Strange Loyalties (18 page)

‘You're still not finished down there?' Brian said. ‘I thought when you phoned us to meet you here, you had recovered. And you were back to stay in the real world.'

‘It feels real enough where I've been. Full of deceit and lies. That's the real world, isn't it?'

‘It's the same place we've been lately, anyway,' Bob said.

Brian was studying me with some curiosity.

‘So you drove up here from Graithnock just to talk to us? That's quite touching, Jack.'

‘No, I came through here from Edinburgh. I thought since I was passing through, I could catch up with you.'

‘Edinburgh? What were you up to there?'

‘That's where Anna is. I was talking to her.'

They exchanged looks that were a serious version of Bob's hand on my forehead. I imagined they were thinking of me encroaching on the widow's grief. They didn't realise you'd have to find it first.

‘Anyway,' I said. ‘What's the story with you two? You look as if you've been up to something more fruitful than me.'

They had a flush of purposefulness on them, the look of people who are convinced of the importance of what they're doing. Bob, with his healthy, open-air appearance, might have been happy with the way things were going on the farm. Brian, younger and more citified, might have had a good day at the
office. I felt a moment of envy, like a failed alchemist looking on at two happy dispensing chemists.

‘Jack,' Bob said. ‘More fruitful than you? Ploughing the Sahara would be more fruitful work than you're up to.'

‘You don't know that.'

‘Everybody knows that. But you.'

‘We'll see.'

‘When? When will we see? How long before you just admit that Scott's dead and leave it at that? Now you're chasing up Anna, for God's sake. Get a grip.'

‘Leave it, Bob.'

‘You take a week off work to do this? Why not just take a holiday?'

‘You could use one,' Brian said. ‘You really could.'

I caught unmistakably the modulations of prepared speeches. They were a duet.

‘How about it, Jack?' Bob said. ‘Give yourself a break for a few days.'

‘You've done what you can,' Brian said.

I imagined them setting up their advice bureau between them before they came into the pub. I hate rehearsed scenes.

‘Look,' I said. ‘I've left my tolerance for lectures in my other clothes. Just give me what you have about Fast Frankie and I'll piss off.'

‘That's another thing,' Brian said. ‘What's Frankie White got to do with anything?

‘That's what I'm trying to find out, for Christ's sake. To do that it would help to talk to him. And if I want to talk to him, it would be useful to meet him. And if I want to meet him –'

‘Kentish Town,' Brian said.

‘Kentish Town? Thanks. That really narrows it down. Brian, we both thought he was in London. Kentish Town's in London, right enough. But is that as close as we get?'

Brian smiled and took a piece of paper out of his pocket and passed it across. Brian had written on it Frankie's name and address and telephone number. I looked up at him. He winked. I had to admit to myself, if not to him, that it was impressive.

‘You are dealing,' he said, ‘with a finder-out of the highest calibre.'

‘How did you do it?'

‘Those who know know me.' He read the remark like a lesson from scripture. ‘Those who know know that I know that they know. Those who know –'

‘Uh-huh,' I said.

‘Anyway,' Brian said, ‘what use is it to you? What are you going to do? Phone him? You couldn't get Frankie White to tell you the truth if you had him in the same room with you. Along with several thumb-screws. He lies for a living. And you're going to get something out him on the phone? Be like guddling trout in a spate. And I assume your travels aren't going to take you as far as Kentish Town. I'm not sure my car would, anyway. Though probably your head would, the way it's working just now. And Frankie's very unpopular up here just now. With a fella we're interested in at this very moment, as it happens. Matt Mason. You won't get Frankie to come up here for anything. Take his chances with Matt Mason? Better volunteering to be a mugger in Beirut. What you've got in your hand is a piece of waste paper. It would take more than the SAS to get Frankie White out of London.'

One half of me could see what Brian was up to: discredit the information as he gave me it, so that I would be discouraged from pursuing it. The other half of me could see that he was probably right. I turned the paper over. The reverse side was empty.

‘You're not that good,' I said. ‘What about where he comes from?'

‘Who?'

‘Fast Frankie White.'

‘He lives in Kentish Town.'

‘That's where he lives. But where does he come from?'

