Games People Play Page 2

  Halfway to the mainland he kicked into In the Summertime and, from the opening line, the ferry came alive. A couple started dancing. Others joined them, mouthing the lyrics. Close to me a guy grabbed his girlfriend – his wife for all I knew – and tagged on to a conga line that had sprung from nowhere, making its way round the deck.

  Argyll on acid. Surreal. Salvador Dali would’ve loved it.

  Maryanne stayed where she’d been, facing out to sea, alone with her troubles, oblivious to what was going on behind her.

  In the stern, beyond the conga dancers, a flash of red caught my eye; a dress, and a girl of eight or nine being twirled by an older man, ducking underneath his arm, with him smiling down at her. Perhaps she was smiling back – I couldn’t say. It was the tousled blonde hair that did it. For a second my heart stopped. Everything good emptied out of me and, despite the burning sun, I felt cold.

  slapping the sand, crunching shingle, beating against rock

  The grey-haired man spun the child again and I saw her face.

  A nice face. A laughing face. A stranger’s face.

  When would I learn? The answer it seemed was never. Months could go by – years even – enough to believe it was no more than the memory of a nightmare I couldn’t shake off. In those times, thinking I was free and clear, I got on with my life, until like today, a fragment of the past rose from nowhere and took me down.

  Guilt never leaves, it never lets go, not really, and it hadn’t with me.

  The singer finished to claps and cheers. He was pleased with himself and so he should be; he’d made his contribution. Without his music the scene returned to a pleasant sail on a Sunday afternoon. I searched the crowd for the man and the little girl, they were gone. My fingers wandered to my wallet and the photograph inside, faded and cracked and torn at the edges. A fragile thing. I took it out. Innocent eyes stared at me, bright and clear, no trace of reproach in them. No blame. None needed. I had that covered.

  Maryanne Mulholland’s bid for freedom had been reckless and foolish. And doomed, thanks to me. I dropped the boyfriend’s mobile over the side and watched it disappear beneath the grey water; the least I could do for her.

  The announcement for drivers to return to their vehicles brought us together. We got in the car and waited while the crew lined the boat up with the jetty. She didn’t speak. If there’s one thing kids do better than anybody it’s freezing you out. I broke the silence with the obvious question. ‘So where will you go?’

  No response.

  ‘Isn’t there somebody?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What, nobody at all?’

  ‘Got an aunt in Manchester.’

  ‘Call her.’

  ‘Haven’t got a phone. I’m not allowed.’

  A sixteen-year-old without a mobile!

  ‘Use mine. What’s the number?’

  She couldn’t tell me. Directory Enquiries could.

  I tried not to listen.

  The journey from the coast to Glasgow takes an hour. Any other day we’d have time to spare, but it was Sunday. That and the weather meant the roads would be busy. The Manchester train left at 5.35. Missing it wasn’t an option. I parked in Renfield Street. Central station booking office was inside the main entrance. Maryanne hesitated. ‘I haven’t any money.’

  I emptied my wallet and handed the contents to her.

  ‘You have now.’

  At the barrier a woman in a uniform gave her ticket a cursory glance and waved her through. Maryanne said, ‘We only met a couple of hours ago. I mean, I’m nothing to you. Why are you doing this?’

  Why indeed?

  ‘Because I do understand. More than you know.’

  I doubted she believed me. She said, ‘I’ll pay you back. Honest.’

  I wouldn’t hold my breath.

  ‘There is something you can do.’

  Her face brightened, the first real smile of the afternoon. ‘Name it.’

  ‘You’re running from your father. He’ll survive. Your mother’s the one who’ll suffer. Call her. Let her know you’re all right. She deserves that much.’

  * * *

  -------

  The next morning the sun was still shining but it sure as hell wasn’t shining in my office. Storm clouds rolled in my direction from the man seated across the desk. The day before, I’d let the Manchester express pull away before I contacted Maryanne’s father and asked him to meet me. Now he was here, whatever he’d expected it wasn’t this. We had an agreement. I was breaking it.

  And I’d lied to myself about how thick my skin actually was. Put to the test it turned out to be: not very.

  Mulholland was probably in his late forties; a tightly wound individual with a clipped voice that would irritate no matter what he was saying. He listened then spoke with deliberate care, the way he might address a disobedient lackey already on a final warning.

  ‘Let me be clear on this. You know where my daughter is but aren’t prepared to tell me.’

  A statement rather than a question. No answer required.

  There was nothing to like about him so I didn’t try. The girl had convinced me I wasn’t on the side of the angels.

  ‘We had an understanding. You were supposed to find Maryanne so we could bring her home.’

