Snapshot (33 page)

He glanced up at the window of their red-brick tenement as he slipped by, wondering if Rory was sitting in front of his PS3, his crutches at his side. Maybe his mum was busy making tea. Maybe Rory’s mate Lee, the one that liked to wear balaclavas and was handy with his boots, was nearby too.

In front of Winter was the tower of the church with Duke Street beyond it, cars queuing at the junction and most of the way down the street no doubt. He headed that way, taking the long route and putting it off as long as he could. Past the self-service laundry and the Neptune chippy on the left, Coia’s Cafe on the right at the corner and then left onto Duke Street.

The street was mobbed and it made him anxious to get there quickly even though at the same time he was glad to be held up. The lights changed and he crawled past the discount stores, tanning salons, off-licences and bookies, the barbers and Greggs until at last he turned left onto Whitevale, past the other side of the church and up the street.

It was a four-storey bleached stone building that looked like it had been recently sandblasted into submission. He parked up, telling himself to keep calm. He took a deep breath and pressed the second-floor buzzer with McKendrick on it. It took an eternity until a tired-sounding voice crackled through the intercom.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello, Mrs McKendrick? Hi, I’m sorry to bother you.’

‘Who is it?’

‘I’m Tony. A friend of Ryan’s. We’ve met before but it was years ago.’

‘Oh right. I’m sorry but Ryan’s not here.’

‘I, uh, I heard about Kieran . . .’ he stammered.

‘Oh.’

‘I just thought I’d . . . that I should . . . I’m really sorry.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I just wanted to pay my respects,’ he continued, the self-loathing growing inside him.

‘You better come up.’

The security buzzer blared and he pushed the door open. It was dark inside the close but he could see ancient yellow ceramic tiles in some art deco style lining the walls. They were probably fashionable once but they looked pretty awful to him. The close wound its way to the second floor and by the time he got there, Rosaleen McKendrick was holding the door open for him.

She was a small, weary-looking woman with reddened eyes that looked him over to see if she recognized him. He got the distinct feeling the path to her door had become well-worn and she was tired of it.

‘I think I remember you now, Tony,’ she lied generously. ‘The boys have so many friends. It’s hard to keep up with them all, especially the old ones.’

Her voice was frail, as if she was exhausted by the fight. She’d almost certainly been crying and the knowledge of that didn’t exactly make Winter feel good.

‘We used to play football together,’ he told her. Surely Ryan played football.

‘Oh right. He hasn’t played in years, not properly since he joined the Navy. He used to love it though.’

Winter was guessing that Mrs McKendrick was only in her mid to late forties, fifty at the most, but she looked nearer sixty. Her brown hair had hints of gray and was largely unkempt while nicotine stains were licking at her fingertips and snaking towards bitten nails. Losing a child would do that to you, he supposed. That and not sleeping for a month. He wasn’t happy with the thought that he could cause her a lot more sleepless nights but it wasn’t his choice any more.

Mrs McKendrick didn’t really want him in her house, much as she tried to hide it out of politeness. She probably thought her days of dutifully receiving well-wishers were behind her but here was a straggler, another well-meaning pain in the arse. She led him through to the front room and tried not to look too relieved when he turned down her offer of a cup of tea.

The living room was neat and tidy. Fading flowers packed four or five vases round the room and the mantelpiece overflowed with condolence cards. In the middle of it was a silver-framed photograph of Mrs McKendrick with two young men either side, both towering over her, and a younger girl in front.The younger boy was obviously Kieran, longish fair hair and wide cheeky grin, happy and only faintly embarrassed to be hugging his mum. Ryan was taller and broader, his dark blond hair close cropped with an air of confidence about him. Undoubtedly the man of the house. There was a determination about him too, a steely look in his eyes and a protectiveness. You wouldn’t mess with him, that was for sure. In front was Suzanne, gazing up at Ryan with undisguised admiration.

‘That was taken on my birthday,’ she said from behind him. ‘Ryan was home on leave and with Kieran about to go to university, well it just seemed a good time to get a photograph of the four of us. It turned out to be the last one.’

