The Field of Blood (39 page)

He swung his brown roll bag into his left hand, reflexively reaching out for her coming towards him, remembering too late that he wasn’t allowed to touch her. He patted her shoulder awkwardly. She remembered Terry Hewitt’s nipples suddenly and smiled, squeezing her eyes tight to hide tiny tears.

“Hiya,” she said, mirroring Sean’s awkward gesture by patting his shoulder back. “Thanks for this, Seanie.”

“No bother,” he said.

They fell into step, walking close but feeling a hundred miles distant because they couldn’t hold hands. Sean bumped shoulders with her as they waited at the lights.

“To be honest, I’m glad you asked me to come and see him,” he shouted over the noise of the traffic. “They said he’s asked not to see his mum anymore and no one else has been in touch from the family. I’m not allowed to take food in to him because they’re worried someone’ll try to kill him.”

She rubbed his back, caving in to a compulsion to feel the warmth of his skin and let her hand linger for a moment between his shoulder blades. Sean arched away from the touch. The traffic in front of them stopped and they crossed over, saved from a scene by the green man.

The modern hospital was set on a small, sharp hill, back from the busy road. It was a recent build, all straight lines and pragmatic compromises, erected and then almost instantly meshed over to stop incontinent pigeons turning it into a biohazard.

The entrance was round the back. Thirty feet behind the new hospital was the abandoned old gothic building it had replaced, a turreted baronial flurry, now empty, the windows and doors on the ground floor boarded up. They entered the new building through a small door at the back and took the lift up to the fifth floor, sweating at the unexpected high temperature. Sean held out his hand.

“You need to put this on.” It was the engagement ring box. “They’ll only let you in if they think you’re my fiancée.”

Paddy apologized with her eyes and took the familiar ring out of the box. It was uncomfortably tight; she could feel the top of her finger swell under the pressure. The doors opened at five to a cluck of student nurses smiling polite audience grins as two middle-aged doctors chatted.

Sean and Paddy followed the signs around three corridors to a nurses’ station in a corridor. The table was layered in pink and green forms. They were met by a pretty little blond nurse with a crimped wedge haircut and blue eyeliner. Her figure was so slight she looked prepubescent. When Sean and the nurse smiled at each other Paddy wanted to slap her.

“I’ve been told to ask for Sergeant Hamilton,” said Sean quietly.

The nurse’s smile deflated. “I’ll get Matron.”

She disappeared into an office behind the desk. Matron, a snippy woman in her forties, fiddled with the watch pinned to her chest and asked them again if they were looking for a sergeant. What was his name? Was he expecting them? The questions were a pointless rehash of Sean’s basic statement, but Paddy could tell that the woman was thrilled they were there, that she was thinking about the story she would have to tell one day, when she could talk about it. She looked Sean up and down, noting his dusty work boots and cheap slacks. He had changed out of his work clothes and looked clean but was still noticeably poor. Mimi bought his shoes in the Barras market and picked up secondhand shirts for him in Murphy’s at the Bridgate. Paddy was used to being the poorest-looking person in the newsroom. She kept her engagement finger on view to show that they were decent.

The matron picked up the phone on the desk, running her tongue along the front of her teeth as she dialed a four-digit number. She turned away and whispered into the receiver, nodding and repeating “uh huh” when the other person spoke. She hung up, raised her eyebrows at the phone and pinched her lips.

“He’ll be here in a moment,” she said, as if it were against her express advice.

The sergeant was in the corridor before the matron had time to make them feel any worse. He was solid and broad-shouldered, with graying hair and a kind face. He came towards them, shaking his head as he dabbed the sweat from his brow.

“Oof,” he said to the matron, “too hot in here.” He turned his attention to Sean, giving him a look-over. “Right, now, can I have some sort of identification from the both of yees.”

It was an order, not a question. Sean had brought his post office savings book and a union ticket, Paddy had her library card.

“Okay, pal, coat off.”

Paddy gladly took off her duffel coat and handed it to the policeman, who checked the pockets and lining. Sean handed over his Harrier jacket.

“Can’t be too careful,” said the sergeant, smiling as he searched the coats, trying to keep it light. “Care is the watchword here.”

