Red Alert (4 page)

Hamish went immediately after the class finished to the address Mike had given him. It was quite near the fire station, a run-down looking tenement, blackened with age. He went into the close. It stank of cat pee. He tried to find the name plate of Mrs McCormick. He found it on the top floor and knocked on the door. It was opened by a sour-faced elderly woman. She looked about ninety.

‘Hello.’ Hamish smiled nervously at her. ‘I believe you have a room to let. I’m a student at the Glasgow School of Art and one of the other students heard you might be looking for a lodger.’

‘Come in.’ She stood aside. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Hamish. Hamish Ferguson.’

He followed her through a dark lobby into a shabby sitting room.

‘Sit down.’

He sat down.

‘I’m not looking for anybody.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry …’ He made to rise again.

‘But now that you’re here,’ she said, ‘you might as well stay.’

She then proceeded to list the rules of the house and the rent she charged.

‘I don’t like anyone in my kitchen, so you’ll have to eat out.’

‘That’s OK. I’m used to eating out.’

‘No smoking in the house.’

‘That’s OK. I don’t smoke.’

‘No drugs in the house.’

‘That’s OK. I don’t do drugs.’

‘No drink in the house.’

‘That’s OK as well.’

He was already depressed and bored with the whole idea. It sounded as if he would be even worse off than he had been with his mother. But he couldn’t stay at home and so this would have to do until he found a better place.

‘Well? It’s vacant.’

‘Can I move in tonight then?’

‘A week’s rent in advance.’

‘OK, I’ll pay you as soon as I come back with my things.’

He had left his bag in the shop at the Art School. The School stayed open later for guided tours. People came from all over the world to see the Charles Rennie Mackintosh building and all his other work.

Hamish tried to smile and sound cheerful, as if he was looking forward to coming back. He failed, and Mrs McCormick got up and shuffled towards the sitting-room door.

‘I suppose I’d better show you the room.’

Hamish had never heard such a sour and grudging voice.

It was a big flat with several doors leading off the lobby. She pushed open a door which led into a room covered with dark brown varnished paper. In the room was a big double bed, a huge wardrobe, an ancient chest of drawers, a bedside table and two wooden chairs. There were no ornaments anywhere, not even a single picture on the wall. For a second, Hamish thought of hanging one of his paintings to cheer the place up. But only for a second. Mrs McCormick, he suspected, was far too miserable to allow that, and would immediately order him out, especially if she saw a painting of a nude figure. There hadn’t been any pictures or ornaments of any kind in the sitting room either.

‘That’s the room.’

‘OK. Fine,’ he lied. He’d never seen any house so ghastly and depressing, and he’d seen more than a few in his day. His mother had dragged him around innumerable houses of all sizes and types, in town and country areas.

Thinking of his mother, he could imagine her at this very moment giggling and flirting like a young thing with her latest man. Happy as a lark, she’d be, and never giving her son a thought. There was something far wrong with her. Or was it him? Maybe it was something wrong with him. He wouldn’t be a bit surprised. As he returned down the dark stairway, he was taking deep breaths again, fighting to prevent himself drowning in a storm of tears.

Twice they’d been out now. Only in the afternoon, which happened to suit Greg’s shift. He’d called at the house for her and she’d asked him in to meet her mother. Her mother had insisted that she and Greg go out for the afternoon and assured them both that she would be fine on her own.

‘She fusses far too much over me,’ she told Greg. ‘I had a bit of mild angina some months ago but I’m really perfectly all right now. And Kirsty needs to get out more.’

Johnny had appeared then, but he was on his way out. He was going down to Paul and Renee’s flat, he explained, and would be there until late that evening, or the early hours of the morning. This had become his routine. They were all usually in bed by the time he returned.

Kirsty had told Greg about the job and about Paul and Renee, and Greg thought it seemed strange as well.

‘I’m not surprised you’re worried,’ he said. ‘All the same, he’s a grown man, Kirsty. It’s up to him now what company he keeps and what he does with his life.’

