Referendum (15 page)

But she was getting worried.
There’s no-one else in the flat. What if he won’t stop; what if he gets violent?
She looked past him but the door was closed. She wouldn’t be able to get past.
Fuck.
She heard a groan and looked back to Paul. He’d cum on himself.
What a dirty bastard.

“That’s gross, Paul; what’s wrong with you?” He looked embarrassed. “You’ve gone too far.” Leona sidled past and Paul said nothing more, just sat there staring into space. Back in her bedroom Leona got dressed quickly and left.

Arbogast followed the taxi in his Lexus; careful to hold back and not drive too close behind. They seemed to catch every red light going, but Murphy was heading north, up past the Parade and under the motorway to Royston. In the back of the cab he could see that Murphy was on the phone. The taxi wound round the backstreets and up through an estate. The road sign said it was a dead end so Arbogast stopped and waited. He crouched down when the cab came back about five minutes later, but he needn’t have bothered, Murphy wasn’t there.

Taking the camera he focused on the end of the road. It looked like there was a small car park and turning point for the surrounding estate. Arbogast thought that it looked as if it had been thrown up in the 90s; the yellow brick was already badly discoloured. Then as quickly as he’d disappeared from sight Murphy was back, aimlessly walking around the car park, like he was waiting for someone. He looked up the road. Arbogast froze, he was worried the glint of the lens might give him away but if he saw it he showed no signs.

About half an hour passed before another car; an Audi, rumbled past. It turned at the bottom of the road and parked out of sight. The registration plate seemed familiar but he couldn’t place it. On hands free he asked his phone to call Chris Guthrie.

“Chris – John here. I need you to run a plate for me. It’s high priority. Can you do it?”

“Sure thing, John; fire away.”

“S014 XRZ.”

There was a pause at the other hand. Arbogast could hear the insistent hammering of the keyboard followed by the regular thuds of the Enter key.

“Why are you looking up that particular plate, John?”

“I’m in a bit of a situation, Chris; I just need to know who owns the car.”

“Nobody owns it, John. It’s one of ours. The car’s registered to Graeme Donald.”

Arbogast was stunned. He knew the licence because he saw it every day. He didn’t want to get involved with Donald, the stakes were too high, but this changed things. Sandy had been right, Donald was mixing with some of the wrong people, and it looked as if he was starting to get more comfortable using dangerous contacts to keep people quiet.

“Thanks, Chris; look, don’t mention this to anyone at all OK?”

“No worries, is this something we need to talk about?”

“Not now, but soon – I think we may have a serious problem.”

It was only a four mile walk but with so many people crowding the streets it felt more like a marathon.  The guy on the radio told Leona that 20 thousand people were expected at Glasgow Green for fireworks, while another 40 thousand were at Celtic Park for the closing ceremony of the 2014 Games. With 60 thousand extra people clogging the arteries of the East End, the festival of sport was making it difficult for her to keep a low profile.

Cars sat in deadlock on the roads while people spilled over from pavements onto roads. They were all in a hurry; they all had somewhere to go. Leona was irritated by Games volunteers who lurked at every corner with their big dumb green foam fingers. If she heard ‘high five’ one more time someone was getting punched.
What’s the point of any of this? What does any of it even mean?
Everyone she knew couldn’t even afford tickets for the Games, and while it seemed to have gone well what good was it doing? Leona felt uneasy every time she passed one of the armed guards, their low slung machine guns contrasting with the jokey approach the Police were taking to the passing crowd. ‘Can I get a picture with your gun, mate?’
People are weird.
Then the icing on the cake, just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the mascot turned up. A man dressed up as the kiddies’ friendly thistle. A grown man was bent over waving his big thistley hands, giving her the thumbs up.

“Fuck you, Clyde; we’re not all happy to be here you know.”