He patted Sean down but balked at doing the same to Paddy, who was wearing a pencil skirt and a plain sweater. He checked the contents of Sean’s roll bag, flicking through things with a cautious finger, frowning when he saw a Celtic poster.

“All the stuff in there’s for him. Is that okay?” Sean sounded timid and young.

“Aye.” His eyes flickered over all the different bits in it. “Aye, this is all okay.”

Handing the bag back, he gestured for them to follow him.

It was disconcertingly hot in the hospital. They each began to sweat as they made their way around corners and down gray corridors, taking a small spur off the main passage. Beyond another corner they could see two policemen outside a door, one sitting, the other standing, both drinking out of cups and saucers, a well-thumbed tabloid sitting on the floor underneath the chair. They stiffened when the sergeant approached, hiding the cups of tea and pulling their uniforms straight. Paddy guessed that their boss wasn’t so sweet all the time.

“These young people are here to visit …” He hesitated, unsure what to call him. “The wee fella.” And he gestured to them to open the door.

They all turned to the door, looked at it expectantly, and the sergeant took a step forwards.

“I’ll sit in with ye for a bit, just to make sure it’s okay.”

He stepped back, they all took a breath, and the policeman nearest the door turned the handle.

The private room had a narrow entrance and a bathroom off to the left on the way in. It was dark and thick with the sharp scent of bleach and pine. The first thing Paddy noticed was the old gothic hospital looming in at the window, the skyline jagged with castellations and blank black windows. Tucked in around the corner was a metal-framed bed with a clipboard attached to the foot. Sitting in the bed, backlit by a harsh reading light, was Callum Ogilvy.

He looked tiny. He didn’t seem to have gained any weight since they saw him a year ago, but it might have been the position he was sitting in. The covers were over his knees and he was reading a battered and torn comic, frozen in the position he had been in when they opened the door, his finger pointing at a part of the page, his mouth open to form a word. At first she thought it might have been handcuffs, but then she realized that it was a thick bandage around his wrist where he had cut it. He looked frightening and skinny, like a shriveled, ancient, evil genius.

“All right, wee man?”

Callum raised his eyes and gawped silently. Sean sat down on the side of his bed.

“D’ye ’member me?”

He nodded slowly, his eyes flickering across Sean’s face. “You’re my big cousin.”

“What’s this?” Sean pointed to his wrist. “You been having a bit of trouble?”

Paddy didn’t see the tears immediately because of the sharp light behind him, but she heard Callum gasp a breath, his face still immobile. A fat tear dropped off his face onto the bed. Sean moved up the bed, put his arms around the boy, and held him firmly. The boy sat stiff as a doll, his face bare to the room, his mouth a black oval, and cried.

It took twenty minutes for him to stop. The policeman left after five. Paddy moved over to the window and turned her back; otherwise her eye naturally fell on the boy’s face, and that was too hard to look at. She could see into the darkened wards across the way. One floor down she could see old bedsteads stacked against a wall. As the darkness gathered behind the window the reflection of the pool of light on Callum’s bed became sharper and sharper. She could see that his eyes were swollen shut.

“Son?” It was Sean’s voice, but he was whispering. “Is that better?”

Callum nodded. Sean patted the boy’s back to signal an end to the embrace and shifted around so he was sitting next to him.

“D’ye remember Paddy, my fiancée?”

Callum looked over at her. Even in the fuzzy reflection she could see he didn’t like her.

“Celtic,” he said, exhausted, and turning his attention back to Sean. “You support Celtic.”

“Don’t you support Celtic?”

Callum looked at Paddy’s back again.

“It’s a shame if you don’t,” said Sean, “because I’ve brought ye a poster for your wall.” He picked up the roll bag and zipped it open, taking out a small poster and unrolling it on the bed. It was battered around the edges, but Callum liked it. He put his hand on it and looked at Sean, claiming ownership. His eyes moved to the bag on the bed and Sean laughed. “You’re an Ogilvy all right. Will we see what else is in there?”

Callum smiled, creasing his puffy face. Sean pulled out a jigsaw of the first team, a Beano comic and a Dandy, and a plastic pencil case that looked like it was made of denim. He sat them on top of the poster, each bit of rubbish adding to the last, making a compound gift mountain.

Callum grinned avariciously at the pile of crap on his bed.

