Referendum (20 page)

“So that makes it OK does it? It might have escaped your attention but the vote’s in a couple of weeks, the outcome of which could have serious consequences for us.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?”

“Let’s be clear then, we’re going to put out pictures of the crowd asking for me to be sacked but we won’t show the rabid reaction I got. Some of them looked like they wanted to kill me.”

Bill was massaging his nose with his thumb and index finger. Sighing, he agreed, “Sometimes I know how they feel.”

Sandy was exhausted, he didn’t understand why the corporation always had to back down, “This will continue you know, every report will be scrutinised and replayed on social media. They won’t stop.”

“They’ve every right to scrutinise us but you and I both know that our coverage is balanced. Every report is logged; we have a concrete record of what we do. And given we’ve had an SNP government for more than seven years I think it’s fair to say that the nationalists have been getting a pretty good crack of the whip.”

“Well it’s been easy streets for them hasn’t it? When there’s no real opposition.”

“Look, Sandy, I feel your pain but we can’t open up a can of worms on this one. If we go gunning for them it gets personal and they get more ammunition to use against us. I don’t want the BBC to become part of the story.”

“But we already are Bill, can’t you see?”

“Not tonight, Sandy. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

“I hope that’s not a decision we come to regret, because as far as I can see, it’s bullshit.”

Outside the protestors had started to disperse, the images from the day were racking up high viewing figures on blogs and online news sites. Public opinion was starting to shift.

***

The whisky burned his neck as he slugged back the shot. He was angry because the deal had fallen through. To be more accurate the deal was ‘on hold’ until after the Referendum. Steve Jeffson wasn’t happy. He’d been chasing the client for the best part of two years. From the initial interest shown for the site, through to planning permission, and initial design, things had moved slowly but surely. But when business leaders started to get concerns about the possibility of the UK splitting up, things had changed pretty quickly.

Steve Jeffson had owned the site since 2007. The three acre plot near to Glasgow Airport had permission for mixed use with office accommodation and a hotel both being considered. But the company he was working with had got cold feet. London based, and seeing Scotland through the prism of national media coverage there was real concern about the future. They said they didn’t know if there would be currency differences, transaction taxes, and different rates. They said there were too many variables. He’d argued that nothing would change, that if anything, a breakaway state might even offer better incentives for them to bring their business to Scotland. But they hadn’t listened, weren’t interested.

Last night’s TV report had been the final straw. The financial backers had pulled the cash, saying they’d need to wait and see how things went before they could reconsider. Steve Jeffson suspected they’d been looking for an excuse to pull the project for some time. The economy was still slow and the office development would have been speculative, still high risk given the lack of interest. It didn’t matter though as the deal was off. Worse than that his loan was up with the bank and it would be difficult to refinance. All things considered it had been a bad investment and all thanks to this bloody referendum. He asked the barman for another whisky; just one more hit and then home. But his host was shaking his head.

“Think you’ve had enough, why don’t you call it a night.”

Steve Jeffson was going to argue but he knew he was right, the game was up.

***

The bags seemed to appear overnight. On the grey asphalt of George Square people started to leave donations for the new Glasgow Food Bank.  At first just a few, but within days the numbers had exploded.

Karen Balfour was one of three people manning the stall; a makeshift office made up of an old collapsible table with a banner tied to the front, which flapped underneath in the light summer breeze.

It seemed the obvious place to set up. Last year, the terror attack at the Cenotaph had killed 15 people and candles were still left every Sunday to remember the dead. Always a focal point for the city, the Square was taking on a new role, with activists hoping to send a message about the kind of country Scotland had become.

Karen met Jamie Ogilvie by chance. She’d been looking to volunteer for the ‘Yes’ campaign at a rally when he’d asked her why she was there. It had seemed an odd question. She told him she was out of work and wanted to get involved. Jamie insisted that her life could be better if only her employers adopted new ways of working. He’d explained why Zero Hours contracts were abusing workers rights; that she wasn’t alone and more and more people were being left to wait for work like she was. He’d asked if she knew about food banks. Karen admitted she’d been using one to tide her over, explained about the baby, about why she didn’t know where the father was. He said he was setting up a new food bank, not one just to feed people but to inspire change. Jamie Ogilvie said it wasn’t right that people were living like this in the 21
^st
century. Karen agreed. That was three weeks ago. Today she could see they’d captured the public mood.

Once word got out people came in their hundreds. The asphalt was lost to a rainbow of plastic bags which stretched from the Walter Scott monument in the middle of the Square right up to the Cenotaph. There were so many bags, so many people coming that the Council had fenced off the war memorial. One of the heads of the ceremonial lions at the Cenotaph had been removed to have blast damage repaired. A heras fence barred the way to the public, the steel grid serving as a focal point for messages of support. There were donations as far as the eye could see. It was the scale that really hammered home the point. Karen watched as more people came and left donations. The orange, blue, and green plastic bags rustled in the wind with their handles taut with expectation as tins, cereal, powered milk and tea were left behind. Left in the hope that people could be helped, but really more in the expectation that something was about to change, that charity like this would soon become a thing of the past.

Walking through the mass of food left for pick-up Karen read some of the signs that had been left. There was one which dominated, one that was being photographed most often.

And there’s a hand my trusted friend

And gie’s a hand o’ thine

We’ll take a cup of kindness yet

For auld lang syne

Karen couldn’t quite put her finger on what exactly was happening but every day more people came. Saltires on white plastic poles cast long shadows across the Square. There were hundreds of young people, people like her that until recently she wouldn’t have expected to be political. The TV crews were there nightly too, reporters from around the world trying to make sense of something that no-one had expected to blossom so quickly. Even so, the expectation was for the ‘No’ campaign to win. Karen didn’t know it then, but that was all about to change.

