Dead Won't Sleep (13 page)

They weren’t even going to make it to the flat, but she didn’t want him to stop.

He was breathless. ‘Come on. Let’s go in.’ He took her hand and they climbed the stairs to his flat and opened the door.

He slammed the door shut and they fell against the wall. Rosie kicked off her shoes and shrugged off her jacket. TJ was in his knees on the hallway, pulling at Rosie’s jeans until they were down round her ankles and she kicked them away. Through the open door, while he was easing her pants down her thighs, Rosie could see the living-room bathed in alternating flickers of light and darkness as the neon flashing from the bar across the street shone through the window. It was like a dirty movie.

‘Jesus . . .’ She closed her eyes as TJ buried his head between her legs . . .

Later, much later, Rosie opened one eye to see the morning light coming through the bay window. The sky was pale and grey. Her head was pounding. She turned slowly to where TJ was sleeping softly on the pillow next to her, and she watched his peaceful face for a moment. Then she closed her eyes, recalling the sheer craziness of last night. Christ. She’d done drunken benders before, and sure enough they’d ended like this. But the self-loathing that usually kicked in just made your hangover ten times worse, so she hadn’t been down this road for a long time. Christ almighty, this was her mate. This was worse than crazy. She turned on her side and rubbed her eyes. They were wet, and suddenly she remembered the dream again.

‘You okay, Gilmour?’ TJ stirred beside her. ‘You were crying in your sleep.’

He reached across for her hand, but didn’t open his eyes.

Rosie turned on her back and stared at the ceiling. ‘Sometimes I do that.’ She was embarrassed. ‘I wake up and my face is wet. It’s just some dream. I cry in the night.’

TJ turned to face her and propped himself up on one elbow.

‘Want to tell me about it?’ His fingers traced a line across her forehead and her cheek.

She took a deep breath and sighed. She had never told anybody before about the dream. It would mean explaining everything – her whole life. All the shit and misery she had tried so hard to put behind her, but that kept coming back to her in that dream. If only she could make it go away.

‘I see something in my dream, TJ,’ she found herself saying. ‘Something from my childhood. A lot of bad things happened. My moth—’ Tears welled up and Rosie turned on her side. She could feel his hand on her back, gently caressing her spine.

‘Sssh,’ he whispered, and moved closer to her. ‘It’s okay. Talk to me.’ He leaned close so that his head was next to hers. ‘I love you.’ His voice was soft in her ear. ‘You know that, don’t you, Rosie?’ His lips brushed against her shoulder. ‘I’m sorry if that doesn’t fit into your very ordered life, but I just wanted you to know.’

Rosie swallowed back her tears. She tried hard to get a grip of herself. Because more than anything at that
moment, she wanted to turn around and tell TJ that she loved him too. That even if last night had never happened, she loved him. That she hoped last night wouldn’t change them, now that they had been together like this. And she wanted to tell him that more than anything she was terrified of losing him.

He put his arm around her and gently pulled her onto her back. He wiped her tears with his hand and smiled.

‘Talk to me, Rosie. Come on.’

Rosie had slept for twelve hours straight. When she awoke in the bright yellow bedroom of the flat that was her temporary home, she felt refreshed. She had spent all day yesterday recovering from the night before, and she smiled now, remembering how attentive TJ had been before she had left his flat in the morning. She hadn’t expected that level of devotion. Nobody in her life had ever been like that, except one man a long time ago. And he had broken her heart. She couldn’t help herself bringing down the shutters. She could see that TJ knew, and he was wise enough to take a step back. When she said she wanted to go home, he drove her in his rickety old car to the flat, and kissed her gently on the lips before she left. No questions. No judgement.

Now, in the plush but sterile minimalist West End flat, Rosie suddenly felt more alone than she had in a long time. She’d enjoyed the clutter of TJ’s messy flat and the jazz music blaring on the stereo before she’d
even got out of bed. She must be going off her head, she told herself.

To break the silence and escape the navel gazing, she flicked on the television and watched some politician being filleted by a silver-haired presenter. Without showering, she got up and pulled on a tracksuit and went down to the newsagent’s for the Sunday papers. When she had arrived yesterday, to her surprise the fridge was already stocked with orange juice, milk and enough to keep her going. Marion was more than just an invaluable PA to McGuire, she’d been a lifesaver to Rosie. She’d bailed her out of scrapes in war-torn lands when she needed a flight, a hotel or fast cash. And they were kindred spirits, who’d a few stories to exchange at drunken office parties about the ones that got away, and the ones they were glad they let go.

