Shrike (Book 2): Rampant (6 page)

I'm not sure I will ever have her strength.

Trevor rings me at half seven the next morning to let me know that he's managed to get me a visit with Ross for 14:30. I take a half day at work and pass the time wondering why I've not heard from David. 

I pile documents into a briefcase for identification. Utility bills, my passport, my photographic driving license, my latest bank statement. After Trevor's admonition to come prepared, I don't want to get turned away because they don't reckon me Gwen Maule enough to be on the list. And there is a list, I've been told. Ross put me on it.

If he were guilty, why would he allow me to visit him?

Then again, if Ross is guilty of helping de Fournay and Britannia set that bomb, maybe he's intelligent enough to figure I'd assume him guilty if he didn't add me to that list. 

I try to swallow the unease I feel as I buckle the briefcase around my stack of identifying papers.

It's pissing it down outside. The bus takes me to Saughton, but not before I've managed to step in a deceptively deep puddle and soak my stockings. 

One of these days, I'm going to give up on stockings altogether.

Her Majesty's Edinburgh Prison is a shinier building than one might expect. In spite of the constant downspout from the sky, the clouds roil across, letting blue patches and sun leak through. The sun glints off the full glass face of the building, which is crowned and flanked by blocky red stone. I arrive just before two o'clock, and as much as the guards scrutinise my identification, they let me through after a pat down and a trip through the metal detectors, and I'm deposited into a long room of padded chairs that looks more like I'd see in hospital than in a prison. A few other visitors trickle in. There are some refreshments available, and I get myself a cuppa and a packet of crisps while I wait.

I almost don't recognise Ross when they trot him out. As he's on remand, he's allowed an unsupervised visit, and he sees me after a beat and makes his way toward me. He's wearing all black. Black trousers, black t-shirt, black shoes. It makes the pallor of his skin even more pronounced, leeching the colour from his face. His curly dark hair is stuck flat to his skull, and his eyes wear dark circles underneath them like an old woman with drooping shopping bags.

He sits down across from me, but he doesn't meet my eyes.

"Jesus, Ross. All right, then?"

For another moment he looks at the floor, then across the table at me. He shakes his head, a slight movement that makes his neck look like it's supporting a wrecking ball instead of a human skull. "Glad you came," he says quietly. "Didn't think you would."

"Of course I came, ye eejit. You're my mate." I leave out the bit where I'm doubting myself, doubting him, and doubting everything in general. This visit won't go anywhere if it devolves into him asserting his innocence while I question him.

"Have you talked to David?" he asks. 

It's my turn to shake my head. "I sent him a text, but he's not responded yet. I'm meant to train with him tonight."

Ross's hand twitches on his knee, then goes still. His fingernails show a line of grime, and I fixate for a moment on this detail of his appearance. 

"Oh, god, Gwen." That's all he says, and my heart crunches like a a stepped-on eggshell.

A tear falls into his lap, quickly brushed away. It doesn't show on the dark fabric. 

"Ross. Oi, look at me." 

He looks up, and the red lines in his eyes say everything. He couldn't have done this. He couldn't have. 

I don't know what to say, and the seconds tick by under his lost stare. Finally I get up and move to sit next to him, taking his hand. "It'll work out, mate. It will."

It's the stupidest thing I could have said, but for a moment I see relief in that stare. 

I'm not supposed to talk about anything serious, so I tell him instead about the shrikes that have taken up residence in my garden. It started with three, and now there are about eight or so that come round, a mix of older birds and a few that I've watched grow. I don't feed them, nor do I try to go near them, but they flit around the birdbath we installed like I'm bloody Snow White or some shite. 

My ramblings seem to relax Ross. After a while he lets out a small laugh and asks a few questions about the birds and Magda, and before I know it we've only got three minutes left.

"I've got to go," I tell him.

"I know." He's still holding my hand, and he gives it a squeeze. "Will you come again?"

"I will. Next week, same time?" 

He nods. "I'll make sure we get it set up."

"Do you need anything?"

Ross shakes his head. "There's a muckle library and I'm keeping…occupied."

I can't help but swallow my next words at that. I can't imagine feeling so idle, trapped within these walls. "Have you talked to David? Is there anything you want me to tell him?" I've an appointment with him at seven tonight, though I'm beginning to worry he might not turn up. 

"He came to visit me once last week," Ross says. His hand drops mine, and his voice cracks when he speaks, making me wonder if that means he doesn't expect David to come again.

"Gwen," says Ross. "Tell him…tell him I'm sorry. And tell him I didn't do it."

I don't know how to respond to that, and indeed I don't have time, because the guards are here to take Ross back to wherever he's being held on remand. 

I barely manage to nod before he's gone, and I'm left wondering for whom those words are really meant: for David, or for me.

On the way to my training session with David, something catches my eye. 

It's not the shrike stencilled onto the side of the building; those are everywhere these days. It's what the shrike's got in its talons. It looks like a scroll. The tiniest number four shows on the scroll.

It's obviously painted on, and I haven't got the faintest idea what it could mean. A new Scottish constitution? Or maybe it's just a stick. Most of the shrikes I see around Edinburgh are clasping the saltire. Some have gone as far as to have a wee lion rampant. Those birdies make me feel welcome here, give me a chance to claim Edinburgh as my own as much as they say that Edinburgh has claimed me. I pull out my mobile and take a picture. After a moment of frowning at the numeral and wondering if one, two, and three are out there, I open the map application and drop a pin on my location.

It's not a long walk to the gym, and it passes in a blur.

