The Cutting Room (4 page)

drunken and funny and strident. Whoever she addresses it

isn’t the photographer. Her look is directed away from the

lens. Each man wears a fez at a jaunty angle. Everyone is

laughing.

A long time ago these people had moved and talked and

laughed. The photographer had pressed the button, the

shutter had clicked; their shadows captured on film. Forever young, debauched and laughing. What had she said, the

woman at the front of the photograph? I could feel her

energy. The instant the photograph was taken she had leapt to her feet and … If I could look with the right eyes I would see her move. Her tiny frame would stand, sashay across the

room, turn to me and…

There was someone downstairs. It wasn’t so much a noise

as a slight change in the atmosphere, a draught perhaps as the door had been opened, but I knew someone was in the room

below.

I slipped the photographs back into their envelope and put

them in my inside pocket. I had almost killed the bottle. I took a hit for courage and walked over to the trap.

`Hello?

Even to my own ears my voice sounded shaky. Beneath

me someone took three swift steps to the door, then closed

it gently behind them. The footsteps faded down the stairs,

the front door slammed. Had it been left unlocked when

the squad had finished earlier in the day? Christ, we get the biggest call we’ve had all year and it’s burglarised under

our noses. The old lady was probably dead in her bed,

murdered by some psycho we’d invited in with open door. I rattled down the ladder, forgetting to be afraid of the height.

Everything was as I had left it, the chairs neat against the wall. Out in the hallway all the doors were shut. I made my

way down to the ground floor, where we had stacked most of

the good stuff. It all looked pretty much the same. Finally I checked the front door: locked. Whoever had been creeping

around in the middle of the night had a key. I went upstairs, secured the attic, put the ladder back in its resting place and left.

O Rose, thou art sick!

The invisible worm

That flies in the night,

In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy:

And his dark secret love

Does thy life destroy.

William Blake,

‘The Sick Rose’

ouT in THE STREET I looked at my watch: a quarter to three.

For a second I considered going to the pool room for one last drink and some company, but instead turned my back on

Hyndland and walked towards the West End.

It was raining. A faint drizzle that was almost a mist. The pavements were shiny with rain and the reflected orange glow of the street lamps. I trudged solidly on, putting the cod

respectability of Hyndland further behind me with every step.

I felt in need of an exorcism. The smell of bad beer hung in the air outside Tennents Bar, even three hours after closing. The lights were on, the staff inside having a lock-in. I could stop, give the knock and Davie boy would let me in for a final few before bedtime, but it wasn’t drink or bed that I wanted. I

crossed the lights at Byres Road. Still busy, even at this time in the morning. A drunk careened past me, hands in his pockets, head down, making his way home with drunk man’s radar.

`Ahway to fuck, you auld poof’ he muttered.

I pulled up the collar of my raincoat and walked on.

Climbing the rise of University Avenue, towards the illuminated towers of the university, their haze clouding any view of

the stars. It was getting quieter now. I descended towards

Gilmorehill Cross, then turned right into Kelvin Way, avenue of dreams.

Kelvin Way is edged by park-land and university grounds.

Mature limes line either side of the road, towering above the street lights. Their roots escape the concrete, gnarled talons, making a journey along the street a negotiation of puddles and fissures. The tops of the trees danced gently in the rain,

Arthur Rackham silhouettes, branches clutching at each other, casting crazy shadows and darkness. After a straight boy was mistaken for a queer and murdered, an attempt had been

made to make the street brighter, stringing lamps across the centre of the road. They only added to the charm, bobbing

negligently in the wind.

A car passed me slowly, a BMW, lights dimmed. The driver

moved slightly in his seat, glancing towards me, looking

without looking, me seeing him, no eye contact. It wasn’t a walking corpse he was after. He stopped ahead of me. A slim

figure detached itself from beneath a tree and got into the car.

If you like a bit of rough and have drowned your fear and

your conscience, this is the place to come.

`Looking for business?

It’s like a mantra on The Way. A boy leaning against the

tree in front of me. How old? Fourteen? Sixteen? He was

wearing the current uniform of shapeless sports gear. White

cap, white top, blue sweat pants. I think of him as a ghost. A whey-faced spectre. He had found a short cut on that road we all travel. His head was nodding, falling forward gently, then just as gently straightening, as if the weight of his head and gravity together were too much for him. Jellied. Gouching.

Glazed eyes seeking mine.

`Looking for business, Mister?’

`No, son. Not tonight.’

He stepped back to his post, passive, as if he had forgotten me already. Junkies and whores are used to waiting.

I crossed the street and slipped into the park. The dawn

was beginning to slink in, black drifting to grey. I took the hump-backed bridge over the Kelvin. The rain was heavier

now. I could hear it against the rush of the river. Damn it, I was going to be soaked. Christ, only the desperate would be

here tonight and, while I was desperate myself, it wasn’t

desperate company I was seeking. I veered right and took a

turn round the fountain. It had been erected as a tribute to the man who brought fresh water from Loch Katrine to the city of Glasgow. It stood there dry, derelict and neglected. Rain,

beating an irregular tattoo against the rubbish, gathered in its trough, graffiti sprayed across its statuary and enamelled

zodiac plaques. I examined the most recent legends. God is

Gay, SEX Credit cards accepted, Nicholson bangs monkeys. Well, Nicholson, I thought, I’ve been there. Sometimes you just

have to make the best of things.

I turned my back on the fountain, walked past the kids’

playground and towards the duckpond. Litter lined its border, shreds of the day. Crisp packets, juice bottles and no doubt not a few condoms. Everywhere I could sense decay. The

pigeons were roosting on a skeletal willow poised above the

water. Grey, tattered feathers fluffed out to protect them

from the rain. Winged rats.

