The Stone Gallows (3 page)

‘You did what?'

‘It was just a couple of E's. But I think they maybe weren't E's. I'm not
feeling right.'

‘What the hell are you doing taking E at this time of night?'

‘I was bored.'

‘Where did you get them?'

‘Wee Tommy.'

‘Wee Tommy? He's a bloody tube. And you're a bloody tube
for taking anything off of him. It's probably an antibiotic or
something.'

‘It doesn't feel like an antibiotic.' He grabbed her hand, pressed it
against his forehead. ‘I'm burning up.'

She noticed the thermometer in his hand. ‘What are you doing with
that?'

‘I took my temperature.'

Her voice rose. ‘With the baby thermometer?'

‘What's wrong with that?'

‘Nothing. Except that it's a rectal thermometer.'

He looked at it for a second. ‘You mean it's been. . .'

She nodded.

‘Shite.'

‘You Muppet. Did you put that in your mouth?'

‘Aye. . . no. What do you think I am? Dolly?'

Dolly Dimple. Glasgow rhyming slang. Gaz clenched his teeth; the
stupid bint thought he was simple.

Maria was too busy laughing to notice the look on his face. ‘You did.

You put it in your mouth.' It was nice for the joke to be on somebody else
for a change.

‘Fuckin' shut it. Anyhow, you're meant to sterilise these things.'

‘Aye, right. You rinse them under the hot tap and put them back in
the cupboard for next time.'

He felt sick. Really sick. His gorge rose, acidy breath filling his mouth.

He dipped his head and sprayed chunks everywhere, covering the
bedside table, the pillowcase, and Maria, in a pea green mess of bile and
doner kebab.

‘Gaz!' She lunged at him, flailing away with her tiny fists. ‘You
bastard! You did that deliberately! You fucking BASTARD.' He raised his
hands to defend himself, but one of her blows found its way past, a
pointly, puke smeared knuckle jabbing straight into his eye. It stung like
a mad thing, and he felt vomit schrapneling from her face and arms as
she tried to pummel him. Rage filled him. Stupid cunt. Just because he'd
been sick on her didn't give her the right to behave like that. He threw her
back down on the bed, grabbing her hands and forcing them together
over her head, circling both her wrists with one hand, the other free to
punch her in the face, once, twice, and three times the charm, her cheek
splintering, her nose breaking, her lips smashing underneath his
knuckles.

She stopped fighting, her hands going to her injured face. Blood from
her nose mixed with the bile on her cheek. He screamed in her face, an
inarticulate caveman howl that re-established his place atop the food
chain.

There was an answering cry from the baby.

It rose in the air, a piercing, driving noise, wavering like an air-raid
siren. Gaz released her wrists, a mad glint in his eye.

‘Gaz. . . don't. . .'

He ignored her, storming through to the child's room. The baby lay in
its cot, wrapped in a jolly red sleeper suit covered with smiling octopuses.

It was hollering its guts out, goggle eyed with misery. He grabbed it by
the shoulders, shook it like a terrier shaking a rat. ‘FUCKING SHUT IT!

FUCKING SHUT IT RIGHT NOW! WAH! WAH! WAH! FUCKING WEE SHITE!'

The baby's head bounced back and forth on its shoulders, and a long
slaver of drool hung from its lip, smearing his hands. Disgusted, he
flipped it upside down and held it by its ankles, shaking it up and down
like he was trying to empty a pillow case. There was a loud CLACK as he
smashed the child's head off the bars of the cot.

That got it to shut up.

5.

Before Grierson had gone more than ten yards past where I was parked, I was fumbling in the glove compartment for my mobile.

Coombes was three on the speed dial; I mashed buttons with my thumb and thankfully hit the right ones. The Merc was disappearing in the rear view mirror as I waited for him to answer. There was a brief flash of brake lights and then it turned left onto London Road. I keyed the ignition, slammed into first, let the clutch out like it was electrified, glad it wasn't my own car. Tyres squealed as they struggled for purchase on the wet surface.