***

The meal had left a slight strain on the conversation. Beckie knew that their relationship had taken a step back. It wasn’t dead in the water but Beckie had hurt John’s feelings, she could see it in his eyes. She’d asked him back to the house after the meal and brought him round, teased him and seduced him. Two hours later he was asleep, definitely; content, perhaps.

Arbogast slept with his hand draped across Beckie’s side, his face wet with perspiration. Eventually she pushed him away, waking him.

Checking the time he could see it was still early. 3:30am. It had been quite a night and he felt physically and emotionally drained. Walking through to the bathroom he stopped to look out of the landing window. It was the dead of night but the city was still at work. Beckie’s split-level flat in Anderson was part of a redeveloped high rise complex. It had been transformed from tawdry to top-of-the-range. It was the kind of place he should be staying himself.
Why did she say no? It made sense to live together.
He had also failed to mention the thing he really wanted to raise – he was going to have to speak to Rose about the situation with Donald. It was a risky thing to do and it could easily backfire. But he wanted to do the right thing; he wanted Beckie to know he would be speaking with his ex. If she found out later she might expect he’d been trying to get back together with her. The chance of that happening was practically zero but he wanted to reassure her he was still committed. Arbogast wondered if that was why he’d thought about moving in here, just a simple gesture to show how much he cared.
Ach, John, it’s late and you’re talking shite. There’s plenty of time to think about this tomorrow.
But he knew he wouldn’t sleep. A hundred different plans were trying to get his attention and his subconscious couldn’t cope. He became aware of the fact that he was cold, cold and naked and standing by an open window. Across the street a light flicked off.
Did someone see me? Does it even matter?
Arbogast went back to bed and put his arm around Beckie.
Whatever happens next, this is good enough for now.
 

29

The electricity went off at 11:38am. With every turn of the meter’s wheel came fresh debt, the price of modern living. Channels switched, irons hissed, phones charged, the world kept turning. But it all stopped at 11:38am.

Lorna had been expecting it. After the court case it had been even harder to get work. Her record meant there was an issue of trust, it put people off. Suddenly she wasn’t the kind of person they wanted. And that was just for customer service jobs. At a DIY superstore she’d been asked to do aerobics as part of the interview, a dispiriting experience; each of the 20 people there felt the same. They were the first batch of five, all of them chasing just two jobs. She hadn’t got far with that one. Then the letters had started to arrive. Letters she didn’t even open. Unpaid bills and no money coming in, but she was past caring and couldn’t pay.
Let them do their worst.

They did. Sitting cold and alone on her couch Lorna wasn’t sure what to do. She’d sent Leona to stay with her aunt in Paisley; after the incident with the loan sharks it was the best thing for her. Of course she’d wanted to stay and help but it was too late for that. She’d tried to take matters into her own hands but she was young and didn’t know how things worked. The debt was starting to creep up again and the worst thing was that she couldn’t imagine circumstances where it would ever go away. There was one thing Lorna could think of that might help but the thought of it made her feel sick. But there was no room for pride. They’d gone from a happy family to destitution in the space of a year. There was no-one to look out for them now; she’d just have to find a way to cope. Tonight was going to be the start of a new life; one she hoped would be short lived.

***

He knew the flat would be empty for the next two hours so he took the chance to turn it over. Ian Davidson had been cautious for the last few weeks. He’d taken the time to learn Niall Murphy’s routine, sussed out who his main contacts were and documented everything. The evidence against him was now pretty damning, certainly enough to keep Donald happy. Or so he’d thought. His boss was getting jittery, said there was evidence against him from the old days, evidence that might be at the flat, so he’d gone to look.

It wasn’t much to look at. Murphy was living in a one bedroom tenement flat in Sword Street. Davidson assumed he’d taken the digs as a joke, a blunt reminder of his hard man status. It was all a bit comic book but it seemed to be working for him. He could hear the younger ones mouthing off about ‘Mad Murphy from Sword Street.’ The ground floor flat had once been a shop, with empty units on either side. The front had been concreted over and painted red in an attempt to match the sandstone. It hadn’t worked. The close door was lying open with the metallic security strip hanging off. Davidson thought it was an unusual mistake to find at this flat, the gateway to one of the city’s up and coming money men.

Inside, he wasted no time and put his weight behind the flat door which swung open quite easily, held shut by a flimsy Yale lock.
Another surprise.
Perhaps he doesn’t think he’ll be targeted.
Inside there was nothing much to see. It looked as if the flat had been furnished some time back. A matted, blue shag pile carpet welcomed him to the hall. There was a musty cigarette smell.
The place needs an airing.
Davidson was looking for a specific item but it was unlikely that it would be left out in plain view. There were only three rooms including the kitchen so he worked quickly, pulling everything out, making it look like a random break-in. Clothes, cutlery, and furniture were dragged out and tipped over but he couldn’t find what he was looking for. Then something in the bedroom caught his eyes. In the corner there was a section of carpet that bulged out slightly as if it wasn’t nailed down. Pulling back the fabric Davidson saw the floorboards had been replaced by chipboard. There was a finger hole in the wood which he grasped and pulled at. About a foot below he saw what he’d come for. Murphy had been naive to leave it behind.

***

Graeme Donald was pacing again, something he’d been doing a lot of lately. Murphy was starting to get a bit above himself these days. He’d heard the stories from Ian Davidson.
The man’s doing a good job, but the time for watching’s coming to an end.
Murphy had been in touch again. He’d leapt out on him in the city centre a few days ago trying to be funny.