Referendum (7 page)

Lorna was eating and waiting; she’d found a half-eaten burger lying by the street corner. A wee boy had dropped it and the parents hadn’t noticed. Lorna picked it up and wolfed it down. Thinking back to her first attempt Lorna knew there was no more room for mistakes. If she fucked up again she’d end up in trouble. Half an hour had passed and her confidence returned.
Come on Lorna, you can do this.
The next target was an older woman in her sixties. She was overweight and wore a large white floppy sun hat, with a jumper tied across her shoulders. She had a bum bag which Lorna assumed would be where the money was. Her chance came unexpectedly. The woman stopped at a stall and had unclipped the bag to get at her purse. Lorna knew she wouldn’t have a better chance. Walking past she grabbed the strap and slipped off into the crowd. By the time the woman had turned round Lorna was gone.

Her heart was racing. She’d pulled it off. In the next street she rifled through the bag. The woman was Nancy Steele, a US tourist who liked to carry plastic. There was only about £20 in the bag with several credit cards.
Damn.
She was going to have to try again.

***

Rachel Reid and Susan Ettrick knew it was too good an opportunity to miss. They’d been campaigning for the SNP for several years and the upcoming referendum campaign had unofficially been underway for the last 12 months. But it was time to get serious and they needed to make sure that everyone saw the independence movement had become an unstoppable force. Stunts like this could only help. With a huge war chest and seemingly unlimited volunteers they knew now was the time to make their mark.

“I can’t blow much longer,” Rachel was red in the face, holding a semi-inflated beach ball.

“You need to keep going; we’ve got four of these babies to blow up.”

It was going to be a small gesture but one that would be remembered. Rachel blew hard and felt the pressure strain her cheeks.
This had better be worth the effort.

***

It was a case of third time lucky for Lorna. The man smiled at her from a distance and waved at her to come and see him. He was with friends, said his name was Kenny. She flirted with him for a while; one of his friends gave her a beer. They had a laugh; the boys were all drunk, said they’d been out for a while and celebrating a big win. Kenny must have been about ten years younger but he couldn’t take his eyes of Lorna. In the background something bounced into view.

“What’s that?”

Turning round a number of huge inflatable balls were being batted around above the crowd. Whoops of delight echoed around the Victorian streets as hands were raised to push the balls along, like a giant game of table football. The ball had ‘Yes’ emblazoned on two sides. Before long four of the balls were making their way around the streets of the Merchant City as a delighted crowd, hemmed in with nowhere to go, made the most of the free entertainment. There was a loud boo when one of the balls was ripped. A young man draped in a Union Flag had burst the ball with a cigarette, but it was an empty gesture.

“Must be a ‘No’ voter, eh?” Kenny was holding Lorna tight; she knew this was the time to make her move. Putting her arms around him she invited him to kiss her. Her arms reached down into his back pocket and slipped out the wallet, pulling him close so that he’d think it was part of the come-on. She dropped the wallet into her bag and stood back.

“That was nice Kenny; you’re not going away are you?”

He swayed slightly, his face red from the sun and too much beer, “I’m here all day.”

“I’ll be back, just need to step away for a couple of minutes.”

He kissed her again, and then she left, waving goodbye.

PC Craig Chalmers had seen the whole thing. He watched as the woman in the red dress made her way back through the crowd. Following, it didn’t take long to catch her up. When he found her she was counting the money in the cover of a fire escape.

“I see you’ve been busy.”

Lorna looked up; surprised, she couldn’t hide her fear.

“I don’t know what you mean, who are you?”

Craig Chalmers dished out his warrant card and flashed the handcuffs, “Sorry, but you’re coming with me.”

When she was read her rights Lorna knew her luck had run out. Her first thought was for Leona; what would happen to her? As she led into the back of the Police van, locked up and silent, the glimmer of that hot summer afternoon would be a lasting memory during the dark days which followed.