  ‘She won’t be coming home, at least not yet.’

  Being defied wasn’t something he ran up against very often. I tried not to enjoy myself too much.

  ‘She doesn’t want to.’

  His jaw tightened against the strain of keeping himself in check.

  ‘That isn’t your decision, Mr Cameron.’

  ‘It’s Maryanne’s decision.’

  I expected him to lose it completely – part of me hoped he would – then I’d have the excuse I needed for hurting him. Any father worth his salt would have dragged me to my feet and beaten the information out of me. That wasn’t going to happen. This guy was a petty tyrant and a coward. Besides, I was bigger than him.

  He staked a claim for the moral high ground. ‘Do you usually go back on your word?’

  ‘Not usually, no. I’m making an exception.’

  Mulholland had brought his wife with him. I didn’t know her name; he hadn’t bothered to introduce us. She took no part in the conversation. Her head stayed down while her husband did all the talking. Thin and nervy, she fiddled with her fingers like someone who had lost confidence in herself and was unlikely to rediscover it, unless she followed her daughter’s lead and got well away from this man.

  She broke her silence.

  ‘Please, please. I just need to be sure she’s safe.’ Her voice trembled. ‘She doesn’t ... she didn’t...’

  The dam broke, the tears came, and before my eyes she got smaller than all the years in the shadows had succeeded in making her. Watching her bowed under the pain of not knowing wasn’t easy. Maryanne left in the middle of the night without saying goodbye – because of her father – before she became a sad defeated woman like her mother. The police couldn’t help; running away isn’t against the law, so Mulholland had come to my door with an attitude that grated from minute one and a yarn the length of Sauchiehall Street. The girl had never given him a moment’s peace. He had recited a litany of trouble at home, trouble at school, none of it true. His daughter was no different from any teenager I’d ever met. He was the problem.

  He blustered. ‘This is outrageous. I’ll be spreading the word about you.’

  I wanted to remind him that children were precious, people not possessions. Instead I let him rant and spoke to the mother. ‘Maryanne’s safe but she doesn’t want to come home. Sorry.’

  ‘Can’t you tell me where she is?’

  I shook my head. ‘I promised.’

  Force of habit made Mulholland attempt to reassert his authority. ‘You realise you won’t be getting paid? Not a penny.’

  He’d have to try harder than that to surprise me.

  ‘God forbid, if anything happens to my girl I’ll come after you.’ r />
  No he wouldn’t. He’d take it out on his wife, same as always. I wanted to put my arm round Maryanne’s mother and reassure her with as much of the truth as she could handle, but I stayed where I was and let the melancholy drama play. Mulholland stared ahead, ramrod straight, while his wife died a little. The feeling I got from him wasn’t compassion, it was shame; he was embarrassed. He spoke in a rough whisper out of the side of his mouth, as if he was bringing a dog to heel. ‘Jean. Jean! That’s enough. Enough!’

  His daughter had come to the same conclusion.

  2

  The heatwave was moving towards a second week. When I arrived outside New York Blue the atmosphere was like a Saturday in July, females in print dresses and men in t-shirts at every table; sunshades and laughter.

  Jackie Mallon was standing inside the door, determined not to let the fine weather affect her mood. We were friends, except on days like today she was better at hiding it than me. I guessed the profiterole she was holding wasn’t her first. Jackie was a feisty lady, slim and fit, blonde and attractive, able to spot a phoney at a hundred yards. Unless he was handsome. Then her instinct deserted her. WANKERS WELCOME tattooed on her forehead would’ve saved a lot of time. The aftermath of her failed romances wasn’t easy to be around. The cakes were only the start of a journey into darkness. Her downers were famous, junkathons lasting until a new loser landed on the scene, bringing smiles and low fat yoghurt to our lives. Wherever the next one was I hoped he’d get a move on because she was in a foul temper and it wasn’t even lunchtime.

  Through a mouthful of choux pastry and cream she said, ‘You missed a call.’

  ‘Yeah, who from?’

  ‘Didn’t give a name. Says he’ll get back to you. Your phone redirected it to the bar. Again.’

  ‘Sorry, Jackie, my mistake, should’ve gone to my mobile.’

  Her face scrunched up the way it always did when she was narked.

  ‘Point is, Charlie, we’re too busy to be involved in your Sherlock Holmes shit. Look outside if you don’t believe me. It’s chocka. Why can’t you get an answering machine like everybody else?’

  On the surface it sounded reasonable, I saw it differently.

  ‘Because anybody who contacts me is probably worried out of their head. They need to be able to talk to somebody, not some pre-recorded voice message.’