The mascot stopped and slumped, pantomiming dejection, and for a second Leona felt bad and she called back, “I know you’re only doing a job but for fuck’s sake, leave me alone.” The crowds thinned out after she got past Celtic Park. Bereft of an audience the outlying volunteers showed less enthusiasm and talked among themselves. She was going against the crowd anyway so they didn’t bother ‘pointing the way’. She knew where she was going anyway. Home.

Lorna McMahon wanted a drink. She fantasised about dropping three cubes of ice in a glass, hearing it split and fizz as the gin poured over; with the splash and glug of the tonic rounding it off. But looking at the space where the freezer once stood she didn’t even have the ice. In the background she could hear the tannoy from Parkhead. The pre-show entertainment was underway and there was no way of drowning out the noise. She didn’t even have the luxury of leaving the house because she was still in too much pain to walk anywhere, and had no cash for the bus.
Just to get out and go anywhere would be a blessing.
Looking around the house she was resigned to the fact that her life was not going to plan, it probably never would again.
How can it when so much has already gone wrong?
A fierce rage came across her. She wanted to shout; to scream her name, let people know she wasn’t down and out just yet but she couldn’t.
Just do it. I can’t. DO IT!
The tension got too much; she needed a release. Screaming she picked up a bottle from an abandoned recycling pile and threw it, the pieces shattering off the hall wall.
That felt better.
She felt alive if only for a split second. Sliding down the wall Lorna sat with her head in her hands and sobbed herself into a fitful sleep.

In her dream she was happy. The scene was almost dull. She was with Horace and Leona in the supermarket; they were filling up the trolley singing ‘
Food glorious food’.
Although the dream was about her she could see herself clearly, had full sight of the whole family; all of them skipping down the aisle, happy as they’d ever been. Then a rollercoaster drove her ever downwards. Horace was in the first carriage with Leona behind him, while she was bringing up the rear. The ride was fast. It was making her feel ill. In her vision she could see the structure start to buckle and warp. She watched in horror as bolts came loose. She knew what was coming but couldn’t do anything to stop it. Horace was the first to go. The rails fell away and she watched in horror as he sailed past her, smiling and waving ‘See you later love.” Lorna couldn’t move, she was looking for Leona but she was nowhere to be seen. Her carriage continued, up and down, round and about. All the way she was screaming for Leona while her husband circled around her waving and smiling, smiling and waving. She tried to get out of the carriage but couldn’t move. She was shaking the bar but it wouldn’t budge. Shaking. Shaking Shaking. In the distance Leona seemed to be calling. It seemed closer than ever but it couldn’t be her, she was nowhere to be seen.

“Where are you, Leona? Why can’t I see you? I need to know you’re OK.”

Then with a start she was wide awake. Leona was standing in front of her. She looked well. She was smiling, a real smile Lorna feared she would never see again.

“I’ve been trying to wake you up for ages. I’m back mum and I’m OK. I thought you were dead but I heard your message on TV. I came home. I’m so sorry, I just didn’t know what else to do.”

Lorna stared in disbelief, unsure if she was still asleep. But no, this was real. At last something good in her life. In the background the music had started for the closing ceremony. The Games were over.

Referendum

24

August 29
^th

Bar staff saw it all, and since the campaign for the Scottish independence referendum had got underway, Greg McPherson had seen more than most. The two men in the corner were the latest example of a heated debate in the current climate. He was starting to regret renaming the pub. Trade had been slow and the independence campaign offered a quirky idea that he’d gambled might get more people through the doors. He’d been right, the timing was perfect. The ‘Ya know’ bar opened on August 18
^th
, a month before the vote. He’d managed to get a local journalist along, whose report had rippled-out across the UK. Reporters looking for opposing views came down every other day to quiz people on their views. And it wasn’t just Scottish media, the interest was international. He had specially brewed ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ beers on tap and nothing else. That way you knew where you stood, just by looking at the glasses. So far the debate had been good natured, but the two guys in the snug were really starting to go at each other.

