Referendum (21 page)

“What do you want? We can’t be seen together, you know that.”

“I need a favour.”

“You’re not due any. You seem to be doing OK; don’t forget that’s something in my power to take away.”

“I’ve got too much on you, Graeme; you don’t get to call the shots.”

But Graeme Donald had had enough. He grabbed his self-styled nemesis by the throat and pushed him back into an alley, “Now you listen to me, Murphy. This is a two-way process. You’ve got shit on me but I’ve got a whole lot more on you, so watch your step.”

Murphy was smiling, “Hey, what’s with all this aggression, man? I thought we were just talking?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m allowing you to grow and you’re allowing yourself to stay the fuck away from me. Don’t push too far.”

“Don’t forget we go way back and I’ve got a long memory. My information will do you more harm than yours will to me, so maybe it’s time to consider what it is you really want from life. It might just have been me a few weeks ago, but I’ve got clout now. People respect me and I’m growing, we both know that. But sometimes there are complications which need to be dealt with. Now is one of those times. I need your permission to deal with it.”

Graeme Donald wanted to walk away, he shouldn’t be doing deals with parasites like this but for now he had to grin and bear it, “Let’s hear it then.” Donald listened as Murphy talked; he had a lot to say, some of it surprising. After he’d finished, though, one thing was clear – he now had options, and Murphy’s demise was just a matter of time.

30

Times changed and these days Arbogast had to make an appointment to see Rosalind Ying. It wasn’t so long ago that his former partner would have welcomed an illicit visit, but that life was gone and today’s meeting was strictly business. She kept him waiting for half an hour while she talked on the phone. He knew it wasn’t a work call by the tone of her voice, that and the constant giggling, something she only did when she was flirting. Arbogast was starting to get annoyed.
Would she have kept anyone else waiting this long? I doubt it.
Finally he heard the phone clatter back onto its cradle and he was called in. There was nothing in Rosalind’s eyes to suggest she was happy to see him.

“DI Arbogast. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

So impersonal, is this the way it needs to be?
  He supposed it didn’t really matter.
Still, she’s got a way of getting under my skin.
“You’re looking well, Rosalind.”

“That’s DCI Ying to you. Let’s not stray off the path. Don’t forget who you’re speaking to.”

No need to be such a bitch about it
. Her expression suggested he’d said that out loud but he was pretty sure he hadn’t. She just knew how his mind worked, had probably guessed what he was thinking.
Stop dwelling on the past and get to the point.

“I’ve got something I need to discuss with you that is of a particularly sensitive nature, something that I need to ask for your complete discretion on.”

“Sounds serious, I hope it’s not a personal issue because you already know my feelings on that.”

Arbogast nodded, “It’s not an issue you’ll be familiar with but it’s one which needs to be looked at. It needs to be you that deals with it. I’m not sure who else to trust.”

Rosalind wasn’t sure what was coming but it didn’t sound like something she was going to enjoy, “You’ll find no favours through flattery, but I have five minutes if you want to make your case.”

No need to make sound so officious.
Arbogast wasn’t convinced this was a good idea but he wouldn’t be able to see it through by himself, “It’s about Graeme Donald.”

“For fucks sake, John. Not this again. Didn’t you get burned enough the last time when you went chasing this ball?”

“I’m not a dog.”

“Well guess what? The ball’s burst. Donald’s pretty much Mr Teflon these days and you have no proof to suggest otherwise.”

“I didn’t the last time—”

“—but this time’s different? Look I don’t want any part in it.”

“I’ve been to Belfast. I’ve spoken to people he’s been involved with over there, people he’s intimidated and tortured. I have evidence linking him to a loan shark in Glasgow, someone who has been making people’s lives a misery. It’s also possible he was involved in the death of Ian Wark.”

It didn’t happen very often but Rosalind Ying was speechless. She sat with her jaw hanging open, like she was groping for words, “You’re off the scale. Do you seriously expect me to get involved?”

