly across George Square. The day was dry, but the air smelled of rain. A flock of pigeons took flight in his wake and the beating of their wings echoed in the baroque square framed by Glasgow City Chambers and the Chamber of Commerce.
Angus felt important, on a mission for the Lord and also for himself. He stopped for a moment on the edge of the square, recalibrating his bearings, then marched down John Street and up the steps of Glasgow City Council Registrar's office.

Before him in the queue was an old man registering the death of his wife. Despite the mild autumn day, the man wore a long winter coat that smelled faintly of mothballs, his cap folded into the right-hand pocket. As he spoke to the registrar, he dabbed the corners of each eye repeatedly, with a large white handkerchief. Angus felt mild contempt for the man, as he was impatient to be served.

“I'm sorry for your wait,” said the registrar, when Angus reached her. She was a tall woman with jeweled earrings and a wide smile. “How can I help you?”

Angus was annoyed that he had to look up at her. “Are you standing on a box behind that counter?” he said. “Should I get my stepladder out?” but she only smiled at him again and repeated herself.

“How can I help?”

“I would like to request a birth certificate.”

“Certainly . . . name and date of birth?”

“The name is Molly Henderson, twenty-ninth of December nineteen seventy-seven.”

“If you take a seat, I'll be back shortly.”

This time Angus did not sit, but paced back and forth on the flagstones, noticing how dirty they were—marked with muddied footprints and scattered with crushed cigarette butts even though the bins were fitted with ashtrays. He paced with his hands in his pockets, his fingers tingling with the prospect of grasping the envelope containing the birth certificate.

The woman came back in a few moments. “We don't have anything under that name. Could it be registered under another?”

“Oh, of course,” said Angus, twitching with annoyance, “the mother's name was Kathleen Jamieson, so the child would be under Molly Jamieson.”

“Wait a moment.”

The registrar returned with a piece of paper and Angus opened his eyes wide.

“I have a
Margaret
Jamieson with that date of birth and mother. Is that who you want?”

“Of course,” said Angus, exclaiming. “It would be; it has to be.”

The registrar cleared her throat. “We are very busy this morning, with it being a Saturday. Would it be convenient for you to come back and collect it later—nearer lunchtime?”

Angus frowned and stood on his tiptoes to ensure that he was closer to the woman's height. “It is
not
convenient.”

The registrar pursed her lips. Another three people had joined the queue behind Angus.

“Very well,” she said. “If you'd like to take a seat, I'll try to get it for you as soon as possible.”

Angus nodded and sat in one of the chairs that lined the room. He sat poker straight with his arms folded, worrying the inside of his lips with his teeth. It was the Sabbath tomorrow and he needed to be back in Thurso before midnight.

A
fter a twenty-minute wait, the registrar called Angus over. “Here you go,” she said, smiling thinly and passing him an envelope.

Angus thanked her without meeting her eye, paid for the
birth certificate, then tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket and almost ran down the stairs. He found a dry corner of a bench in George Square and sat down. The envelope had not been sealed. Angus slid the birth certificate out and unfolded it, licking his lips in anticipation. The paper was pale yellow and the form completed in fine ink calligraphy.

He scanned it quickly. Mother's name: Kathleen Jamieson. Maiden surname: Blank. Date of marriage: Blank. Name of child: Margaret Jamieson. Date and time of birth: December 29, 1977, 5.30
A.M
. Place of birth: Glasgow Royal Maternity Hospital, Rottenrow, Glasgow. Mother's current address (if different from above): 1–2 South Chester Street, Shettleston, Glasgow. Father's name: George Brendan Thomas McLaughlin. Father's occupation: Mechanic.

“I knew it,” Angus hissed.

He scattered pigeons once again as he strode back to his car. He was about to turn on the ignition and head back to Thurso when he paused. He realized that he had a rare opportunity—being in Glasgow—to look into this George McLaughlin who had taken advantage of the young Kathleen. The
John O'Groat Journal
had records and backlisted papers, but it was mainly local news. Angus decided that here, in Glasgow, was the best place to find out more. He checked his watch. It was just after eleven.

He found a telephone box near the station and called Hazel. It rang out and Angus was about to hang up when she answered.

“Hello?”

“I nearly hung up. Where were you?”

“I was checking on Maisie.”

“Good,” said Angus, nodding in the phone box as if Hazel
could see his approval. “That's why I was calling. How is she doing?”

“There's still no sign . . .”

“Did she eat her breakfast?”

“Yes, she must have eaten what you gave her this morning.”

“Did you notice any discharge?”

“No, nothing. I looked for all the signs you told me about. I would think not today . . . But p-possibly . . . Mmmm-Mmm—”

“Yes, yes. I think Monday too. Very well. I have further business. I will be back late tonight.”

He hung up.