Grant Portland met Frank Paterson for a beer every Friday night. They’d gone to school together, worked together, gone on double dates together, but the one thing they could not agree on was politics.

Grant knew they’d taken a wrong turn when they came into a referendum theme pub, as the vote was a subject they both fundamentally disagreed on. Sitting glaring at their polemically opposed pints, the conversation drifted into unchartered territory. Grant was getting angry. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Frank stuck to the script. “I mean that it’s a lot of shite, and you know it. You’re asking whether we have enough money from our oil reserves to maintain public spending if Scotland voted ‘Yes’; well of course it doesn’t. Read the bloody figures.”

Grant was shaking his head. “The oil argument’s a red herring. That money would be an added bonus, not the basis for the whole economy.”

Frank made a face like he’d opened a dirty nappy, “An added bonus; are you soft in the head, man? Without it we’d be missing billions from the economy. Billions. Where would that leave us? With massive cuts, and that’s all.”

“Like the cuts we’re already seeing under the Tories you mean?”

“Last time I looked the SNP had been in charge for the last seven years. What are they doing?”

“Standing up for the people of Scotland is what they’ve been doing.”

“Bullshit. They blame all the bad stuff on Westminster and everything else is down to them. It’s nonsense and you know it.”

“How’s it nonsense? It is nonsense that they want to represent our views, make a stand and make a better world for everyone living in this country.”

“That’s birthday card pish and you know it. You can’t just wish away reality and hope for the best.”

“Hope over fear my friend. That’s my party right there, and that’s what I’ll be voting for.”

Greg McPherson decided that enough was enough.
These two idiots have been sitting for long enough. Instant arseholes, just add alcohol. Look at them shouting at each other, best friends with voices raised, and getting noticed by the punters; time for the old pals two to call it a night.

“Excuse me gents, I’m going to have to ask you to leave. You’re annoying the other customers,” He’d seen this type before; best of friends usually, but the mood changed when politics called. It seemed you couldn’t walk the length of yourself without seeing a yellow banner somewhere. He was ignored. The shouting continued.

“So you’d rather take the word of a red Tory than one of your own, is that what you’re saying?”

Greg noticed the taller of the two was gripping his glass slightly too tightly. The argument was getting out of hand; they were both red in the face. He leaned in to take the glass but it was a mistake. The glass smashed off the table and was thrust back in his direction. The smaller man stood up with wild eyes and threatened him with a broken glass, the dregs of the beer running down his arm, “Don’t you come near me you bastard. Imagine running a pub like this and not even taking a view, using the vote to make a quick buck. You’re a bloody profiteer.”

His rant was cut short when Grant jabbed him with his left fist. He’d boxed a bit in his time and when Frank dropped the glass he followed through with a swinging right. Greg stepped back. The pub stopped to watch. The fight was more enticing than the nil-nil draw playing out on the TV screens. The recently arrived reporter was happy too, the pictures told their own story. By the time the Police arrived Greg McPherson was happy just to have some peace and quiet.

***

Arbogast was already sick to death hearing about the Referendum. It was the only thing anyone was talking about, although so far the amount of actual information available seemed thin on the ground. It boiled down to the passive aggressive campaign of the ‘Yes’ camp, to the out and out aggressive doom-mongering of the ‘Nos.’ Fortunately he’d decided to leave the country, for a while anyway.

The last few weeks had been spent trying to find out more about Niall Murphy, but it was proving harder than expected. Unusually for a man in his position his record was clean. Spotless. There was nothing on file that suggested he was involved in any criminal activity, but it was clear he knew Donald. It seemed reasonable that Sandy was telling the truth when he said he’d been targeted by Murphy after asking about Donald. The two seemed linked and Arbogast needed to know more. He was taking a risk looking into his boss and he knew it; if he was caught out his life would become difficult, he’d probably be drummed out of the force. Constructive dismissal cases weren’t hard to make against Police officers. They were few and far between but when they put their minds to it the top brass could build a rock solid case against one of their own.