Referendum (6 page)

13

Monday July 21
^st
, 2014

Arbogast had packed the night before and loaded his car first thing. It was his last day off for two weeks and he had unfinished business. Having grown up an only child with his mother he’d found out last year that his father was alive and well; more than that, their paths had crossed without him knowing. His father had been visiting his mother at her care home for several years but had never made himself known. His mother had alzheimer’s and was in no position to keep him up to date with the family news; she would probably have preferred it that way. But armed with a car registration number Arbogast had tracked down his dad’s address and today was the day he’d decided they’d meet face to face – his father had some explaining to do.

But before he left he wanted to tell his mother, even though she wouldn’t understand, he felt he owed her that. In the past she’d wanted nothing more to do with his father, James, but even still, she’d kept his surname – he could never figure out why.

At Woodlands Care Home he sat and watched as his mother stared off into space. She’d become smaller, more shrivelled in the last 12 months and he felt that she might finally be starting the long journey to the end of her life. She’d been rotting in the home for the best part of a decade and it had broken Arbogast’s heart to see her fade away. Now he just hoped she would die peacefully, that her mental exile would soon end.

“Hi mum, I had to come to see you, but I can’t stay long.” As usual he watched for any sign of reaction but there was none. Ella Arbogast was dressed in a pale yellow cardigan and a plain white dress. The nurses still styled her hair in the way she used to wear it, hammering home the fact that this was a woman out of time.

“I know you’ve been seeing dad. I know he’s been here and I know where he lives. I’m going to see him, mum. I have to talk to him about the past, ask what happened – why he didn’t stick around. I’ve got no-one left now, just you.”

His mother seemed to twitch slightly, although he’d probably just imagined it. “I know you don’t want me to see him, but it’s been so long and I might not have much time left to do this. I hope you understand.”

He took his mother’s hands in his and watched her for what seemed a long time. He felt a slight movement, like she was trying to tell him it was OK. It was probably wishful thinking but he took the thought with him as he started the journey to England.

***

Niall Murphy was making fresh connections fast; it seemed Glasgow really was a friendly city after all. He’d arranged to meet the reporter in a bar in the West End. McPhabbs was part of a Georgian terrace, with beer gardens at the front and back. It was hot and the bar was packed outside. Inside was a different story, with empty booths offering the perfect opportunity to have a discreet chat. He saw Sandy come in and motioned for him to come over.

“You’re late,” Niall wasn’t happy at being kept waiting. He didn’t like the look of the man; typical middle aged reporter – beige chinos and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was carrying a black bag. “I hope that’s not recording equipment.”

Sandy was taken aback by the onslaught, “I’m just here to see what you have to say. You know what I want.”

They were interrupted by the waiter who asked if they would be having lunch, but they ordered drinks instead; two pints – both men hoping the alcohol would help get the conversation flowing.

“You said you knew about Graeme Donald?”

Murphy nodded, “That’s right, we go way back. And I know you’ve been poking around into his past. Seems like you got stung for getting too close last year.”

Sandy was nodding, he knew he didn’t have to explain, the information was all over the internet. “I can help you find out more, but it’ll come at a price.”

“I work for the BBC. I can’t pay you for information.” Sandy thought he’d wasted his time; this was just another weasel looking for a handout.

“The BBC can’t, but you can. You’ll need to rethink your ethics if you want to do business with me.”

“I need to know what you can tell me first.”

“Well we seem to be at something of an impasse. You must think I’m a fucking idiot if you think I’m just going to tell you what I know. You don’t even know who you’re dealing with.” Niall saw the reporter’s eyes dart right; the waiter had come back with the drinks. Sandy smiled nervously as the pint glasses were placed on the table.

“I don’t want to know who you are; I just need to know how I can get hold of you.”

“You do need to know about me, just so you’re aware of the situation you’ve put yourself in. I know Donald from Belfast, which is a city I’m very well connected in. There are people there who know how to deal with wayward bodies – loudmouths who say too much at the wrong time. I can help you find out more about Donald, but I’ll need to be sure you know what to say and when to say it.”

“I won’t be censored by you or anyone else.”

Niall Murphy grabbed the farthest edge of the table and pulled himself face-to-face with Sandy, “If you fuck with me you will live to regret it. Be in no doubt about that.”

Looking down, Niall’s expression changed, “What the fuck is this?” He had noticed one of the buttons on Sandy’s shirts had no thread, “I’ve seen these before,” Niall ripped off the button, “Use a fucking camera on me would you?” The table was moving under Niall’s weight; the waiter had stopped collecting glasses. There was no-one else in the pub.

“Where’s the footage?”

Sandy stammered; he hadn’t expected the camera to be seen, it never had been clocked before.
Stupid, stupid, stupid
. “It’s on a cloud file. I can get it from my laptop.”

“Which is where, in your bag?”

“In my car, out the back.”

Two minutes later they were in the back lane where Sandy had parked. He handed the laptop over to the man he realised he had badly underestimated. He was scared and didn’t know what to do to turn the tables back in his favour.

Niall stood and held the laptop, weighing it in his mind, “It’s a sturdy piece of kit; they don’t make them like this anymore, keep a lot of your own stuff on here do you?”

Sandy nodded; he was getting nervous about the direction the conversation was heading. He wanted to run but he had been backed into a corner.

“No point looking around, there’s no-one to help you here. We can still work together but there’s something you need to learn.”

Before Sandy could say anything else the laptop swung into his face. He raised his hands to try and protect himself but he couldn’t keep the pain at bay. Blow after blow rained down on him; the plastic of the laptop splintering under the pressure.

