Red Alert (21 page)

Panic scuttled over Paul’s face.

‘What happened?’ he asked Renee.

‘He rushed me and knocked the gun out of my hand, and she grabbed it. You shouldn’t have left me with the two of them.’

‘I had to check if the money was there.’

‘I could have done that, you fool. A lot of good it’ll do us now.’

‘Oh, I don’t know …’

The words were barely out of his mouth when he suddenly sent the canvas money bag flying across the room to hit Kirsty a blow on the shoulder. She staggered back with a cry of pain and before she could recover her balance, Paul was across the room and wrenching the gun from her hand.

Immediately, Kirsty wriggled free of him and rushed from the room. She ran across the silent hall and up the stairs. The place was in complete darkness but she knew the house so well, it only took a few moments to reach the loft ladder on the top landing.

Her shoes made a quick clicking sound on the ladder’s rungs. Then she hoisted herself up into the loft and shut the hatch.

Without waiting to switch on the light, she pushed and strained at the nearest, heaviest packing case until it sat over the hatch to prevent it from being opened again. Then she waited in the darkness, hearing only the fast beat of her heart. The house seemed sound asleep.

She listened very carefully. Nothing moved or stirred.

Had Paul and Renee decided to get out with the money before the police came, she wondered. Were they already far away from the house in their car?

Johnny was lying wounded downstairs. Perhaps he was in terrible pain, lying alone and frightened.

She waited until she could wait no longer. Cautiously she moved the packing case aside. Johnny needed her. She had to go downstairs and see what she could do.

She listened again. Still no sound.

She took a deep breath and heaved the packing case completely free of the hatch. Then, still leaning against it, she waited with a fast-beating heart.

They must be away. Surely killing her wasn’t so important now. Getting clear with the money before the police arrived was the most likely course of action Paul and Renee would have decided on by now.

Cautiously she knelt down beside the hatch. She hesitated for a long moment. Then her fingers reached out to ease the hatch very slightly open so that she could peep through the crack. When it unexpectedly opened wide, her hands flew up to cover her face, to muffle a scream of anguish.

There was nothing more she could do, she was trapped, completely defenceless.

‘Kirsty, it’s all right. It’s me. Greg.’

‘Greg, oh thank God!’ Her screwed up muscles relaxed. ‘I thought for a dreadful moment it was Paul.’

‘Don’t worry. My police pals were bundling him and his partner in crime into the police car while I was looking for you.’

He shone the powerful beam of his torch from one end of the loft to the other. Its yellow beam picked out the made-up camp bed, the little table beside it, the flasks and dirty dishes, newspapers, magazines and some of Johnny’s clothes.

‘He was here all the time, wasn’t he?’

‘Greg, he came to me desperately needing help. I couldn’t turn him away.’

For a brief second, Greg’s big hand rested comfortingly on hers. Then he quickly disappeared back down the loft ladder.

‘Come on, Kirsty,’ he whispered. ‘Right now, Johnny needs medical attention. There’s a policeman with him and an ambulance on its way.’

Johnny was still lying on the floor where he’d fallen, with a police officer kneeling by his side trying to stem the flow of blood by pressing on his wound with a pad. Kirsty gave a sob of distress when she saw him.

‘Oh Greg, shouldn’t you lift him onto the settee?’

‘No, darling. We mustn’t move him.’

Kirsty and Greg knelt down on the other side of Johnny. Johnny opened his eyes and looked at them.

‘Don’t worry now.’ Greg’s voice was surprisingly gentle. ‘Everything will be all right. The ambulance is on its way.’

Johnny managed a faint ghost of a smile.

‘No, I’m already dead and it’s better for everyone, including myself, if we leave it that way. Look after my Kirsty, won’t you, Greg. She’s always looked after me so well.’

‘Of course. You know I will. But you mustn’t talk like this, Johnny.’

But Johnny had turned his head towards his sister and wasn’t listening to Greg any more.

‘Kirsty …’

‘Yes, dear?’ She smoothed back his dark hair.

‘Thanks,’ he said, and his smile was loving. ‘Thanks for everything.’

Then he closed his eyes.

‘Oh, no, Johnny. No …’

The tears came all at once – pouring, streaming, tumbling down her face.