I lurk under a building's awning next door to David's gym, watching the drizzle turn to straight rain. Seven o'clock passes, and by ten after the hour, I tap my hand on my hip, first slowly and then faster.

Then I freeze, recognising the gesture. Rosamund Granger's son Andrew, driven to madness by his family's cause, used to flap his hand like that. I scrape my palm down my thigh as if I can erase any vestiges of that memory, of seeing Andrew's brains spread out over green marble.

"Sorry I'm late, Gwen." David's voice makes me jump, a low rumble that perfectly fits his giant physique. 

"Och, it's fine." I try to give him a smile, turning to face him.

"You don't look fine."

I shrug, shifting my shoulders. "It's been a bit of a long…year." 

"You're not wrong." He shifts his feet on the pavement. "I have to be honest, Gwen, I almost rang you to cancel."

I do a double take as he unlocks the gym door. "Do you have somewhere you need to be?"

"I heard you visited Ross today."

How he heard, I don't know. I stop just inside the door, leaning my umbrella against the glass window that frames the entry. Water pools underneath it. 

"I did," I say carefully.

"I know you're his mate." For a moment, I think David's going to say more, but he stops there.

I should tell him what Ross said today, but I can't bring myself to mention it. Even if they did go out a few times, I'm not one to make assumptions about their relationship, and Ross's words still hang in my mind. I can't tell David that Ross didn't do it when I'm not even sure myself that he didn't. 

It makes me feel like a terrible mate, not to believe implicitly in Ross's innocence. 

David and I both look at our feet for a moment, and I don't confirm or deny his statement. The moment feels heavy and thick like fog in the dead of winter. After a long pause where I suck in all the air my lungs will hold, David claps his hands together.

"Right, then. Let's get started."

Punching things ought to help.

Two hours later, I'm covered in sweat and have just broken my record on the bench press. I'm up to eight hundred pounds now, and even though I know David's been waiting for this, his high five feels a little subdued.

"We're on for Thursday, aye?" I ask him, towelling the perspiration from my forehead and blinking a drop of sweat from my eye. It stings.

David nods. "I'll be finishing up with Taog at six-thirty if you want to come a wee bit earlier."

I drop my towel on the floor. "Taog? He's training with you?"

David blinks at me as I bend to retrieve the towel. "I thought you knew. He's been coming for a few weeks now."

No wonder he's looked so exhausted. Still, I wonder why Taog's not said anything about it. I leave David with the assurance that I'll come earlier Thursday and make my way home.

Halfway there I see another stencilled shrike with a number. Eight this time. I photograph it and add the pin to my map.

I might have found my bat signal.

six

The only major downside of my promotion is that I get stuck at business happy hours with people who grossly outclass me. This Wednesday is no different, and I find myself wishing for the veil of cloying cigarette smoke that used to exist in pubs and lounges, if for no other reason than that I fancy the image of me fading silently into the background while they all smoke and talk mergers of billion dollar companies as if they're suggesting they team up with their best mate to have a car boot sale and earn some pocket money.

Sandwiched between two Eton alumni, I sip at my martini, counting down seconds until I can leave. 

My boss, Francis Duck, nods at me from across the lounge. He's a lithe man in his late 50s with a full head of steel-coloured hair and a hint of a double chin that contradicts the rest of his physique. After a moment, he turns back to the CEO of a start-up tech company. I pretend I'm listening to the man and woman who flank me, but they're talking about polo, and the closest familiarity I have with the sport is knowing that it spawned a style of shirt.

I gulp down the rest of my martini use a lull in the conversation and my now-empty glass to apologetically remove myself from between the Etonian polo fans. 

The thought of Rosamund Granger still on the loose makes me nervous, and the gin in the martini starts to churn my stomach. I need water. And possibly a whole chicken to eat.

"Ah! Magda's friend!" 

The words stop me halfway to the bar. I turn to see John Abbey in a pristine navy suit that shows off the lines of his body. His skin is tanned, which makes him stand out among the rest of the people here. He approaches me with a smile lighting his face.

"I've forgotten your name," he says, extending his hand. 

"Gwen Maule," I tell him, returning his smile to the best of my ability. "Are you here for the happy hour?"

"Gwen," he says. He shakes my hand firmly, nodding to himself. "I won't forget again. And no, I was just getting a drink before a business meeting."

My mind is too scattered to think of smalltalk, and I'm saved the trouble of bringing up the weather — drizzly, which is never worth remarking on in Edinburgh — when he motions to the bar.

"May I buy you a drink?"

Nonplussed, I nod and follow him, not sure what he wants. He replaces my martini, and I ask for a water as well, sipping that first and settling onto a bar stool next to Abbey.

"You're in accountancy, is that correct?"

"Aye." I nod in Francis's direction. "I work for that gentleman there."

"Brilliant. Have you been with him long?"

"A few months," I say. The last thing I want is to discuss my former employer, as bringing up Hammerton in any kind of polite conversation these days is akin to dropping a piano on someone's head because you saw a bee land on their hair. My department knows where I worked before, and most of the employees at Inquisitiv, where I now work, look at me half like a refugee who left a country just before it got shredded by civil war and half like they're not sure what to make of me at all. It doesn't bother me, because they all listen to what I say and do their jobs, but I don't feel the need to explain myself to John Abbey. 

Ross's face intrudes into my mind, and again I see his bedraggled curls and the downturn of his mouth.

Tell him I didn't do it.

I drink half my martini in one gulp. "I was very happy to hear that your company is financing Magda's fashion line," I say, hoping he'll allow the subject change.