‘You want to know that as well? What's that got to do with it?'

‘Brian.' I couldn't believe it. ‘I specifically asked you. On the phone. To find that out.'

‘Me? No, you didn't.'

‘Jesus Christ! Ayrshire. I said it was Ayrshire. But I didn't know
where
in Ayrshire. That was the main thing. Shit! Aw, naw.'

Bob put his finger to his mouth, a man advising a small boy to be silent.

‘You'd better tell him, Brian,' he said. ‘Otherwise, the wee chap is going to take a fit.'

Brian smiled and produced another piece of paper.

‘I was just trying to save you from yourself,' he said.

The paper contained an address in Thornbank, which is a village a few miles from Graithnock.

‘It's his mother's house,' Bob said.

As soon as I knew I had the information, I relaxed. It struck me immediately that Frankie's address in Thornbank
was probably worthless, since he wouldn't be there, and I couldn't take the time to go to Kentish Town. Why then did it matter so much to me? I realised I was feeding a compulsion. It was the mere possibility of finding out more about what had happened to Scott that was keeping me going. I felt embarrassed about inflicting my mania so unashamedly on them.

‘Hey. Thanks, Brian,' I said. ‘And, Bob. Thanks.'

‘Don't go all nice and polite on us,' Bob said. ‘That's when I'll really worry.'

‘I'm sorry about all that,' I said.

‘Are you hell,' Brian said.

We started to laugh. I felt as if I had just arrived, belatedly, in their company. Before, I hadn't been seeing them as themselves, just as a part of my preoccupation. Bob bought a round of drinks. We talked about how Brian's car was doing and the vagaries of Morag's car. Bob had recently won a cup at bowling. I asked him if he had ever played in Kelso. He looked puzzled but said he hadn't. Morag was still threatening to have me at their house for a meal. We decided Bob and Margaret should come along, too.

The room had widened for me. I was no longer seeing it through a tunnel. The bright warmth was soothing. The pub wasn't busy but there was a group of four girls and two boys at a table across from us. Their laughter was a pleasant sound. Brian saw me looking over towards them.

‘Remember that?' he said. ‘Real life?'

‘Aye, it's good stuff,' I said.

‘You should try it some time.'

‘I intend to. But not this week.'

He bought another round. I became briefly so normal that I wasn't the first to bring the talk back to business. Bob Lilley mentioned the name of Matt Mason. He was nominally a bookie. It was an occupation he wore like a fancy coat which had a lot of secret pockets. There were some bad things in the pockets, including possibly murder. If you fell out with him, emigration wasn't a bad idea.

‘What does he have against Frankie White?' I asked.

‘That's vague,' Bob said. ‘We think Frankie let him down in some way.'

‘Frankie's let everybody down,' I said. ‘It's what he does.'

‘It's not what he does to Matt Mason,' Brian said. It's not what anybody does to Matt Mason. Anyway, Frankie's not involved in this one. At least, that's what it looks like. He's been away too long. That thing you said. About looking high up for the source. We think it could be Mason. He's in drugs. Meece was dealing. We think Mason was his wholesaler. He's the kind of business man who would cut off your franchise by the neck. He stops you dealing by stopping you breathing. Frankie has never been involved in anything as heavy as that.'

‘What about the woman?'

‘We've got a name,' Bob said. ‘Melanie.'

‘That's a good Glaswegian name.'

‘But that's it. Melanie. No second name so far. We got the name from Meece's brother. But he doesn't know any more. Meece's family didn't mix with him too much. I don't know why. He was a fine upstanding man, Meece. We think if we find Melanie we've got a good chance.'

‘Sounds like one she could have picked out of a book,' I said. ‘If she was with Meece, she was using. Somebody clean
with a junkie? Mixed marriages like that don't work. If she's using, she can't hole up for too long at a time.'

‘We've thought about that,' Brian said. ‘But maybe she's holed up with another junkie. Who gets her the stuff. One of the problems is Meece seems to have been the unknown citizen. He hasn't left too many traces. I mean, what else did he do? Besides stick needles in his arm?'

‘That tends to be a full time job,' Bob said.