“He’s dangerous, Rosalind. You have to know how difficult it’s been for me to come to you. He’s set the dogs on Sandy as well. You might remember the pictures in the paper?”

This time she laughed, “And you’re telling me Donald did that? Anything else or are we done at murder, torture, and conspiracy?”

“I know how it sounds.”

“I don’t think you do, because if you did we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“I know we’ve had our differences in the past but this isn’t personal.”

“No, there would be no reason for you to be gunning for the man that gave me my job would there? No personal agenda at all. It was great to see you, John, but you need to leave. I’m going to do you a massive favour and not mention this, but if I hear anything more you’ll be hammered for it, do you understand?”

It had been the response Arbogast had expected but he had hoped for better, that the trust they used to share might count for something.
Obviously I was wrong
. “If it’s proof you need then here it is,” He threw a brown A4 envelope onto her desk, “There’s a lot in there: photos, tapes, and signed statements. It’s all pretty damning.”

“Where did you get this?”

“Like I said, I went to Belfast.”

“Which has never seen the light of day before because?”

“Why do you think? Because Donald was the man in charge, because the information was suppressed, because what he did over there he’s now starting to do over here, with impunity. Because people like you are happy to turn a blind eye.”

That last one got her. Rosalind could be accused of many things but dishonesty wasn’t one of them. He made to leave the room, “Just do me the favour of looking at the files and make sure it’s not left out for anyone to find. If you still don’t believe me feel free to destroy it. But take my word for it, Rosalind – the man’s poison.”

As he went back to his desk he wasn’t sure if the hard boiled routine had been such a good idea.

***

With no electricity Lorna McMahon was reduced to the basics. With the shower off the grid, she washed herself with cold water. She was thinking about tonight, didn’t really know what to expect. For the most part she didn’t want to think about it. She’d done her research and asked around; it seemed as if she might be able to make decent money if she played it smart. If she could work for just a few months she was certain she should be able to pay off the debt. Then she could maybe think about having something like a normal life.

She wore the red dress again. She looked good in it and she wanted to be noticed, that would be important. Lorna didn’t have much make-up left but what little she did, was applied.

At 11:00pm she left the house, walking down parallel to the railway line at Duke Street and then along towards the brewery. She knew where she was going. She’d heard that the wasteland was a hot spot, somewhere people avoided late at night. The pub had shut; it was the last part of a long gone tenement block, a lonely survivor for people who refused to give up on tradition. That was one thing that couldn’t be said of her. The roads were still set out in the shape of the housing estate that had once graced this part of town. Long demolished there was a ghost grid of forgotten properties. She took up her spot in one of the roads parallel to the main drag. She waited, was nervous. She didn’t feel safe; jumped when an urban fox dislodged gravel behind her as it sloped past. She watched as the street lights made lasers of its eyes, its penetrating stare shining back at her in the night.
How long have I been here; how long will I need to wait?
Time passed and a few cars went by, some slowed down but sped off.
Maybe I’m not standing the right way? Is there something else I need to do to reel them in? Why does everything need to be so bloody hard?
The only thing Lorna could think of was the hunger she felt. She hadn’t eaten in a couple of days, so anything she could earn tonight would help her survive. She was out of options.

Finally someone stopped. The passenger window of the white van rolled down and a middle aged man peered over. He gestured to her to come closer.

“How much?” he said, an impersonal question for what was apparently a routine transaction.

“A hundred.”

“Expensive,” again the blasé response caught Lorna unawares; her nerves were starting to get the better of her.
Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. I don’t really know what I’m doing.
She heard a clunking noise from the back of the van and the engine switched off. The man came round the back and opened the double doors. He was just an ordinary guy, slightly overweight, with bad clothes, but he could have been anyone. He said he’d pay and was pointing inside. Looking in, Lorna could see a few blankets in the back. He’d done this before but it wasn’t how she’d imagined.

“I have a house we could go to,” but he shook his head, “I need to get back, do you want the money or not?”