A figure moved ahead of me, breaking from the cover of

trees, into the no man’s land of the pathway, light-coloured jacket unveiling him against the earlymorning shadows.

`Good man,’ I whispered to myself, `wear white at night.’

He walked towards the war memorial. The sculpted kiltie

rested above the lists of dead boys’ names, gazing towards a world without wars. He paid us no mind. My quarry turned

his head slightly, making sure I was on his trail and I knew we were going to be fine. He led me up a pathway towards a

bench sheltered in the lee of a tree. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness. When he turned I saw a well-set man of around

thirty. I couldn’t make out his features entirely yet. Don’t let him speak, I thought walking towards him, making eye

contact. His right hand was in his pocket, I thought I could make out the bulge of his erection. I was so close I could hear his sigh, smell the faint odour of beer on his breath. I reached out, meaning to touch him, and he took my arm in a firm

grip:

`You’ve got something I want.’

The words were close enough to a menace. I tensed, and

my free hand formed into a fist. Then he was on his knees and it was the usual routine.

I was fishing around for a condom in my pocket - it’s only

etiquette to reciprocate - when I heard it. The earsplitting, propeller clatter of the spy in the sky. Light flooded the park.

My new friend ran towards the top path and out towards the

deserted office quarter of Park Circus. There were footsteps everywhere around me, enchanted shadows made whole,

men fleeing across the grass and the scree of the pathways, and there I’d been afraid of not getting a click. I turned to run in the direction of Woodlands. There was a gate by Caledonia

College I could scale at a leap. Then there was a hand on my shoulder and a torch in my face and I knew the game was up.

We were a sad crew, the half-dozen of us in the police van.

After we’d each been cautioned for lewd behaviour nobody

spoke. I took out my tobacco and rolled myself a smoke. No

one stopped me. We hadn’t reached the camaraderie of the

jail-house yet and I didn’t offer them around. I was thinking about what I had on me. Rule number one of cruising:

remember the dangers. You may be mugged or arrested. Do

not carry anything that may incriminate you or get you into

more trouble. In my pocket was a wrap of speed, a quarter of grass so good it might be class A, a packet of extra-thick

condoms and a selection of pornographic photographs I hadn’t fully perused.

At Partick police station I made myself last in line. I hadn’t seen a mirror but I guessed I didn’t cut quite such a dashing figure now. The rain had soaked through my raincoat, into my suit, and through my shirt. My hair hung long and lank against my face. My only hope was that I looked so bad they wouldn’t bother to search me. Looking at the going-over they were

giving the unsavoury collection in front of me I knew there

was no hope. I did the only thing you can do in circumstances

like these. I kept my head down and waited for something to turn up.

I’m not new to the routine. Name, address, date of birth.

The things they always want to know. Then,

`Empty your pockets.’

One thing after the other; wallet, penknife, notebook;

pushing the wrap and the deal into a hole in the lining of my suit jacket; my keys, the McKindless keys, loose change.

`Speed it up or I’ll do it for you.’ The netsuke. `C’mon, get on with it.’ I reached for the envelope of photographs. The

ones I’d seen were this side of legal, and they might keep the sergeant’s attention long enough for me to get away with the drugs. If they took a notion to search my flat I was in trouble.

`We don’t have all night.’ I smiled, pulled the envelope from my pocket, then beside me a slim, dark man in a blue suit.

`Been misbehaving, Rilke? All right, Sergeant, Mr Rilke’s

just coming into my office for a little chat.’ I shoved the

envelope back in my jacket before it could be taken from me.

`You keep his things safe for him. Except this, let’s have a closer look at this.’

He picked up the netsuke and walked on with me, meek as

a rescued felon, behind him. My companions followed us with

their eyes, cursing me for a grass.

`In here.’ We entered an office at the end of the hall and I tried to gather myself together. `Sit.’ He indicated a hard

chair opposite his desk. `And will you take that bloody

raincoat off - you’re dripping all over the place.’ I peeled it from me and bundled it under the chair. `So, Rilke. Can you not learn some discretion? Are there not clubs you can go to if you want to do that kind of thing? Would it not be pleasanter for you? A wee gin and tonic, a trot around the dance floor

then back to a bachelor pad for whatever it is you want to do.

Are you not getting a bit old for skulking about in bushes?’

`I’m not much of a dancer, Inspector Anderson.’

`Always quick with the answers, though. You were the

same at school. Look at you. What a bloody state to get

yourself into.’ He picked up the phone, `Two cups of tea

through here quick as you can.’ Turning back to me, `I

probably should have just let them search you there. Aye, you always had interesting things in your pockets, Rilke.’

`The guy I met in the park certainly thought so.’

`It would maybe be as well to remember that I’m the law.

I’ve rescued you from an embarrassment. Why not? We go

back a long way. But don’t take the piss.’ He picked up the

netsuke and turned it over in his hand. `This is a horrible wee relic. I tell you, if this isn’t against the law it should be.’ A uniform came in with the tea, thick porcelain mug for

Anderson, polystyrene cup for me. `Now tell me about this

thing.’

He placed it on the desk between us with a quick squint of

distaste at the grinning murderer.

`It’s a netsuke. Japanese, probably nineteenth-century

though hard to date. They were originally a carved toggle

- a posh version of those buttons we had on our duffels all those years ago. Japanese gents would have used them to tether their purses, which they wore dangling from their

waists. They developed into ornaments popular in the export

market. They’re generally made of wood or ivory. This one,

as you can probably see, is of the ivory variety.’

`I didn’t stop you there because I found that genuinely

interesting. But I think you know what I meant. Where did

you get it?’

`A job I was on today. I’m clearing a house up in Hyndland

and I came across this last thing. I just wrapped it in my hanky