Coombes answered after four agonising rings. I didn't give him a chance to speak. ‘He's on the move. Unknown female passenger.'

‘Fuck.'

I heard laughter in the background, The Eagles on the jukebox. In seconds I was past the haulage yard, nearly clipping the kerb on the corner, engine revving too high because I only had two hands and I couldn't steer and talk and change gear all at the same time. ‘He's gone up London Road, so we might still have a chance. Pick you up outside.'

I hit the disconnect button and tossed the phone into the backseat.

The Docker's was only fifty yards in front of me. By the time I screeched to a halt outside the front door, Coombes was waiting for me.

‘Get in, get in, get in!'

The first rule of High Speed Pursuits: screaming everything three times will make it happen faster.

Before his door was halfway shut I abused the clutch for the second time that minute. Grierson had maybe a forty second start on us, but there was still hope. London Road was one of the city's main arteries, stretching for at least six miles. We were on Millikin Street, which ran directly parallel. If he was travelling any distance, there was every chance we could catch him.

I caught a glimpse of something in Coombes' sweaty hand. ‘What the fuck is that?'

Rule number two: rhetorical questions are always welcome. I could see perfectly what it was. It was pint of lager. The bloody thing still had a head on it.

‘I'd only just got it,' Coombes said. ‘I forgot I was holding it.'

‘You're an arsehole, you know that?'

For once, the useless fucker didn't argue. I still had to get over onto London Road. The speedometer read fifty. I hit the brakes and swung the car right onto a cross-street, Coombes covering his pint with his left hand, the back end of the car swinging round faster than the front. I wrenched the wheel left and gassed it, overcompensating, the car lurching left again. Coombes, still fumbling with his seatbelt, was thrown to his right and ended up in the well between the seats. He let out a yell as the hand brake jabbed something fleshy. I felt something cold splash into my stomach. ‘Coombes, you cunt! Get the fuck away from me!'

‘It was an accident!'

‘What kind of dozy twat brings a pint on a pursuit?' I yelled.

He scrambled back over to his side of the car, the now-empty pint glass still in his hand. He rolled the window down and tossed it into the night. ‘Satisfied?'

‘Yeah, I'm fucking thrilled.' I was so wet, I might as well have not bothered peeing into the McDonalds cup. ‘Hold on.'

Rule three: zippy dialogue will enhance tension.

I wrenched the wheel left, finally making it back onto London Road, way behind but moving fast.

6.

After thirty years driving of a Hackney round the streets of Glasgow,
Frank Madden had developed a sixth sense. He had three grades of
customer, and could usually guess which grade each fare was before his
cab had pulled to a halt beside them. Best of all were what he called the
High-Fliers. The High-Fliers were divided into several sub-groups –
the Harassed Businessman, who never had time to wait for change, the 
Foreigner, who's lack of knowledge could be conveniently exploited, and
the Stupidly Generous, who were… well, stupidly generous. The HF's
made up around ten percent of his customer base.

Grade Two had fewer categories. There was Housewife, who would tip
exactly fifty pence irrespective of whether he had driven her fifty yards or
fifty miles, and there was Practical Man, who always knew the quickest
route and would tip between zero and twenty percent, dependant on his
mood, amount of traffic and quality of in-cab conversation. Grade twos
usually accounted for about sixty percent of his income.

And then there were the Grade Threes, who had no sub-groups. They
were the people who clutched their money in their hands and watched
the meter with worried eyes. They generally made up thirty percent of his
overall business, although over the past few years, he felt that the number
had risen.

