The Cutting Room (23 page)

`Are you telling me you know nothing about McKindless?’

Steenie looked suddenly old and tired. `I know enough. My

brother was always of the world. He paid too much attention

to the temporal and not enough to the spiritual, but he was

never bad, never evil until he met that man.’

`McKindless??

‘He was one of John’s customers. They were as thick as

thieves. Had been for years.’

`So why did you bring me up here??

‘I was glad when I heard McKindless had died. I hoped John

would renounce his past and choose salvation. Then you came

to the bar and I realised you were one of them. I left last night because I knew you were there to corrupt my brother and I

wished you harm. When you came here today, to persecute

me, I knew that it was a sign. The Lord wanted me at His

right hand.’

`Well, it looks like the lord is going to keep me around for a while.’

Steenie rubbed the jumper across his face. `He surely

moves in mysterious ways.’

The Imp of the Perverse

I SAT I N THE van, outside Steenie’s shop, thinking about what I should do. It was obvious. Give up. I took my mobile out of the glove compartment and switched it on. An electronic

bugle beeped and a megaphone flashed in the corner of the

display. Someone always felt the urge to talk. They could

wait. I peeled back the thick elastic band that held my wallet together and began sorting through scraps of paper, disappointing bank statements, troubling invoices, scribbled telephone numbers, business cards, unfiled receipts, three pink parking tickets. Anderson’s thin card with its blue badge crest was still there. Perhaps I had intended to phone him all along.

I propped the card against the dashboard and looked at it. That was the only option. Call Anderson, tell him about the

photographs. I lifted the card and tapped its edge against

the bridge of my nose. What had Les said? These were bad

men. Master of the overstatement, Les, until it came to the

real thing. Yes. That was what to do. Hand the whole mess

over to Anderson. I was doing no good chasing clues by

myself. They only led to blind alleys and madness.

Steenie and I had made the return journey through the

subterranean passages in silence.

At the final room he turned to me and hissed, `Will you

renounce your sins and accept the Lord Jesus Christ as your one true Saviour who died on the cross for you?’

I told Wm I’d think about it. Then he stumbled. I moved

forward to brace him and he wound his arms around my

neck, catching me in an unexpected embrace, putting his

face to mine in a blood and snot kiss that appalled me. I

pushed him away roughly, then we climbed the stairs

together, my soles scuffing a defeated rhythm against the

concrete.

The soft, dancing mote-light of the shop seemed bright

after the gloom of the storerooms. It had been all but

deserted when we left, now it was lunchtime. Half a dozen

browsers were ranged round the shelves. At first no one

noticed our presence. There was a pause, a minute’s delay.

Enough time for me to take in the state of us. Steenie’s

flattened nose, the blood and stoor smeared across us, his

tears and ruined jumper. The browsers browsed on, someone

turned a page, a student undid the intricate, origami

folds of his reading list, an elderly man bent creaking knees and eased himself gently towards a neglected volume, a soft

fart escaped him. Radio Three played a choral song. The

black cat settled on the easy chair reserved for customers,

and blinked. Then John, perhaps feeling a draught from the

open basement door, looked up from the book he was

wrapping. His eyes met his brother’s, took in his wrecked

clothes and damaged countenance. He sat for a full minute

looking at us, then gently placed the half-finished parcel on the desk, got to his feet, toppling a listing tower of books, and strode the length of the shop. He hesitated, then placed a hand against Steenie’s bloodstained cheek.

`Steven, what happened?’ Panic quivered his voice. He

looked into Steenie’s face, trying to gauge the hurt. `Did you take a fall?’ Steenie shook his head, tearful again. John

hesitated, then embraced him, looking over Steenie’s

shoulder at me, asking once more, `What happened?’ Never

suspecting me the agent of injury.

`He’s flipped.’

The browsers had lifted their eyes from the books, silently

reviewing the scene. I made a token attempt at dusting myself down, and stared them out. Their gaze shifted away.

`Loco, pure loco.’

John rubbed his brother’s back, bewildered, looking at me

as if I was some dangerous stranger. `Rilke, what on earth

went on through there?’

`What do you know about a party name of McKindless?

John hesitated. `Nothing. Why? What’s he done?

I leant in and whispered, `I know you two were in

cahoots. Now, if you don’t want your clandestine trade

becoming public knowledge I suggest you tell me as much as

you can.

John patted Steenie’s back. `Why don’t you away and clean

yourself up, Steven. I’ll talk to Rilke the now, then we’ll close and I’ll drive you home.’

Steenie started to protest. His brother gave him a gentle

push. `Away, Steven.’

John and I retired to the shelter of his desk. He opened a

drawer and lifted out a bottle of malt.

`I guess we could both do with one of these.’ He poured a

measure into two mugs. `He was a client and a book collector. He died recently. That’s all there is to it.’

`What kind of books did he collect?’

`He had specialist tastes. I was happy to cater for them.’

`Lawful tastes??

‘Lawful!’ John laughed. `What’s the law? A series of

changing conventions. What’s lawful today might be a crime

tomorrow. You should know that. Wasn’t so long ago your

type were being thrown into jail or shipped off to the gas

chambers. McKindless’s tastes were at least consistent.’

So what were they??

‘Have you looked at his library?

‘Not in detail.’

`Have a look.’ He laughed again. `Take a browse, old boy. I guarantee you’ll be left in no doubt.’ He wiped his eyes. `And as for spilling the beans on my specialist trade, as you so delicately put it, there won’t be much of a trade now

McKindless is gone.’

`I don’t get you.’