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t be here for the funeral,’ Winter told her after he sat down. ‘I was away.’

She nodded distractedly as if she couldn’t care less and began to light a cigarette, her hands shaking.

‘I haven’t been able to get hold of Ryan,’ he added. ‘Is he back at sea?’

‘Yes, yes, he’s back at sea.’

Something about the speed with which she answered made him doubt her. It was just too quick, too keen to confirm. She either knew that was untrue or else she doubted it herself. He wasn’t going to call her on it though.

‘I’m really sorry I missed him. Did he have to go back straight after the funeral?’

‘No, he was allowed back for three days after it. To look after me and Suzanne, I suppose. Then he had to go again.’

‘How was he, Mrs McKendrick?’

She looked up from a thread in the carpet that she’d been studying and considered the question as she dragged on her cigarette.

‘Not himself. Not himself at all. He blames himself for not being here when Kieran . . . but he couldn’t be. He’s got his career. But . . . he’s, he’s . . . he was . . .’

‘Kieran’s big brother?’ Winter guessed.

‘Yes. I kept telling him that it wasn’t his fault but he wouldn’t listen. He took it really badly. He wanted to know how it had happened and why Kieran’s pals hadn’t looked after him. He just couldn’t let it go.’

‘I guess he went to talk to them?’

‘He said he did but he was angry when he came back because they wouldn’t tell him much. Too scared of the police, I suppose. He was like a tiger in a cage when he was here. All he would do was talk about Kieran and things they’d done. Spent so much time in Kieran’s room. And he was always talking about Grahamston.’

‘Grahamston?’

‘Yes, he kept going on about it. It was like he was obsessed. He kept saying how terrible it was that he and Kieran would never be able to go to Grahamston again. How he’d promised Kieran that he’d go with him one more time and how you should always keep a promise.’

Winter realized that the woman wasn’t really talking to him any more, she was looking at the floor reminiscing. Her mind was probably full of images of two wee boys playing together, best pals, all their lives before them.

‘Grahamston, Grahamston. It was all he talked about. As if it could bring Kieran back. As if . . .’

She stopped mid-sentence, remembering for the first time in a few minutes that her youngest son was dead and suffering the shock all over again. Tears welled up in her eyes and Winter felt a complete bastard. He had to ask one more question though, despite the fact that he had a good idea what the answer was.

‘Did he tell you what that was all about, Mrs McKendrick. Did he say where he meant by Grahamston?’

‘No. He never told me. Neither of them ever did. It was always this silly secret they had since they were wee. I’d hear them mentioning it but they’d always shush up. I think they were worried their dad would give them trouble over it whatever it was. Do you know what it was all about? Did Ryan ever mention it to you?’

‘No, never,’ he answered truthfully. ‘He never mentioned it to me.’

It was a half-truth though. A lie in other words. He was pretty sure he knew what Grahamston meant and if he was right then he was about to do maybe the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life.

Mrs McKendrick nodded at him sadly, flicking the smouldering end of her fag into the ashtray below.

‘You can always ask him when he gets home, I guess,’ he murmured.

‘Eh? Yes, yes I can. When he gets back from sea. I’ll ask him. Is there anything else, Tony, because I’ve got to make Suzanne’s tea. She’ll be in soon and she’ll be hungry.’

‘No, nothing. I’ll get out your way.’

Winter got to his feet and she led him to the front door, her eyes welling up with some new memory. It was an awkward moment as they both hesitated, unsure what to do. He offered an uneasy handshake which she began to reach towards before changing tack and taking another half-step closer and giving him a brief hug.

‘It’s always good to see the boys’ old friends again,’ she mumbled. ‘You take care of yourself now.’

The door shut behind him and he made his way down and out of the close as quickly as he could.

There were two Grahamstons. One in Falkirk, about twenty-five miles away, with a railway station, a crumbling football stadium and a retail park. The other was right underneath Glasgow and over 100 years away. It was possible that the McKendrick boys were always talking about running off to Falkirk together but that didn’t seem very likely. Vegas it wasn’t.

