Running on the Cracks (13 page)

‘Excuse me …’

‘Shall I put that bag in the boot, sir?’

‘No thank you. Actually, I don’t need a taxi. I was just wondering if I could ask for some help.’

‘Ask away.’

‘How well do you know Glasgow?’

‘I’ve only driven all about the place every day fur the last twenty-five years.’

‘I’ve got some sketches here … would you mind taking a look?’

‘Go on, then – I’m no buying any dirty pictures off you, mind.’

‘No, they’re perfectly innocent. Could you look at this one?’

‘That wee moggie could do with going on a diet.’

‘I meant the other picture.’

‘Is that no the canal? Aye, it looks like the Forth and Clyde Canal.’

‘You don’t recognise the bridge?’

‘That wee swing bridge? Wait a minute. I’d say it’s the one by Glennie Avenue. I dropped a couple of lassies off near there the other night. Both pished – I thought they were going to throw up in the cab.’

‘Glennie Avenue, did you say?’

‘Aye. Do you want a lift there?’

‘No thank you, I’ve got the car. But here – take this, you’ve been most helpful.’

‘Nae bother.’

‘This is where I first saw you,’ said Finlay to Leo. He threw a stick along the towpath and Zigger scooted after it.

‘When I was the arch enemy,’ said Leo.

They had headed from Mary’s to the little swing bridge without exchanging a word, as if by some joint instinct.

Zigger returned the stick and started barking at some ducks.

‘Finlay, why did you tell that social worker he was yours? He’s Ronnie’s.’

‘Yes, but Ronnie’s in hospital. They’d have put him in some horrible kennels or something. Anyway, I don’t think Ronnie really wants him.’

‘But what will your parents say?’

Finlay shrugged and said nothing, though the same question was weighing heavily on him. He threw the stick again for Zigger. The ducks had swum away.

‘You didn’t phone them last night, did you?’

Why did Leo have to rub everything in?

‘I was going to, you know I was. It’s just that Zigger turning up like that put it out of my mind.’

‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Your mum and dad – you’d better phone them now. They’ll be worried stiff. There’s a phone box on the corner.’

‘Oh, stop nagging me – you sound just like Mum. Anyway, it’s you we’re meant to be talking about, not me. Where are you going to go?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You could go back. You’ve got your key still, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but I haven’t got the extra deadlock key. Anyway, I don’t want to stay there on my own. Not with Dressing Gown and social workers and council people prowling round.’

‘How about Jacqueline’s?’

‘I can’t.’

‘What, just because it’s a bit cramped? I bet they’d put you up till you’d sorted something else out.’

‘It’s not that. It’s because of Uncle John. He saw me coming out from that house, and he knows my grandfather’s address too. He’ll be lurking round that street again. I can’t go back there.’

‘But you could tell them about him. How he tried to force you into his car – that’s bang out of order, even if he is your uncle. They could report him to the police – or you could.’

‘I’ve thought about that. But supposing the police believed him and not me? And anyway, maybe he’s reported
me
to them already. Maybe he’s reported you too, for setting a dog on
him. We’re probably both in the paper.’

‘Let’s have a look.’ Finlay opened Mary’s paper with its ‘Bin Killer Caught!’ headline, and flicked through it. ‘There doesn’t seem to be anything,’ he said.

‘Not yet.’

‘Well …’ Finlay wasn’t going to give up. ‘I suppose I could ask Mum and Dad if you could stay with us …’

‘Aren’t they a bit too law-abiding for that?’

‘Or there’s Ross McGovern …’ His voice petered out. For once he felt defeated.

‘Finlay, I do think you should go home.’ Leo’s voice was gentler now; she must be trying not to nag. ‘Never mind about me. I’ll sort something out.’

‘I know!’ Finlay jumped up. ‘We’ll phone Marina.’

‘Tell her to hop on the 73 and get off at Sperry Street. I’ll be waiting at the bus stop.’

Good old Marina. That was her all over –
a snappy decision instead of a whole lot of questions.