Reassured, Angus drove to the Mitchell Library, muttering about the inefficiency of the one-way system in Glasgow, as he was sent on futile loops of the city center before arriving at his destination.

In the warm silence of the library, Angus searched through the electoral register and found there was only one George Brendan Thomas McLaughlin in Glasgow and, sure enough, he was from the East End, 578 Shettleston Road, not far from Kathleen's 1977 residence. He was listed as living with Peter and Richard McLaughlin, who Angus assumed were family members.

He skipped lunch and instead spent the time painstakingly searching through microfilm copies of the
Glasgow Herald
from 1977 to 1979. His stomach rumbled as he checked the film, scanning for anything on Jamieson or McLaughlin.

He was just about to give up and begin the drive north, resentful of the one pound fifty he had paid for parking, when he turned to the more recent newspapers and spotted something in the
Herald
's local news section. Near the fold of the paper,
the story bore a picture of a man smiling, surrounded by his family, and punching the air in victory.

            
Peter McLaughlin (pictured) outside Glasgow High Court after walking free from his second murder charge. The jury returned a “not proven” verdict on the charge of the death of James Banks in what was believed to be a gangland killing in November 1983. The jury acquitted on the basis that there was insufficient evidence that McLaughlin had not acted in self-defense. McLaughlin, who was known to police for his gang affiliations, was acquitted in 1980 for the murder of Tommy Gordon (25), who was found decapitated and folded into a barrel dredged from the Clyde.

               
McLaughlin, of 578 Shettleston Road, was also the victim in an attempted murder case in 1978. The accused, Branx Murphy, was sentenced to ten years for inflicting grievous bodily harm on McLaughlin. McLaughlin had been severely wounded in the knife attack, in which his assailants attempted to amputate his arms and legs, but made a full recovery. McLaughlin commented after the 1978 verdict, “I don't do dying well. I leave that to others.”

               
McLaughlin, who has a large visible scar on his neck, attributed to a bar fight in his youth, said after Tuesday's hearing that he was “delighted and overwhelmed” by the not-proven verdict. He was joined in court today by his sister, Patricia McLaughlin, and brothers, Richard and George.

               
Asked what he was going to do to celebrate, Peter McLaughlin said, “I'm going to get drunk and forget all about it.”

Angus crouched forward in his chair, so that his nose was less than an inch from the monitor. Reading the article had brought a bitter taste to his tongue. He despised Peter McLaughlin and his kind so much that he could have spat his distaste on to the short-pile library carpet. Instead, Angus leaned in to get an even closer look at George. He leaned so close that George's face became nothing more than gray and white dots.

Angus thanked the librarian, shook on his jacket and left. In the lobby, he saw a row of public telephones and decided to make a call.

He had an acquaintance at the
Glasgow Evening Times
, who was also a member of the congregation of the Free Presbyterian Church of Scotland, worshipping in the Partick area of Glasgow, if Angus was not mistaken.

He cleared his throat as the phone rang, holding a ten-pence piece near the slot, ready to feed it in if his friend answered.

“Don Balfour,” said a gruff voice.

“Don,” said Angus, gesticulating in his phone booth as if he were face-to-face with his friend. “So good to hear your voice. You might not remember me. It's Angus Campbell from the
John O'Groat Journal
, we met at the, the . . .”

“Angus, of course. How are you, wee man?”

Angus pursed his lips. He disliked it when people referred to his physical stature but Glaswegians seemed to make a habit of it. In the background, he could hear the punch of electric typewriters in Don's office. It was the sound of a real newsroom,
unlike the room he shared at the
Journal
, with Amanda and Jennifer. He put another ten-pence piece into the slot.

“I'm well. I'm in Glasgow . . . working on a story. I didn't know if you wanted to have a bite to eat . . .” Angus checked his watch. It was just after one o'clock.

“That sounds great.”

T
hey met in the café in British Home Stores. Angus ordered a pot of tea with two teabags and a ham sandwich, while Don just ordered a scone and a coffee.

“The thing is,” Angus said, after they had exchanged pleasantries about each other's families and church congregations, “I wanted to ask what you know about Peter McLaughlin.”

“The Hammer?”

“Excuse me?”

“You mean Peter ‘The Hammer' McLaughlin, the East End heavy, son of Brendan?”

Angus cleared his throat and then nodded warily, pushing a corner of sandwich into his mouth. He watched Don's face carefully.

“He's a gangster?”

“I'm sure you don't have anyone like him up in Thurso.”

“The family?”

“They're all in the business, loan sharks, heavies . . . Brendan, the dad, he was the big man, but he died . . . probably murdered but no one has ever found his body. They had a funeral for him not long before Peter's last trial.”

“
All
the brothers, they're
all
in the family business?”

“And don't forget Patricia. Some would say she's the most dangerous. I've interviewed people who said if Patricia asks for the money, you're as good as dead.”