‘Sh, sh, darling, please.’ Greg’s strong arm encircled her, held her very close. ‘He wanted it this way. Look at him. See his face. He’s at peace now.’

Kirsty looked at her brother. And she saw the truth of Greg’s words. She nodded and tried to wipe the tears away. At least Johnny would never suffer any more.

‘From now on, you’ve no need to worry,’ Greg said. ‘I’ll see to everything. There will be a quiet private funeral. Your mother need never know anything about it, or any of this. Do you hear me, Kirsty? She’ll be away on holiday at your Aunt Jess’s cottage up north. I’ll see to it. I’ll arrange everything.’

Words crackled and trembled all day.

‘Fire service …’

‘There’s a terrible fire …’

‘Fire service …’

‘The whole house is ablaze …’

‘Fire service …’

‘My invalid mother is trapped in her room. The door’s on fire. She’s screaming and I can’t get in to help her.’

‘Fire service …’

‘There’s flames all around us. There’s me and the children here … Oh God …’

‘Fire service …’

Greg’s work helped burn away past unease, past suspicions, and now more recent, dangerous and shocking events. The suspicion that something was going on but not knowing what. The shock of finding out. The efforts to protect the Price family. Telling Simon Price what had happened. They had succeeded in hiding the bloodstains on the sitting-room carpet from Mrs Price by covering them with a rug. With Simon’s help and cooperation, they had got her safely away to Simon’s cheerful sister, Jess, for a holiday, where Mrs Price’s attention was diverted to all the talk and preparations for the wedding, including putting the finishing touches to Kirsty’s dress. She shared a bedroom with Aunt Jess and was able to stop taking the strong sedation that had previously knocked her out every night. Instead, she enjoyed chatting to Aunt Jess until they both fell asleep.

There were still the desperate attempts by everyone to hide newspapers and every form of news from Mrs Price. There was blessed relief when their efforts were successful. Indeed, the holiday was so successful and Mrs Price and Aunt Jess got on so well together that Aunt Jess decided to sell her cottage up north and move in with the Prices, to live permanently in Botanic Crescent.

‘To tell the truth,’ she said, ‘it’s been a lonely life for me, living in such an isolated spot, since I was widowed.’

All their efforts had been successful, yet Greg knew that it would take much longer for the nightmare of it all to be completely forgotten.

Sometimes Kirsty would wake up with a sudden cry of anguish and he had to hold her tightly in his arms, stroke her hair, whisper soothing words.

‘It’s all right. It’s over. It’s all over.’

But he knew how she was feeling and he was glad he had his job to blot out his nightmares.

‘Fire service …’

‘For God’s sake, come quickly. There’s been a terrible explosion …’

‘Fire service …’

‘There’s flames shooting out a window of a tower block …’

‘Fire service …’

‘Oh my God, my children are in the bedroom. It’s on fire and I can’t get the door open. Oh dear Jesus, my children, my children …’

‘Fire service …’

Everyone agreed that it was great that Betty and Hamish had become an item. Both of them were so happy, they could hardly take their eyes off each other. And outside of the Life class, they chatted practically non-stop. They managed to concentrate on their work inside the art class because they both knew, as they all did, that it was vitally important to have good work ready for the show in the desperate hope that they would be awarded a degree.

However, on Sundays, Betty and Hamish travelled around. They’d been to Edinburgh a couple of times already, because, as Betty said, ‘There’s so many fascinating things to see there and Hamish knows all the history and everything.’

‘Well, not all the history and not everything,’ Hamish laughed. ‘But I do have an interest in Scottish history, right enough.’

Every Monday at break time, the rest of the class was regaled with their weekend adventures.

Hamish said, ‘Betty’s particularly interested in poets and writers. Even more so than the artists of a place. I could hardly drag her away from the Poetry Library.’

‘Oh, I’m interested in the artists too. In fact, I’d love to paint some of the buildings and views I’ve seen in Edinburgh. It’s such a beautiful city, even just to walk through and admire.’

‘You wouldn’t have thought it so beautiful to walk through in the early days. When it got dark, the closes would echo with the words “gardy loo” and then everybody would empty their chamber pots out of the windows.’