The bus stop was next to the phone box. An elderly couple stood there, and behind them a mother with a child in a pushchair. ‘I’ll wait with you,’ said Finlay.

‘No, don’t. I’ll be fine. You
must
go home now.’

‘Well …’ Finlay was reluctant, but then Zigger started snarling at the little boy, or rather at his stripy hat. ‘All right. I’ll phone you as soon as I get the chance.’

It was only a short walk from the bus stop to his house, but Finlay felt as if he was leaving one world and entering another. He’d been trying to keep Mum out of his thoughts but he couldn’t do it any longer. Would she be in? Would she be angry? How angry?

‘Finlay! Where have you been?’ She didn’t look angry. She looked overjoyed. He felt a pang of guilt.

‘I’m sorry, Mum.’ He returned her hug
awkwardly, and Zigger tried to join in.

‘Whose dog is this?’ Now she was half-laughing, half-crying. ‘Get him off me!’

‘It’s OK, he only does that to people he likes. Down, Zigger!’

‘Oh, Finlay, I’m so glad you’re all right. Why didn’t you phone us? We’ve been so worried.’

‘Sorry, I meant to. Can Zigger come in? It’s OK, he likes cats – well, usually, anyway.’ Finlay tried to sound more optimistic than he felt, as he saw their cat Mungo streak upstairs and felt Zigger straining on the lead.

Mum wiped away a tear and tried to regain her composure. ‘Well, I don’t know … just for now, then.’

In the kitchen, Zigger immediately discovered Mungo’s unfinished cat food and wolfed it down.

‘How about you?’ asked Mum. ‘Are you hungry?’

‘Yes.’ Finlay realised he’d been living off
cups of tea since four o’clock yesterday afternoon, and it must be lunchtime now.

‘I saved some lasagne for you.’ Why was she being so nice? Was it the calm before the storm? Finlay sat down at the table and Zigger came and sat at his feet expectantly.

Mum put the dish in the microwave. ‘I’d better tell the police you’ve turned up,’ she said.

‘The police – you haven’t told them, have you?’

‘Of course we have. Finlay, what did you think we’d do? Or didn’t you think at all?’ This was more like the old Mum. ‘If you’d stayed away another night they were going to make a poster about you. You’d have been a Reported Missing Person.’

‘
I
would?’ That struck Finlay as ironic.

‘What are you looking like that for? It’s not funny.’

‘No, I know. Sorry, Mum. I’m really sorry.’

‘Dad’s been out looking for you all morning.
I’ve only just persuaded him to go into work.’

Zigger, sensing the rising tension, stood up and growled at Mum.

‘Stop it, Zigger,’ said Finlay, though actually it was gratifying to have someone on his side for once.

‘So where were you? Rab said something about a Chinese girl. Is this her dog?’

‘A Chinese girl?’ He feigned surprise while his mind raced over various possible explanations, all of them implausible.

Mum sighed. ‘Well, let’s not have a repeat of yesterday. Just eat up now, and the explaining can wait.’

Finlay agreed readily. He shovelled the lasagne into his mouth with Zigger-like speed.

‘That nice girl Ailsa phoned last night,’ said Mum.

‘Was it about her sweatshirt?’ asked Finlay and then wished he hadn’t.

‘No, I don’t think so. It was something to do with joining a band. She sounded really
upset when I told her you’d gone missing.’

‘Why did you have to go and tell her that?’ Finlay reacted with automatic irritation, and then, when Mum looked pained, said, ‘I’m sorry. Actually, I’m a bit tired. Maybe I should have a lie down.’

It wasn’t really true. He was playing for time, but Mum swallowed it, and even allowed Zigger to go up to the bedroom with him. The dog lay on the floor guarding Finlay in case Mum showed any signs of turning fierce.

He lay there, trying to plan what he would say to Mum when the time came, but it was hard to concentrate. Above his bed, Rick Reaper stared arrogantly down at him from the huge poster of Breakneck. As Finlay stared back, the tune of ‘Stone Sacrifice’ started to play itself in his head. He’d gone off Breakneck a bit, but he still coveted Rick Reaper’s black and silver guitar. It was a shame that his doughnut savings weren’t mounting up the way he’d planned. And now he might
get fired for missing his paper round.