He'd picked her up on a street corner in Barrowfield, not far away
from Celtic Park. Even before he pulled to a halt, he knew that she was
almost certainly going to be a Three. It was the area. Barrowfield was like
Iraq, the only differences being that George Bush had yet to decide that
the place would be better off underneath American control, and people
didn't actually live in the burned-out cars that littered the streets. Frank
wouldn't have stopped for her, but it had been a slow night, despite the
fact that it was pissing down with rain. That was Glasgow on a Tuesday
night for you. Every bugger staying home or riding Shanks's Pony.

Twenty minutes between each fare, and nobody wanted to go more than
a couple of miles. So when the girl with the bag and the baby waved a
hand, he'd pulled alongside.

She tossed the bag in and clambered after it, the wee one held against
her chest loosely in one arm.

‘Where to?'

‘The hospital. I think. I don't know.'

He glanced at her in the rear-view mirror. There was something off
about her reflection. Her eyes, especially the right one, were swollen, and
her lips were puffy. Her nose had an odd, squished look that he'd seen
before. The slapper slapped.

‘Make up your mind.'

‘The hospital.'

‘Which hospital?'

‘The Royal.'

‘You sick?'

She shook her head, indicated the bundle underneath her arm. ‘My
baby.'

He put the cab in gear and pulled away from the kerb. ‘What's wrong
with it?'

‘My boyfriend hit her head off the side of the cot.'

Frank slammed the brakes on. ‘Is she breathing?'

‘Aye. But it was pretty hard. I just want to know that she's alright.'

He released the clutch and the vehicle shuddered as it pulled away.

‘Why would he do that?'

‘He was. . . drunk. And high.'

‘Bastard.'

‘He hit me as well.'

He risked another glance in his rear-view mirror. ‘Thought so.'

They drove in silence for a moment, the only sound the grinding of
the gears and the swipe of the windshield wipers. He kept an eye on her
in the mirror. Seventeen, maybe eighteen at a push. Sportswear and
trainers. In a parallel universe, he might have given her a lift home from
the dancing, her in a spangly top and strappy shoes, giggling with her
pals after a night on the Bacardi Breezers. He would have preferred that
girl to the one that sat in the back of his cab with tears in her eyes.

Kids, he thought. They grow up so fast.

‘Has he done something like that before?'

She shook her head.

‘He'll do it again. If you go back to him.'

‘I won't go back to him.'

‘What are you going to do?'

There was no response from the back seat, not that he really expected
one. Abuse victims rarely plan ahead. Instead, they snap like brittle little
twigs. Sometimes, like this one, they packed their bags and fled, and 
sometimes they buried a carving knife in their abuser's back. Either one
was good enough for Frank.

‘What about your parents?'

‘My mum's dead. My dad threw me out when I got pregnant.'

Frank shook his head. It wouldn't make any difference if he found out
his kid had shagged the entire Premiership. He'd never do that. You took
care of your own.

‘Won't he take you back?'

‘I've taken his granddaughter to meet him. He just shuts the door in
my face. Says I'm dead to him.'

‘There's shelters, you know. I could take you to one.'

The girl shook her head, indicated the sleeping baby. ‘I want to go to
the hospital. Just to make sure that she's alright.'

Frank nodded. In his thirty years, he reckoned he'd seen it all. A lot
had happened in the rear-view mirror. Three births, two deaths (one
heart attack, one stroke). Arguing wives and drunk husbands. Randy
kids who couldn't keep it in their pants until they got home. In eighty-nine he'd been stabbed by a football fan after an Old Firm game and
nearly died. This girl wouldn't be the first teenager he'd dropped off at A 
& E, and she wouldn't be the last. ‘The hospital will keep you right.

They'll take care of you. Both of you.'

The girl nodded.

‘What's your name, darling?'

‘Maria.'

‘I won't charge you for this. Not this time.'

Her voice was a whisper. ‘Thank you.'

‘As long as you promise me that you won't go back to him.'

‘I won't.'

‘I've got a daughter only a couple of years older than you.' He pulled
down the sun-visor and passed a battered Polaroid through the change
window. ‘Kerry. I'd kill anybody who did that to her.'