15

A mumbled jumble of glottal stops eventually managed to rouse Sandy Stirrit back from oblivion.

“Areyoualrightdownthere?”

But Sandy couldn’t make out the words, they sounded too fast. He raised a hand to try and soothe his throbbing head. His finger slid across his face, it was wet.
What happened? How long have I been asleep?

“I said, are you alright down there?”

Clearer that time.
Who’s speaking? What’s happening
? He realised he was sitting with his back against something which was digging into his spine. He shifted round trying to get a handle on his situation; tried to raise himself back up, but he couldn’t find purchase. Then arms were holding him. He remembered now; remembered the Irishman, the assault. He fought back, punching wildly.

“No, no, no,” he screamed, “Not again. Don’t touch me.”

The supporting arms were gone and he dropped back, smacking his head off the ground. Again came the voices.

“Jesus mate, we’re just trying to help.”

He looked up and finally realised where he was. He recognised the barman from the pub.

“I know you?”

“From the pub, yeah; someone heard you screaming and came in to get help. We’ve phoned the ambulance. Do you know what happened, who did this to you?”

Sandy’s memory was hazy from his beating; fragments of the meeting were coming back but it was still a bit of a blur, “Don’t know,” he slurred.

“Don’t know, or won’t say? Where’s the guy you were with, was it him?”

“No,” Sandy felt very tired and his movements were sluggish. The darkness washed over him again and he welcomed the sleep. The next thing he was aware of was the feeling of movement and the intrusive wheeze of a blaring siren as the ambulance tore through town to A&E.

***

“Anything you do say will be taken down as evidence...” Lorna heard the words but she still couldn’t believe she’d been caught.
I’m no criminal. I’m just trying to feed my family. Why don’t the bastards just let me go?
There were two cops with an arm each, one on either side, they were taking her to the patrol car; people in the crowd moved aside and watched, wondering what this well turned out woman could have done to get herself arrested. Two teenagers sniggered. They said something but Lorna couldn’t hear. All her attention was focused on the yellow and blue check on the side of the patrol car.
This is really happening.
She pulled back and tried to run but the grip of her escorts tightened. Finally, head bowed, she was ushered into the back seat. Her skirt rode up the back as she slid onto the seat; the coldness of the black leather on her bare legs was an unwelcome reminder that her time in the summer sun was over. As the car sped off she listened as the radio crackled with instructions. The Commonwealth Games juggernaut pushed on. She knew that no-one would care what happened to her; no-one apart from Leona.

That night Leona returned to an empty home. Her mum had told her to go out for the day to visit friends, to try and scrounge something to eat. But it was seven o’clock now and there was no sign of life. Leona hadn’t really been in the mood to talk. She still hadn’t really thought about what had happened to her dad, she needed to be strong for her mum who’d taken the news really badly.
But she’d also said things would be fine, so where is she?
Leona saw a small letter had been delivered. It sat upended behind the door; must have been brushed aside when she came back. It was official, from Police Scotland and addressed to her.

Sliding her finger across the seal the envelope ripped in her haste to see what was inside. The note said she was to contact the Police station at Baird Street immediately. Something had happened to her mother and she needed to get in touch. She couldn’t stay by herself.

Leona didn’t know what to do and a sharp tension gripped her stomach. Terrified, she suddenly felt as if she was being watched. Her mum had gone into town to ‘get some money’ but she’d said if she wasn’t back she should go to her aunt’s house in Paisley.
Something’s happened, but what?

Sitting in the hall on the third stair up, Leona crumpled the note into a ball and wondered who’d be safest to phone.
No-one.
She felt her only option was to run.

***

When the door clinked shut and the lock turned the reality of the situation started to hit home for Lorna. The cell at Baird Street Police Station was small; around eight feet long and six wide. There was a basic toilet at the far end beside a raised ledge with a rubber mattress, but no sheets. Lorna sat down; there was nothing else to do. On the wall was a poster which said:

Carrying a knife?