Winter remembered when he was wee, Uncle Danny telling him about the secret village that existed underneath Glasgow. Grahamston used to be a thriving community, a couple of thousand people living in a commercial and industrial hub right at the heart of the city. All roads led to Rome but in Glasgow they all went through Grahamston.It stood on the main east-west route and then later it was on the main north-south link as well. The roads to all the main towns of central Scotland, and from the Forth and Clyde canal to the ships at the Broomielaw, they all went through Grahamston.

It was at the crossroads of Union Street and Jamaica Street with Argyle Street and it was one of the busiest in Europe. Some Glaswegians will tell you it was the busiest intersection in the world at one time. There was only one street in Grahamston itself, Alston Street, and it ran the length of the village. The first permanent theatre in Glasgow, the Alston Street Playhouse, was built there in 1764, although technically it stood just outside the then city boundary.

Alston Street had a sugar refinery, warehouses, carters’ yards, pubs, houses and three hundred shops all crammed between Mitchell Street and Waterloo Street. It was famous for its breweries and that endeared it to many a man in the empire’s second city. It was some place, alright.

Winter remembered Danny showing him this old map one afternoon in the Mitchell Library. It was Glasgow in the late 1700s and to his young eyes it was amazing. This tiny city mapped out where there ought to have been the giant metropolis that he lived in. Some of the streets that he knew so well were still there and that just made it all the stranger. Buchanan Street and the High Street cutting great swathes south while one big street ploughed east to west. It started in the east as Gallowgate Street then became Trongate Street and, finally, Argyle Street.

He could remember the map like it was yesterday. He’d said it looked like had been soaked in tea and Uncle Danny had laughed. There were hardly any houses and so many fields. The big street that ran to the west, ended at a place that was spelt out in capitals as GRAHAMSTON. It had even fewer houses than the middle of the city and he’d asked Uncle Danny if it was still there.

‘Well, wee man,’ he said to him. ‘There’s a very interesting question. Some say it is and some say it isn’t.’

Winter’s eyes had grown large with wonder and Danny promised he’d tell him all about it on the way home. He had him hooked on every word as he told him how the village had grown from a row of thatched cottages to this important place, of all the people that lived there and how, with a wink, he told him of the vital role of its breweries in the life of the city.

But then came growing industrialization and Grahamston simply got in the way. Glasgow was getting bigger and bigger and people wanted to travel to and from it to the rest of Scotland and beyond. The Caledonian Railway wanted to build a huge new station to service the trains and the people. In the late 1800s they began building Central Station, moved the people out of Grahamston and the demolition crews in. They constructed the giant station right on top of the old place. Some say they knocked down Alston Street, some say they didn’t.

Danny told him how some people believe that Grahamston was still there, right under the platforms and the arches of Central Station. They say that Alston Street is intact, just the way it was the day they moved the people out. He spun this marvellous tale, making Grahamston out to be Glasgow’s version of Pompeii, a place frozen in time by the intervention of progress rather than molten lava. What got him was that there were still two buildings from old Grahamston actually standing in modern Glasgow, the Grant Arms beside the Heilan’man’s Umbrella and the Rennie Mackintosh Hotel in Union Street, the one that used to be Duncan’s Temperance Hotel. Makes you think, if they are still there . . .

Mind you, Danny also told him how people said that there was still silver in the shops because the shopkeepers were moved out so quickly that they didn’t have time to take it all away with them. When he was eighteen Winter realized that was bollocks but when he was eight, he truly believed.

He never forgot the story of Grahamston. It was easy to see why boys like Rory and Kieran would be drawn by it, the sense of mystery and adventure, the lost silver and the thought of Alston Street still standing, waiting to be explored. The temptation to run away to Grahamston must have been huge.

From the instant the name fell from Mrs McKendrick’s lips, it reminded him that Central Station was where the first of the shootings took place. Cairns Caldwell shot down within a couple of hundred yards from the Rennie Mackintosh Hotel and right above the tracks of the station, right above the old village. And the man that fired the shot had simply vanished as if he’d dropped into the bowels of the earth.

There was little doubt in his mind. Grahamston was where he’d find McKendrick. The only real question was whether he
wanted
to find him.