This was the point where she could still walk away but he was handing her the cash, “I’ve only got £80, is that OK?”

As Lorna lay in the back of the van she tried to switch off, to think of better days ahead, but she was overwhelmed by the smell of pickled onion crisps. She wondered why he hadn’t brushed his teeth. Afterwards, he said he had expected more, something better, but he looked guilty. Lorna knew the man wouldn’t give her any trouble. She waited until he’d driven off before she threw up. Crouched down by the kerb she knew she had finally crossed the line. The old Lorna was gone. But regardless of what happened now, she at least had options and a way to care for the family. That was the only thing that mattered.

***

The Glasgow Food Bank had been popular in the press and Jamie Ogilvie was becoming embroiled in a political spat which was turning increasingly ugly. He was being accused of using hunger as a tactic to drum up support for the ‘Yes’ campaign. Rival schemes told him that donations to their established food banks were falling and that because his project wasn’t registered there was no way he could be investigated if anything went wrong. Sandy Stirrit had been asked to file a report, but Jamie Ogilvie knew who he was and wasn’t playing ball.

“I don’t need to answer your questions. All I’m doing is trying to help people.”

“So it doesn’t bother you that the existing four food banks in the city can no longer supply the people they have built up relationships with?”

“I’m only taking donations from people who want to give. Look around, we’re getting hundreds of donations every day.”

“That’s the point I’m trying to make, you’re a law unto yourself. How do you decide who gets what, and where’s all this kept?”

“Let me ask you a question. Do you think it’s right that people should have to beg for food in 2014?”

“I hardly think—”      

“—but it’s exactly the point. Under Westminster cuts these food banks have flourished. With more benefits being cut and more people pushed into zero hour contracts, families can’t survive. I don’t want to be here, but we’re making a difference.”

“You’re also making a political point. Is that fair?”

“Of course it’s fair. People are starving. But don’t take my word for it. Talk to one of our volunteers.” He scanned the crowd and waved to a young woman behind the donations counter.” A few seconds later she joined them.

“This is Karen Balfour. She’s a single mum who, until recently, was working on a zero hours contract at the Continental Gold Hotel. Ask her what she thinks.”

Sandy’s crew turned the camera on the girl, “Well Miss Balfour, do you agree?”

“I worked hard and I liked my job. I’ve a wee boy and I want the best for him. But I was brought into the office and told there was no more work. No back pay, no national insurance, no nothing. Just goodbye and thanks for turning up. I’ve applied for benefits but the claim hasn’t been processed yet so I’m here helping at the food bank.”

“But I’m sure you’ll agree these types of food banks are operating across the UK?”

“Of course, but that’s not right, and we live here. I live here and I want more than this for my kids. Who wouldn’t?”

“Some people would say that the SNP have been in power for years and yet the food banks have flourished all the same.”

“We don’t have the power to set benefits in Scotland; we’re just living with the consequences. We’re labelled as skivers by the Tories and scroungers by the red-Tories. They all want a piece of us, to tell the rich out there that poor people are bleeding them dry, but what kind of society is that? Labour have had their turn, and so have the Tories. We’ve got a chance to change things and if we can help just a few people eat at home with their families tonight, then I for one am going to do everything I can to help.”

When he was back in the editing suite the voices he heard were overwhelmingly positive, they made for a convincing emotional argument. The ‘No’ camp stuck to their mantra that the Nationalists were doing nothing to help, that their record in government was nothing to write home about.  And while Sandy saw himself as a ‘No’ voter, even he could see something he hadn’t witnessed for a long time, politics mattered.
 

31

Junior Bikana didn’t know it then, but his life was about to change for the worse. After his very public plea for asylum in the local press the athlete had been staying with Glen Eccles in Eaglesham. It was a small village and the people had been kind. Junior didn’t understand what they were saying most of the time but his English was improving. Glen had been patient and had taken time to teach him little phrases to help get him through the day. He had refused every offer of money, though, as that was not why he had run away.