After breakfast, and a long hot shower, Rosie was ready to face the world. She had made up her mind that she would go to the children’s home and look in on Gemma. TJ had told her to think twice about going down this road because she could leave herself wide open for questions, but she’d made a promise to the child. To the peaceful toll of Sunday morning church bells, she drove away from the leafy, West End avenues where people lived well-heeled lives behind big oak doors, to the rundown East End. It was a different world, not just the buildings and the sense of decay, but the people who walked the streets. You could see the poverty from their
clothes, their demeanour. You didn’t have to go into a tenement to see their struggle.

At Woodbank Children’s Home, barely any noise came from the yard where a few children played. Some kids were kicking a football, others sat on the swings, but there was none of the usual din you heard in a school-yard. No squeals or giggles. Rosie watched from her car, planning what she would tell whoever she had to deal with at the reception. She assumed that on a Sunday there would only be a skeleton staff and they may not have too much objection to a friend of Gemma’s mother calling in.

She needn’t have worried. The fat woman behind the reception was barely awake when Rosie went up to the counter and asked if it was possible to see Gemma Gillick. The woman sighed and chewed gum as she pulled a clipboard from below the desk and scanned a list of names.

‘Oh, aye. She’s still here.’ Then she looked up at Rosie for the first time.

‘Are you a relative?’

‘A friend. Of her mother’s.’

The fat woman looked her up and down, then nodded. She didn’t even ask for her name or a signature.

‘She’s in the wee cafe with another girl.’ She half smiled. ‘She’s got a new pal. It’s just along the corridor, then into the left.’ She pointed, then sat back and scratched her belly.

Rosie couldn’t believe how easy it was.

‘Thanks,’ she said, walking away. ‘I won’t be long.’

In the cafe, rows of white formica tables were empty, apart from two girls sitting at the end. Gemma was drinking from a can of Coke and the other girl, older, was swishing something around in a plastic beaker. Gemma’s eyes lit up.

‘Rosie!’ Gemma jumped out of her chair and sprinted across the wooden floor. ‘Rosie! You came!’ She threw her arms around Rosie’s waist and hugged her. Rosie patted her head, glancing around self-consciously.

The other girl, who had bright red hair swept up in a ponytail, watched from the table.

‘This is my pal, Trina. She’s ten. Her ma’s in the jail. But she’s coming back for her one day.’

Gemma took Rosie’s hand and pulled her in the direction of the table. Trina sat up straight, her face breaking into a smile. There was a sprinkling of big freckles on her cheeks.

‘Hiya,’ she said.

‘Hallo, Trina.’ Rosie smiled. ‘I’m Rosie. A friend of Gemma’s mum.’

Trina looked at her, then at Gemma, approvingly. ‘Aye,’ Trina said. ‘Gemma said she had a pal that lived in a big flat with a balcony. But I thought she was talkin’ shite.’

Rosie tried to keep a straight face.

‘Have you got a balcony? Is it true?’ The girl looked
from Gemma to Rosie, and said, ‘I know somebody who threw their baby off a balcony. She’s in jail now. She’s nuts.’ She blinked rapidly, two or three times.

‘Really?’ Rosie studied her face. Striking green eyes. They blinked again, rapidly.

‘Trina knows loadsa people.’ Gemma nodded proudly, sitting closer to her new friend. ‘She knows a lot of stuff. And she’s my best pal in here. She blinks. But she’s all right.’

‘Good for you,’ Rosie smiled. ‘Good for both of you.’

Rosie asked Gemma how she was settling in. It wasn’t too bad now that she’d met Trina, she said, but she’d wet the bed the night before last. Trina nodded as if she understood her friend’s worries. Rosie was struck by the dark circles under Trina’s blinking eyes.

The girls both talked excitedly about the kind of food they ate in the home, and about some of the other children. Rosie laughed as Gemma said she might get a boyfriend soon. They were so innocent. She could picture how they would be in a few years time, and her heart sank.

‘And sometimes we get sweets from the caretaker. He’s all right. He takes people out for the day. Just the good kids. I’m going soon.’ Gemma chattered on.