‘He used to be a good driver,' I said. ‘He used to drive for people. He was good. He could've U-turned a Daimler on a footpath. Put him in a car, he thought he was superman.'

‘Melanie,' Bob said. ‘Can't be too many of them around.'

‘I don't know,' Brian said. ‘Maybe in Hyndland there is.'

We talked round it some more while I finished my soda and lime and they sipped their pints. I wanted to get back to Graithnock before it was much later. It was maybe a sign of how our conversation had helped to calm my fever that pursuing leads wasn't my only reason for being eager to check in to the Bushfield. I was also very hungry. Before I left in the morning, Katie Samson had said she would have a meal ready for me when I got back.

I offered to buy them another drink but they were moving on as well. I didn't leave the bar with them because I wanted to use the pay-phone. Obviously, my fever wasn't completely cured. If I'd needed any confirmation of that, Brian and Bob provided it. When I stayed behind, their tolerant head-shakings made them look like doctors who have done the best they can for a patient who just won't take advice.

I tried phoning Frankie's number in Kentish Town. There was nobody in. The phone at the restaurant was engaged. I
tried Jan's home number. She didn't use an answering machine, so that I couldn't even talk to her by proxy.

Nobody loved me. The way I was feeling about myself, I was in danger of agreeing with them.

S
taying in the Bushfield was beginning to feel like a way of life. Buster's growl was becoming almost welcoming. Katie was annoyed that the food she had made for me and now had to reheat was going to be so dry. But I like it that way. I think it goes back to the time at school when I had an evening paper run and often ate after the others and acquired a taste for the overdone. I associate those meals with the warmth of home on cold nights. Katie didn't realise that she was serving me comfort food, a brief holiday in the womb. I irrigated the pleasing dryness of the food with glasses of milk.

‘There's a woman in to see you,' Katie said.

I looked at her. She was being arch.

‘It doesn't take Jack Laidlaw long. Aha. Women queuing in the lounge. Well, two of them actually.'

‘Not much of a queue.'

‘Oho. It's usually more than that, is it?'

‘Katie. I carry pocketfuls of stones to fend them off. A fella's got to protect himself.'

The nonsense had a purpose. There was only one woman, besides Katie, who would know I was here. Ellie Mabon wouldn't want to advertise. She had presumably brought a
friend to be less conspicuous. If Katie knew the name, she would know the association with Scott. Remembering Ellie Mabon's fixation that the world was full of nosy neighbours, I wanted to protect her privacy. I wondered if Katie suspected.

‘So don't keep me in suspense,' I said. ‘Who's the woman?'

‘Ah don't know. It was Mike she asked. Ye know him. He didn't even ask her name. Mike's the kinna man could leave a telegram lyin' unopened for a week. Ah just saw them. Bonny women. The one that did the askin', she looks like that Lee Remick in the pictures. Ah wouldn't be standin' beside her at the disco anyway. Who is she?'

‘How do I know, Katie?'

‘Liar.'

But she left it at that. She went out of the kitchen. I finished eating and did my dishes, which is the only domestic chore I sometimes almost enjoy. I think I just like playing with water.

Ellie Mabon's friend was a woman called Mary Walters. She was attractive but tonight she was definitely playing the leading lady's best friend. Ellie had not become any more difficult to look at in the last day. There were quite a lot of people in the lounge and several of them seemed to find their eyes attracted to her from time to time. When the introductions were over and I went to get them a drink (‘It'll have to be a quick one, we're just leaving'), a man at the bar spoke to me.

‘Do you want any help carrying those over?' He widened his eyes and breathed out noisily. ‘I won't even take a tip.'

Conversation didn't flow immediately at our table. We made some remarks about my soda and lime. Mary Walters was a teacher, too, and she had known Scott casually. We said nice things about him. There was no sign that Ellie, unlike Mary
Walters, knew Scott beyond the man who had appeared at teachers' conferences and on staff nights out. I was beginning to wonder why Ellie had come. If she had something to tell me, why did she bring her own gag? I was looking into her aquarium eyes and seeing nothing but the reflection of my own thoughts, not all of them as innocent as they might have been. Then Mary Walters went to the toilet. Ellie's voice became as urgent as a telegram.