The last thing he heard before he blacked out was a rasping Belfast accent, “Mention this to anyone and you’re dead, pal.”

234 Evesham Road, Kendal, Lake District

Arbogast was struck by how ordinary the estate was. As a child he’d imagined his father might be rich, living in a huge house in the country. Fast forward three decades and the truth was more mundane.

The Sat Nav had been guiding him towards Evesham Road for the last three hours. He had stopped more times than he’d planned as the nerves starting to build. Now he was parked outside the family home he didn’t want to take the final steps. It was a modest two bed semi-detached property which looked like it dated from the early 80s. Rough cast with brown wooden panels under the windows it looked like it had once belonged to the Council. The front garden was immaculate, with a small hedge forming a perimeter around a well groomed rose garden. He had parked at the other side of the street, the dead end in the cul de sac the road sign had warned of. He’d had this conversation in his head a thousand times but now he was faced with actually meeting his wayward parent he was at a loss for words. No sentence could adequately sum up how he felt about the last 40 years, about the lack of contact or apparent concern for his well being. Arbogast inhaled slowly and held the breath for about ten seconds before letting go. He’d heard it lowered your heart rate, helped you relax, but it wasn’t working. His heart was racing as he lifted the clasp on the black metal gate and edged up the seven crazed flagstones which led to the front door. He noticed a sign on the door.

Mr and Mrs J Arbogast

His heart fell into freefall; it wasn’t something he’d expected. His dad had remarried. That his father had built another life shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it felt like a betrayal. He stood for a moment wondering what to do.
Should I still go in?
But he’d come too far. He rang the bell and waited. There was no reply. He tried again and again, but it was hopeless. There was no-one in; he should have phoned first. In the distance he heard laughter; a family were celebrating in the summer sun. A man walked up the side of the house and crossed the road. The house was at the end of a no through road but he saw that there was a public path which led round past the back of the houses. John wondered if he could get access to the back garden. Following the line of the path he was stopped dead in his tracks by an unfamiliar sight.

His father was sitting on a deck chair while an older woman rocked with laughter on the grass. Two small children were playing with a ball while a couple, maybe in their thirties, stood and talked to the neighbour over the back fence. A radio was playing a teenage boy band – Arbogast didn’t know who but he’d heard it before, silly to dwell on that detail. He realised immediately what he was looking at, it was his extended family. Were these half brothers or sisters, a step mother? The enormity of the discovery shocked him. He stood silently as tears tracked a trail on his face. He knew he couldn’t intrude, couldn’t upset the status quo. These weren’t his people; this wasn’t his time.
I’m glad you’re happy but...

He didn’t finish the thought as his anger returned. Before he left he posted a small white envelope marked for his father’s attention. The message was short and sweet but if he wanted to act on it he could.

As he drove back up the M6 Arbogast tried to forget his isolation, but it had been thrown into sharper focus than ever before. The time for reconciliation had passed.

14

26
^th
July

On the first Saturday of the Commonwealth Games, Glasgow was heaving. Unusually high temperatures attracted massive crowds to the city centre, which were more than happy to use the occasion to celebrate its time in the sun.

Lorna McMahon was still trying to come to terms with the way her life had turned out. She’d been knocked back by the news that her husband had died but she didn’t have time to grieve. The police said they didn’t know the cause of death; that they needed to hear the autopsy results. But that had been days ago – they didn’t seem to be in any rush. But she was starving, hadn’t eaten in two days. What little she could scrounge she’d given to her daughter. Today she needed money. If she wanted to survive she needed to do whatever it took to get by. Looking around the packed streets she saw potential.

Around 40 thousand people had crammed into the Merchant City for the Commonwealth Games Festival. Lorna had never seen it so busy. Coming from the East End she had to fight past the people, there was room only to squeeze through. The pubs were rammed, with long queues outside, trying to get in. Every punter leaving with a round had to tussle to keep their drinks from spilling out from the constant knocks from the bustling mass. As the heat baked the tarmac, the smell of bitumen mingled with fried food from the countless stalls which lined the streets, while entertainers competed for attention from the relative freedom of marked out performance areas. Families leaned out across the boundaries trying to get some air. Tired kids cried while adults looked for seats. Lorna McMahon knew she’d never have another chance quite like it.

She wasn’t a natural thief; in fact it was something that appalled her. She knew people worked hard for their cash but she was out of options. If she couldn’t get money she wouldn’t survive; more importantly she needed to help build a better life for Leona.
So to hell with them.

Her first attempt didn’t go to plan. Lorna thought she’d be able to slide past and dip into inside pockets, but no-one was wearing jackets. She saw a man holding his son’s hand waiting to move up the street. In his back pocket was a wallet, hemmed in tight by the size of his well fed arse. Lorna sidled up to him, not sure how best to retrieve her mark.

With the thumb and index finger of her right hand, she tried to pinch the wallet. When she got close she could see the folds of the leather from the opening of the pocket. She leaned in and slipped her fingers around the edge. She had it, but not too tightly. Suddenly the man spun round, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

People stopped and stared, she’d been caught.
Think of something quick
. “Oh my god, you’re not Allan. Oh I’m so sorry, how embarrassing to pinch your bum like that. You look so alike.” She raised her hand apologetically and sidled off up the street. The man was shaking his head; his son was asking what had happened.
That was too close for comfort.

PC Craig Chalmers had seen the woman early on. Wearing a long flowing red dress with a large blue handbag, she was hard not to spot. He thought she looked familiar but he couldn’t place the name. He was standing on steps outside the old court and had a good view from his vantage point. The woman had raised her hands, looked like she had annoyed a man. It was her expression when she moved away that got his attention. She looked annoyed, so he kept watching.