Thinking about doughnuts and paper rounds made him wonder how Leo was getting on with Marina and Kenny. She must be there by now.

Somehow his thoughts were getting muddled up with the ‘Stone Sacrifice’ tune, and with other thoughts about Mary and Jacqueline and Uncle John … Finlay drifted off to sleep.

‘Girl,’ says the little boy at the bus stop, pointing at me from his pushchair. ‘Girl, Mummy.’

‘Don’t point – it’s rude,’ says his mother, but now it seems to me that she keeps giving me sidelong glances. And that old couple have turned round to have a quick look too. Are they wondering about the school bag? Maybe they remember the description of it from the news reports. Maybe I should have left it at Mary’s after all.

Apart from the child they’ve all looked away now, but I still feel uncomfortable. Will I ever get used to ordinary people in public places again?

My bus, the one to Marina’s house, isn’t due
for another twenty-five minutes. I’ll go back to the canal and wait on the swing bridge. You can see the bus stop from there, through the gap in the hedge.

The ducks are back too, now that Zigger is safely out of the way. I wish I had some bread for them. I think about the loaves of bread Mary threw for the swans, that day when I first met her, and I wonder how she is now. Did she sleep at all last night, and if so how did she feel waking up in the hospital?

I can’t help being nervous about meeting this Marina and her husband Kenny, even though Finlay has given Marina a good report: ‘She likes a laugh, and she knows how to keep her mouth shut.’ She didn’t ask many questions on the phone but when I arrive she’s bound to have a few. How much should I tell them? And how long will they let me stay?

He’s so quiet that I don’t hear him till he’s almost at the bridge.

‘Hello again.’

He’s standing there, blocking the way.

No use crossing the bridge, away from him: there’s no towpath on the other side.

No use hoping for Finlay and Zigger to come to my aid again.

As if he can read my thoughts, he says, ‘So, no hell dog this time?’

Was he lurking, spying on us, waiting till Finlay was at a safe distance?

I’ll have to humour him.

‘I’m sorry about the dog,’ I say.

‘And I’m sorry if I scared you last night.’ He’s smiling. He sounds polite, but he looks terrible. His raincoat is full of creases, and there is a brown bloodstain on his ripped trouser leg. His face is grey with stubble, and his wispy hair looks wild. (No hat, I notice – did Zigger dispose of it?) Behind the thick glasses – so he did have a spare pair – his eyes have a crazed look.

How did he find me?

Again he seems to read my mind.

‘You’re quite a talented artist, you know,’
he says. ‘You really captured this scene.’

So that’s it. My drawings have given me away.

‘I expect you’d like the sketchbook back, wouldn’t you? And the bag too.’

‘Well …’

Where is the bag? It’s not over his shoulder. This is some kind of trap.

‘It’s in the car. Shall we go and get it?’

‘It’s all right. You can keep it. I don’t really need it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’m not going to force you to go back with me. I understand – you need time. Just come to the car and I’ll give you the bag.’

I don’t believe a word of it.

I glance at my watch, and then at the bus stop. A quarter of an hour to go. Oh, why didn’t I stay there, with the little boy and his mother? Or why didn’t I let Finlay wait with me?

‘Come on.’ He steps back from the bridge and holds out a hand.

What shall I do? Can I somehow humour
him for fifteen minutes and then make a run for the bus?

‘I’ve changed my mind too,’ I say. Is this going to work or will he see straight through it? ‘I’m tired of being on the run. I’ll go with you after all.’

I can’t tell from his smile whether he believes me or is just pretending to.

‘Good girl,’ he says.

I step off the bridge. To my relief, he doesn’t grab my wrist this time.

‘I just need to pack a few things.’

‘You seem to have packed quite a lot already,’ he says, indicating the school bag.