‘What do you mean, “out for the day”?’ Rosie said, the alarm going off in her head as she remembered what Mags had said in the cafe about judges and lawyers being involved with kids at a children’s home.

‘Not for the day,’ Trina said. ‘Just sometimes for the afternoon. And once I went and didn’t come back till night time.’ She blinked and looked away.

‘Who comes and takes you out?’ Rosie pretended to share their enthusiasm. Silence. Gemma looked at Trina. She looked around the room furtively, then leaned towards Rosie.

‘You’re not supposed to say anything about it,’ Trina said. ‘It’s not sore or anything. And they give you sweets and ice cream.’

Rosie felt a wave of sick apprehension.

‘You can tell me, Trina.’ Rosie knew she could be in court in a heartbeat for even beginning to question a child like this, but she couldn’t help it. ‘I’m Gemma’s pal. We talk a lot about stuff.’ Rosie moved her chair closer to the table.

Trina sat back and swigged from the beaker until it was empty. She belched and both girls giggled.

‘I don’t like the big fat guy,’ Trina said. ‘He’s all sweaty. But he gave me five pounds. I’ve hid it in a wee box in my locker. It’s mine.’

Rosie’s heart beat faster. ‘Where does this happen, Trina?’

‘In the big house.’ Trina looked out of the window, then back at Rosie. ‘It’s like them films. Like a palace or something. Miles away, past the woods and stuff. There’s big gardens and trees all cut in funny shapes.’

‘Whose house?’

‘The judge,’ Trina said, as if she was surprised that Rosie didn’t know.

Rosie’s stomach turned over. For the next five minutes she gently teased the story out of Trina. Gemma looked on fascinated, saying she was hoping to go on one of the trips soon. They didn’t happen every week, just about once a month. It was all organised by Paddy, the caretaker of the home, and usually when things were quiet. You had to be careful not to tell anyone or you would have to stay here for the rest of your life. That’s what Paddy said.

There were only about five or six got chosen and it was quite good fun. They all played games when they went into the big room with the huge crimson curtains. Then sometimes a man would take one of them away. He touched them a bit between their legs, just rubbing them, and it wasn’t sore. Sometimes you sat on their lap and you could feel something sticking into your back, and the man made funny grunting noises. It was all part of the game, but Trina said one boy started crying when a man told him to put his hand inside his trousers and feel him. That nearly wasted it for everyone. Paddy said you had to do what you were told or else it would all be finished, and there’d be no more trips, no more money and no sweets.

Rosie was trying not to show anything in her expression, and she was inwardly cursing herself for not bringing a tape recorder with her. But even if she had it on record, she knew it would incriminate her as much
as anyone else. Here she was, sitting in a children’s home with two minors, listening to a story of sexual abuse. And one of them involved some judge or other. She knew that it broke just about every rule of child protection law, and she would get the book thrown at her.

Trina couldn’t tell her much more than that one of the men was called the judge, and she described the journey to the house. It seemed to be away from Glasgow towards Edinburgh, and Rosie got the impression it was somewhere deep in the countryside. Maybe Lanarkshire. When she got back to the office she would try to find out who the judge was. McGuire would need to be given sweet tea when she told him this.

‘Okay,’ she said, eventually. ‘Listen, Gemma. I’m going to ask in the next couple of days if I can take you out for the afternoon, and maybe Trina could come too. Would you like that, Trina?’

‘Aye. Brill.’ Gemma nudged Trina who smiled broadly, still blinking.

‘Right. I’ll ask someone in charge for permission, but you’re not to say anything yet. Okay?’ She looked at Trina. ‘And I don’t think you should be saying anything about what you told me just now. That wouldn’t be good.’

‘I know.’ Trina seemed happy to have shared her secret.

Rosie got up and Gemma hugged her. ‘Will we go out soon?’ she said, looking up at her.

‘We’ll see. I’ll try. Now you be good.’ She blew her a kiss and gave Trina a wave as she turned to walk away.

‘Can we sit on your balcony?’ Trina shouted after her. ‘Maybe with a pizza? Maybe even get a video or something?’

Rosie turned to look at the two wide-eyed children.

‘Sure,’ she said, swallowing. She remembered her own childhood, the waiting and hoping someone would come. ‘Sure.’