“D’ye like that?”

He nodded.

“I was going to bring you a load of sweets, like Crunchies and Starbars but I wasn’t allowed because of these.” Sean touched the bandages on Callum’s wrist. “If ye don’t do that again they’ll let me.”

“I’m not gonnae do that.” Callum’s tiny voice was raw. “You’re my big cousin.”

“That’s right, wee man.” Sean sat back on the bed with him so they were both facing out into the room. “I am, wee man. Paddy, put the big lights on, eh?”

When she moved over to the door and flicked the switch, the whole room changed character. Callum was just a wee skinny boy in a bed. He even looked a bit like Sean. They could have been brothers.

“D’ye like the Dandy?”

Callum nodded, so Sean pulled it out of the pile and started running his finger down a story and doing the voices, the way Paddy had seen him do with his nieces and nephews. Callum settled back against his chest, watching the finger move along the page, only half listening to what he was saying. Paddy watched them in the reflection on the window. Sean’d make a great father, and she was sorry that it wouldn’t be with her.

The boys read through a Desperate Dan story together, Callum giving a token laugh at the punch line. Then Sean put his hand flat on the page.

“Callum, listen. Paddy wants to ask you something.”

Callum looked up at her, resenting both her presence and her claim over Sean.

Paddy’s mouth was suddenly dry. She sat down at the far end of the bed, the high metal bedstead digging into the fat on her hip.

“Hiya, Callum. D’ye remember me?”

He nodded at the comic and lifted Sean’s hand, turning the page and dropping the hand back onto it.

“How do you know James O’Connor? Is he at your school?”

Callum looked inquiringly at Sean, who nodded. “Aye,” he said curtly.

“Are you two pals?”

Callum kept his eyes on the page. “Not anymore.”

“Why not anymore?”

It was just the right question. Callum became animated. “He told them I did it, and I never. It was him, he did it.” Sean frowned at the back of the boy’s head.

“Tell me this about when the baby died, Callum: did you go there in a train?”

The boy’s body tensed up tight, his shoulders rising slowly to his ears.

“Did ye?” asked Sean.

He kept his eyes on the comic. “Police said we did.”

“What do you say, though?” asked Paddy.

Callum gave a forced laugh at the last drawing on the page and started at the top of the next page. He was determined to ignore Paddy, so Sean repeated the question.

“How do you say you got there, son?”

Callum looked at Sean’s mouth and let his own hang open for a moment. He shut it and shook his head.

“How did you get there, then?” asked Paddy.

He started picking at the edge of the page anxiously, worrying his nail through the paper. Sean repeated the question for her again. Callum shook his head violently and stopped abruptly, his eyes wide and bright and wet with fright. Sean rubbed his hair loudly.

“Are ye gonnae tell us?”

“We got there in a motor.”

Sean glanced at Paddy, knowing what she wanted to ask. “What kind of motor, Callum?”

His face was a bitter little fist. “Van. Grocer’s van.”

Paddy treated herself to a lopsided smile. She had been right after all.

“We never went on the train. He gave us the tickets so’s it would look like we did.” He looked back at the comic, wishing they were still doing that instead of this.

“Did you tell the police this?”

“Never asked,” he said definitely. “Women are dirty cunts.”

Shocked, Sean stared at Paddy.

“They stink. I’ve seen pictures of them getting banged.”

Paddy blinked back, tacitly agreeing to ignore it.

“Who was driving the van?” asked Sean.

“James’s pal.”

“Mr. Naismith?” asked Paddy.

Callum forgot to ignore her. “Aye, Mr. Naismith. With the earring.”

“He doesn’t have an earring, does he?”

“Aye.”

“I’ve met him, and I didn’t see an earring.”

Callum shrugged. “Maybe he hasn’t got one, then. He’s James’s pal.”

If the overhead light had not been on, Paddy might have missed the sideways flicker in his eyes, sliding over to another thought somewhere out of sight.

“He’ll rip my arsehole with his cock if I tell on him, but he’s not a fucking poof, right?”

Both Sean and Paddy shuddered. Sean dragged his eyes across the page of the comic. Paddy saw her reflection in the window. She was disguising her disgust with a grotesquely cheerful smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. The tiny child in the window was watching her.