They had gone to a film matinee at the Glasgow Film Theatre and sat in the back row. That first time Greg had put his arm around her, the colours of the film flickering over his face as he leaned close, his arm enveloping her. She sat enthralled in the darkness of the cinema, with the feel of his warm breath on her hair. She had never before in her life felt so happy. On the second date, he had nuzzled his lips into her neck. Then he’d kissed her on the mouth, gently at first, and then with growing passion, and she had responded with equal passion. It wasn’t until afterwards, when she learned Greg’s shift was changing and he expected her to go out with him in the evening, that she began to worry again.

He hadn’t actually met her father, not to speak to. But in the Art School, where he’d been doing a bit of modelling to make some extra cash, he’d seen her father and heard the way he spoke to the students. Loyalty to her, she supposed, stopped him from voicing any criticism. He was impressed, though, by her father’s talent as a painter. Everybody admired her father for that.

She hesitated when Greg asked her to come out at night.

‘Why not?’ he wanted to know. ‘You heard what your mother said. You’ll be telling me next that you have to stay in to feed the cat.’

She managed a smile. ‘All right.’

Greg looked delighted. ‘I’ll call for you at eight o’clock. OK?’

She nodded, and for the rest of the day she tried to reassure herself that there was nothing her father could do. Greg was too strong a character. He wouldn’t stand for any nonsense from her father. On her part, she was too much in love to listen to anything her father might say and do in an attempt to undermine or spoil her relationship with Greg. So everything would be all right.

She was still surprised, though, when Greg called for her and she introduced him to her father.

‘Ah!’ Her father had been overflowing with bonhomie. ‘You’re the model, best one we’ve ever had. A firefighter as well. Salt of the earth!’

She was waiting for him to add, ‘What the hell does a man like you see in her?’

But he didn’t. Not in front of Greg, at least. He kept that, and other scathing remarks, for later, after she returned and was alone.

She didn’t let him get to her. Not this time. Not that she’d ever got as upset as Johnny always did. For one thing, she never tried to please her father. Poor Johnny was always struggling to please him and never succeeding.

She had enjoyed the evening with Greg so much that it had seemed too good to be true, but she didn’t believe she was just another conquest for him. He seemed genuinely fond of her. Concerned about her, too.

‘I always know,’ he said, ‘when that brother of yours has been up to something. After he’s been in, you’re always left anxious and worried.’

‘He’s not been up to anything, Greg. It’s just he’s a bit naive and easily influenced. His friends became Goths, for instance, and so he became one too.’

‘He seems a bit old for that caper. The ones I’ve seen hanging around at the back of Borders bookshop look more like daft teenagers.’

‘I know. It’s just as I say – he’s a bit immature for his age. But I don’t think he and his friends do anything wrong, I mean against the law. At least, I hope not.’

‘Well, stop worrying then.’

‘But I can’t help worrying about that pair he works for.’

‘They’re not Goths, are they?’

‘Oh no. Paul wears a black T-shirt and trousers at work. That’s what the men there all wear, apparently, and the women wear blue. When they’re not at work, though, both look very smart. Off duty, Renee wears designer-label dresses and her hair piled up. Talk about glamorous. And I’m sure they’ll both be in their thirties at least.’

‘OK, that’s a bit odd as well. A couple like that teaming up with your Goth-type young brother, but it may be just as they said. They need somebody to look after their place. There have been a lot of burglaries, right enough.’

She didn’t tell him that the latest thing was they’d told Johnny they’d leave a gun in the drawer of the hall table for his protection, in case the flat was broken into. Johnny had been thrilled and excited.

‘A real gun, Kirsty. I held it, and pointed it at myself in the mirror, and kidded on I was John Wayne.’

‘Are you mad, Johnny? Please don’t touch the gun ever again. Even if it’s legal, it’s a very bad idea.’

He laughed, enjoying himself and obviously not seeing the danger or the probable illegality of having access to such a weapon. The more she thought of the gun and Johnny having his hands on it, the more her blood froze with fear. She tried to put him off it. She tried to persuade him to tell Paul and Renee to remove it from the house. What did they want him to do with it anyway? Shoot and kill an intruder? For that, Johnny might be arrested for murder.