Get used to

4 years

behind bars.

There was a picture of a man with his head in his hands in a cell. Under the glare of the bright light Lorna started to sob; this wasn’t how her life was supposed to pan out. She’d had a good job, a great family, and because of a bad run she’d been reduced to this. The last hour had passed in a blur. She’d been ushered into the station and into a room at the back of the complex. She sat while an officer took her hand and then dabbed her fingers in ink. After that she’d been told to open her mouth; a swab was roughly swiped on the inside of her cheek ‘that’s for the DNA database’. Then down, down into the darkness of the cells. Looking out of the slot in the door Lorna could see there was no way out. There was an empty cell across the corridor and to the right, bars blocked the way. She was a prisoner and she only had herself to blame.

16

Junior Bikana had been running for around three hours. Part of Cameroon’s marathon team, he had been in training for the last four years and was celebrated as one of his country’s great hopes for the 2014 Commonwealth Games. But he wasn’t interested in sporting success, rather a personal agenda that he was close to realising.

Junior insisted on training alone. Everyday he would put in the hours. Today he was out on the road, every mile taking him a step closer to his ultimate goal.

At home his life had been difficult. He had never felt that he fitted in, had no interest in marriage. Then, after an encounter at a party his life had changed. His sexuality was not something he had ever thought about, not until he had met Christian Ndo. The affair had been brief but intense. When they’d been found out he denied it but Christian hadn’t been so lucky. His body was found in a ditch, he had been badly beaten. The police never found who did it, but Junior knew it was his friend’s family. Being gay in Cameroon was illegal, and anyone proved to have been involved in a homosexual act faced five years in jail. It was a matter of time before Junior faced the wrath of the law, with or without his sporting celebrity. So he did what he did best and ran, ran and didn’t look back.

***

The glare of the light hurt Sandy’s eyes but the doctor didn’t hold back.

“Sit still Mr Stirrit; we need to know if you’re concussed.”

The comments rankled but Sandy submitted to the rest of the examination. He’d been taken to the A&E ward at the Western Infirmary where he’d been wheeled in past the waiting queue for priority treatment. A woman recoiled when she saw his face and it wasn’t until he finally saw his reflection that he realised why. Niall Murphy had done a good job on him. Aching all over from the assault, his face painted quite a picture. His right eye was cut between the brow and the lid, with a thick red welt exposing the flesh underneath. His other eye was bloodied and swollen, while his front two teeth had been knocked loose, they’d probably need to be taken out.

“I don’t think we’ll be seeing you on the telly any time soon, do you?”

Sandy didn’t care for the bedside manner; he couldn’t see the doctor’s badge and didn’t want to know his name. But he was right; Sandy knew he wouldn’t be able to work for several weeks, not until the wounds had healed. He was a well known face and he’d run the risk of becoming the news if people saw him like this. He cursed his stupidity at pushing so hard against Murphy; should have guessed he was connected. Then it struck him that the beating might be due to his questions about Donald.
Did Ian Davidson tip him off?
The questions raced through his brain as he tried to think about how to proceed.
I need to speak to the Police.

John Arbogast arrived home early from his expedition to the Lake District. ‘Home’ was still something of a work in progress. After he’d split up with Rosalind Ying he had spent around a month sleeping on Chris Guthrie’s couch, until he’d been told to pack his bags. It wasn’t that they didn’t get on, more that a one bedroom flat which was already home to two people didn’t need three to make a happy family. Arbogast had big ideas about recreating his old place, the flat he’d rented with Rose, but so far he’d made no visible progress.

Home was a large room in a shared house. His bedfellows, if he could describe them like that, were fine for now, although he really needed his own space. He was staying in an old bed and breakfast on Renfrew Street, which had recently gone out of business. The owners lived in London and were moving back to convert the building back into a family home. It was big for two people, but in the meantime four wayward souls were helping to meet the mortgage as temporary lodgers while loans were sorted out and contractors secured.