‘Och well, I suppose most big cities would do things like that when they’d no sanitation. But I’d rather think of what I read that one citizen said of the old town, “Here I stand at what is called the Cross of Edinburgh, and can in a few minutes take fifty men of genius and learning by the hand.”’

Tommy spoke up then. ‘There were plenty of clever men in Glasgow. Mostly in business and trade, I suppose. Tobacco lords made Glasgow. And if you’re interested in poets, Betty, you’ll know what Burns said about Glasgow.’

Betty shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Well, there used to be a John Smith’s bookshop in St Vincent Street in Burns’s time, and he had some dealings with them and discovered they gave him a much better deal than the booksellers in Edinburgh. He said, “They’re right decent booksellers in Glasgow, but oh they’re sair birkies in Edinburgh.”’

Betty laughed, and Tommy added, ‘There’s a plaque at the Virginia Street side of Marks & Spencer’s in Argyle Street. It used to be the Black Bull Inn on that site and Robert Burns stayed there when he visited Glasgow.’

‘Gosh, I must go and have a look at that.’

Sandra shook her head. ‘Have you never even been around Glasgow, Betty?’

‘No, just to and from the Art School. I was a prisoner in my mother’s house, I realise now. That’s why I’m enjoying freedom so much.’ She gazed adoringly round at Hamish, oblivious to the fact that he had pimples and he was a bit overweight. ‘And I’m so lucky.’

‘Well, if your mother gets better,’ Sandra said, ‘don’t you allow her to make you a prisoner again.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve learned my lesson. Nothing and no one will ever do that to me again. I’m a completely different person now.’

‘Well, I think we could all agree with that. Here, look at the time! We’d better get back to work.’

They all hurried back to the art room as fast as they could. Only Tommy dragged his feet. Sandra had been quite cheered for a few minutes because Tommy had contributed to the conversation. He had got so much worse recently and hardly spoke at all, even to her.

He no longer showed any interest in painting her, and now even in the art class he just sat for most of the time staring hopelessly, miserably, at his canvas without even lifting a brush. Simon Price was away teaching a course down south, but they had heard that he was due back soon. Sandra dreaded his return, for Tommy’s sake. Personally, she didn’t care a button for Simon Price, or what he said. At least, she didn’t care what he said to her. But oh, she wished with all her heart that she could say something or do something to stop him picking on Tommy again.

She’d spoken to Tommy about how she felt.

‘I don’t care what he says to me, Tommy. Why do you care what he says to you? For pity’s sake, have some faith in yourself. Since that monster has been away, the other tutor hasn’t criticised you or your work, has he?’

Tommy shook his head.

‘Well then. It’s just Simon Price’s horrible nature. I’ve told you before. He only picks on you so much because he’s a bully and you let him get away with bullying you.’

Tommy shook his head again.

‘Why? Why are you letting him do this to you, Tommy? Honestly, I could shake you, anything to get you to see sense.’

‘We’ve been over all this before, Sandra. You know perfectly well why I’m depressed. Simon Price is a brilliant artist. He knows talent when he sees it and he doesn’t see any talent in my work. I respect him for being so straightforward and truthful.’

‘Oh God,’ Sandra groaned. ‘When will you ever learn? I told you, everyone has told you, that you’re a brilliant artist. You have enormous talent.’

‘Simon Price knows what he’s talking about.’

‘And we don’t? Oh, thanks very much.’

Tommy didn’t say any more and, feeling depressed herself now, Sandra also fell silent. What else could she do? She had tried everything. But nothing had been any use. At least Tommy already had enough work to put into the show. Maybe once he got his degree, his self-confidence would return. She had never been a religious girl, but now she found herself praying.

‘Oh God, please look after Tommy and make him see that he is a very talented artist. Please help him to get out of this terrible depression he’s suffering from. I’ll suffer anything for his sake. I’d rather not get my degree if it would mean he would get his and make him more confident and happy again. Please, oh please, don’t let Simon Price torment him any more. Let him torment me instead and leave Tommy alone. Oh please, please, God. Help Tommy.’

‘There’s plenty of interesting history about Glasgow as well as Edinburgh,’ Hamish told Betty.

‘Glasgow used to be a wee fishing village. Although even then it had a stone cathedral. St Kentigern settled in Glasgow and called it Glas-cu. That meant the dear green place.’