But Johnny was too happy and excited to pay any attention to her. Every day, he left for the flat, whistling cheerfully to himself, sometimes even doing a little dance every now and then as he went along the road.

Kirsty despaired of him. Every time she tried to talk to him and express her worries, all he did was laugh at her, and tell her she was the best sister in the world and he loved her. He’d always been such a demonstrative and affectionate person, even as a young child. He was so loving, it was impossible for anyone not to love him in return. Except for her father, of course. He didn’t seem capable of loving anybody except himself. He would only make everything a thousand times worse if Johnny got into any trouble.

But maybe it was as Greg said – they just needed somebody to look after their place because there had been so many burglaries.

Suddenly Kirsty jerked with fright. But all that had startled her was Jingles, the cat, jumping onto her lap. She stroked it, thinking to herself that she was being ridiculous worrying herself into such a state over Johnny.

It was true what Greg said. Johnny was a grown man and it was up to him what company he kept and what he did with his life. She tried to practise deep breathing to calm herself. Yes, it was definitely true what Greg said.

She tried not to think about the gun.

Hamish had gone back to ask his mother for the money she had promised him. She didn’t allow him in, barred him from entering, standing at the door. It was the final insult. She called back into the house, ‘It’s just the paper boy come for his money, darling. I won’t be a minute.’ Her voice dropped to a hiss. ‘Wait there. Don’t move.’ She returned and stuffed a few notes into his hand. ‘Get a bloody job.’ Then she shut the door in his face.

He counted the notes, blinking as he did. He’d have to get a job all right. He supposed he’d been lucky up till now. Most of the other students already had part-time weekend and evening jobs. His mother had never bothered to charge him for rent and food. So at least she had been generous. Maybe too much so. He suddenly thought, ‘I’ve been lazy – a fat, lazy slob.’ He’d better do something about that right away, otherwise he wouldn’t have enough money for food or rent.

So before even going to the Art School to collect his bag, he went into a supermarket along Great Western Road which had advertised part-time vacancies for evening shelf-stackers. He asked if he could see the manager, and after a five-minute wait, he was ushered into the manager’s office at the back. He was asked briefly about his availability for shifts, and also about his interests and course at the Art School, before the manager said that he would be taken on. He was to start the following evening. That cheered him up a bit. He then went to collect his bag. It contained a change of clothes and shoes, a few books, some paints, brushes and a sketch pad, and a few toiletries. The girls in the shop had made no objection to looking after the bag. He was used to being ignored and they barely even interrupted their conversation with each other while one of them handed over the bag. From there, he made his way back to the digs, his spurt of cheerfulness and gratitude frittering out. The gloom of the tenement entrance and stairway and the silent upstairs flat enfolded him in black depression and hopelessness. He tried to concentrate his thoughts on the Art School. He really enjoyed it and the painting he did there. He was lucky to be able to go every day. The tutors were excellent and very helpful. Simon Price could be a bit nasty and aggressive, but helpful nevertheless. Mr Daiches was an elderly gay gentleman, rather flamboyant with his slightly Edwardian look, his high-buttoned suit jacket with matching waistcoat and silk handkerchief overflowing from his top pocket. He had occasionally tried to make a pass at one of the male students. He was invariably repulsed. The blokes were all into pretty girls, not old poofters. But Mr Daiches never took offence. He was a nice old bloke, really, and a very good tutor.

Hamish didn’t sleep very well that night. He felt lost and alone in the big double bed, which was strange because, after all, he had always slept alone. The room was stuffy and the bedclothes heavy. He got up twice to open the window. It wouldn’t budge. He jerked and strained at it until eventually, defeated, he leaned his forehead against the glass for a few seconds before returning to bed.

The next day, he took the bus into Sauchiehall Street and bought a sandwich in a newsagent’s. He munched at it as he climbed the hill to the Art School. The newsagent’s had a few postcards in its window, some advertising various articles for sale. There was only one place advertised to let, but it was a flat with a rent of a hundred and fifty pounds a week. That was out of his league. There were other shop windows in other streets, though. And there were agencies. He would try them all. He had to try because Mrs McCormick’s place was the pits.