`He was my main supplier. He acquired stock for me, and

in exchange got first refusal on anything antiquarian or out of print I thought might take his fancy. I’m going to miss the old reprobate.’.His laughter grew louder. `And so are quite a few folk in this city.’

I turned and left the shop, the untouched malt, the

reconciled brothers, the bemused browsers keeping watch from the shelter of trembling, open volumes.

I gave Anderson’s card a last look, then replaced it in my

wallet. I would go and see him. But not yet. The engine

caught on the first turn of the ignition. It was a good sign.

Everything was going to be all right, and even if it wasn’t the world would go on. I backed slowly out of the lane, then

turned in the direction of Hyndland and the McKindless

house.

Some Wretched creature, saviour take

Who would exult to die

And leave for thy sweet mercy’s sake

Another hour to me.

Emily Dickinson, c. 1867

I T S E E M E D A N A G E since -1 had walked into the bookshop, but a glance at my watch showed that it was only one o’clock. The

drizzle was heavier; raindrops clung to the windscreen, rolling down the glass, the same trajectory as Steenie’s tears.

I stopped on the red, at the junction of Byres Road and

University Avenue and waited for the parade of lunchtime

shoppers to pass. I wondered if any suicides were buried

beneath these crossroads. They’d have trouble enough rising

now, under the weight of tarmac, traffic and crossing

pedestrians. I tried to conjure them in my mind’s eye.

The waltzing host of the dead meeting the afternoon passersby.

Then the lights changed and I hauled the van over the hill.

The grey of the morning was slipping into black. The rain

grew more urgent. Water streaked across the glass, warping

my vision, forcing me to slow to a crawl. I switched the

wipers up a gauge, and the rubber sawed back and forth at a

quickened tempo. She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead, they

seemed to sing in off-base harmony.

John had told me what I should have known. I had been

avoiding the house, avoiding the truth. Looking under stones while the facts were waiting for me in black and white in the attic library.

I saw the house from the bottom of the street. Every

window illuminated against the slate of the sky. It should have been welcoming, but it wasn’t. A strange face with too many

eyes and a door for a mouth that could swallow you up.

`Welcome to Bates Motel,’ I said out loud. `En suite

bathroom as standard.’

I pulled up the collar of my jacket and ran the length of the drive. Jimmy James answered the door on the first ring of the bell,

`You made it, then.’

`It would seem so.’

This was the skeleton of the house I had entered three days

ago. The thinning Bokhara rugs and fine hall table were gone.

`You got my message.’ Too late I remembered the flashing

light on my phone. `Some bloody morning we’ve had here.’

`What’s happened??

‘What’s no happened?

There was no point in rushing him. Jimmy James lived all of

life at the same slow, sour pace. Disasters were of equal scale, the assassination of a president equivalent to that of a sparrow.

They merely confirmed his view of the world as a bad place

where the devil concealed himself in any good fortune. Only the power of drink could move him, and that rarely. He was too old for portering, too poor to retire.

He shivered and wiped his nose. `You’ve brought the cold

in with you. I’ve had a job keeping warm with all the comings and goings. Doors opening, doors closing. It’s no the weather for comings and goings.’

There was a whisky odour to his breath and a whine to his

voice. I reminded myself he was an old man and asked gently, `What’s been going on?’

`It’s done. The place is clear.’

I He turned and began to climb the stairs. I followed,

slowing my pace to his, knowing from the echo of our

footsteps that the task was complete. Bright shadows shone

from dulled wallpaper, where pictures had once hung. Was

that what photographs were? Shadows, X-rays of the past,

ghosts that could do you no harm?

He led me into what had once been the music room.

Remnants of the squad lounged listlessly around the walls.

The sale was a wrap, but there was none of the usual last-day banter. Ennui seemed to have settled early. All eyes were on me, the backslider. Itook out my wallet, removed a fold of

notes and handed it to Jimmy without counting. I knew

exactly how much was there. My emergency roll, three

hundred in tens.

`Is that the place empty?’

`Aye.’

`Well done.’

He felt the bundle, weighing it in his hand, assessing the

amount.

`That’s just for now.’ I’d settle his own whack with

him later. `Once you’ve unloaded, take the boys for a

good drink on me.’

`Will you be coming by? `I expect so.’

He nodded to the team and they made for the door, keen to

get the last load into the salerooms and be away to the pub.

Jimmy James waited beside me until they had left. `I left a

message on your phone.’

`I didn’t get it.’

`Aye, you never do.’

He stood still, rheumy eyes downcast, taciturn, miserable

as a wet terrier. I’d known Jimmy for twenty years. He’d

been no more cheerful at fifty than he was at seventy. I’d have to drag everything from him. That was my punishment.

`Well, I’m here now.’

`Aye, we wondered where you’d got to. Not like you to

lead from behind.’

I glanced at him, searching for intent in the double

entendre, finding none. `There’s been things going on.’

`Aye.’

`So what was your message?’

`She was taken no well.’

`Who? Rose?

I was surprised by a surge of panic from my groin to my

chest. He shook his head impatiently.

`No. The auld wife. She took bad this afternoon. It was as

well we were here.’

There was a lodestone in my stomach. A weight of

misfortune drawing disaster towards me.

`What happened? Was it serious?’

`We called an ambulance. I tried phoning you, but you

never answered.’

Guilt made me impatient.

`We’ve established that. I’m here now. Tell me from the

beginning. Where was she taken ill??

‘If you’re going to interrogate me, let’s have a seat. Even

the bloody Gestapo let people have a seat when they were

under interrogation.’

He wandered over to a window seat and eased himself onto

it groaning. Seventy. Probably not that much older than Cliff Richard. I sat, in awkward proximity, beside him on the bench.