‘Yes, but there’s some more stuff in the flat where I’ve been staying. It’s very near here – it won’t take long.’

‘Who have you been staying with?’ he asks. I can tell he’s not keen to meet anyone.

‘No one. It’s an empty flat – I’ve been squatting there.’

He’s still not happy. ‘Don’t worry about
your things,’ he says. ‘I can buy you some nice new things.’

‘No. I want my stuff. It’s important to me.’

‘Well, you’ll have to be quick. I’ve left the birds for too long as it is.’

Where now? My mind is racing. I need to make a choice quickly. We’re walking in the direction of Mary’s flat but I don’t really have to take him there. I could just keep him walking and talking, and then try to give him the slip when I sense he’s off guard.

But I’m afraid that wouldn’t work. He’s sticking very close to me. Maybe I could try and smash his glasses again? I glance up at them and now I see that they’re attached to a string round his neck. So he’s one jump ahead.

‘You like the birds, don’t you?’ he’s saying now, his voice right beside my ear as we walk.

‘Yes, they’re lovely.’

‘And you like me really, I know you do.’

What if I actually go to the flat? Are those social workers still there? Perhaps I should tell
them everything. Surely they wouldn’t make me go back with him?

But what if they believed him and not me? He looks pretty wild at the moment, but I know how smooth and convincing he can sound.

‘I’m glad I’ve found you,’ he says. ‘I didn’t want them to find you first.’

What does he mean?

We’re turning the corner into Struan Drive.

‘They’re all a bit hysterical,’ he carries on. ‘They’re making up silly stories. You can tell them none of them are true. You will tell them, won’t you?’

This doesn’t make any sense to me but I say, ‘Yes,’ just to keep him happy.

‘Good girl,’ he says. ‘That’s best for you. We don’t want anything to happen to you, do we?’

What sort of threat is that? Is he even more dangerous than I suspected?

We’re nearly at the flats. I slow down and glance up. There’s no light on in Mary’s sitting-room window, but I can’t remember if it was on
when Finlay and I left. Are the social workers still there?

‘Is this it?’ he asks.

‘Yes.’ Too late to change my mind now.

We’re on the echoey stone staircase.

And we’re not alone. Someone’s coming down the stairs.

I never thought I’d be so pleased to see the President.

‘Hiya! Mary’s oot,’ he says when he sees me. Then he turns and says over his shoulder, ‘It’s the Prospect’s pal! It’s that Leo lassie.’

‘Delighted.’ The Godfather, close behind him, raises a hand in greeting.

The President stops a couple of stairs above us. ‘Who’s the wee man?’ he asks me.

Uncle John does grasp my wrist now. He pulls me to the wall of the staircase, to let them past. ‘Just ignore them. They look unsavoury,’ he says.

‘Let go of me,’ I say loudly.

He doesn’t, but immediately the President is on my side.

‘You heard what she said,’ he says.

‘Please be on your way and mind your own business.’ The grip tightens.

The President takes a step down. I can smell his beery breath as he says, ‘Take your greasy paw off the lassie.’

‘She’s my niece, and she needs my protection.’

‘Whose protection do you want, Leo hen? His or oors?’

‘Yours!’

The President lurches forwards to grab the lapel of Uncle John’s raincoat. But the alcohol is slowing his movements. Uncle John bats the hand away, then pushes him hard. The President loses his balance. Now he’s sitting slumped on the stair above us.

‘Let’s get away from these people,’ says Uncle John. He starts to pull me down the stairs.

‘Help me!’ I yell, and then his free hand clamps over my mouth, just like that other time.

‘It’ll be much better for you if you don’t make a silly fuss,’ he says under his breath.

He’s dragging me out of the building. Has the President given up?

Someone overtakes us. It’s not the President. It’s the Godfather.

‘Excuse me,’ he murmurs. As always, he sounds like the perfect gentleman.

Then he wrests both of Uncle John’s hands off me, swings him round and punches him in the stomach.

I don’t see what happens next because I’m running and running, hoping I can still catch that bus.