  She didn’t pretend to be sympathetic; she was running on resentment and mad at the world.

  ‘And by the by. Just so you know. I’m going to speak to Alex about the office. If anybody could use some space around here I could. I’m stuck in that cubbyhole underneath the stairs while you have a big room you hardly use.’

  The office was an old bone. Alex would say what he’d said the last time she raised the subject, and the time before: that he owed me.

  Jackie Mallon had a bad case of poor me, sorry for herself and lashing out.

  ‘I’ve got an excuse. I have to be here, but you...you’ve got money. Don’t get it, Charlie, never have.’

  ‘Take it up with Alex,’ I said, and walked inside.

  Alex was Alex Gilby, the owner of New York Blue. Andrew Geddes introduced us. At the time Gilby was in partnership with a guy called Lawlor. Their relationship was breaking down, though I didn’t know that until a couple of weeks later when Alex spoke to me. He was in

  trouble. Lawlor had withdrawn a lot of money from the business account and run off. Could I help? As it turned out, yes I could, the thick bastard didn’t leave right away, giving me time to locate the hotel he was staying in and step between him and an Emirates flight to Dubai. Alex was delighted and offered me a percentage of what I had recovered or an empty room upstairs for as long as I wanted it. A city centre address was too good to turn down and I’d been here ever since. Thus far, Gilby had resisted Jackie’s attempts to put me out on the street; it hadn’t stopped her trying.

  A copy of today’s Herald lay unopened on the bar. I lifted it and took it to a table near the Rock-Ola. The newspaper’s front page carried a story about a baby abducted from Ayr beach and a photograph of a man comforting a woman wearing a bathing costume, her shoulders covered by his jacket. She looked physically broken, as if he was all that kept her from falling to pieces on the sand. His pain was no less; his eyes held the bewilderment of someone who didn’t comprehend what had happened. There was a time a news item like this would have had me reacting, but I’d learned. And accepted.

  It had been over for three decades.

  The picture showed a sad scene. I skipped the details, they wouldn’t make my day.

  On page five an item caught my attention. The Irish rocker, Paul Finnegan, had been found dead at his home in St John’s Wood. His well known drug and alcohol problems hadn’t stopped him from becoming a star. In spite of his chronic – and fatal – addiction, his band, Northwind, sold millions of records. At thirty-seven the front man joined Hendrix, Elvis, John Lennon and Michael Jackson; the latest addition to the super group in the sky. Lloyd Kennedy, the group’s bass player and Finnegan’s writing partner, wasn’t available for comment.

  I skimmed the rest of the newspaper and went upstairs to my office. No mail, no messages and a blank diary: the world had no use for me today. My work ethic was fragile at the best of times and this morning, I needed no encouragement.

  Jackie realised she’d gone over the line, when I was leaving she spoke to me – about business, something she rarely did.

  ‘Big River had a bust-up in the dressing room last night. Robbie walked out. Says that’s it for him. The band played to the end. It was a struggle, Robbie’s the main man.’

  ‘No, Alan’s the main man. He started Big River.’

  ‘True, but he can’t sing, and he’s a drummer. They need Robbie. Guys with his talent are hard to find. It’s taken a year and a half to build Sundays in the club. All that effort could crumble in a few weeks.’ She made a face. ‘A busy Sunday makes a difference. Hate to admit it, Charlie, but losing it would be a backward step for the whole operation.’

  ‘Have you told Alex, yet?’

  ‘He’ll be in later.’

  ‘What’s Alan saying?’

  ‘Already got a replacement in mind. Wants to audition downstairs on Wednesday.’

  ‘That was quick. Who is it?’

  ‘No idea. Seemed pretty relaxed about Robbie splitting. “Fucking hassle” was how he described it.’

  ‘What was the problem with Robbie?’

  ‘Demanded the band change the name.’

  ‘You’re joking. To what?’

  ‘Robbie Ward and Big River.’

  ‘Always a mistake to underestimate the people around you.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  The day burned through the afternoon. I sat in the garden letting the sun bathe me and considered what Jackie had said. Alan Sneddon had been around the Glasgow music scene forever. When I was a student I saw him gig at Strathclyde Uni. That wasn’t yesterday. If losing Robbie Ward was no more than a “fucking hassle” he must have somebody very special in the wings. I looked forward to meeting him.

  That night and the next morning the TV was full of the baby abduction. I switched to a smiling weather man, who assured me the heatwave wouldn’t last much longer – rain was on the way – and telephoned Jackie to find out if anybody was waiting for me. Nobody was.

  By mid-afternoon too much sun had soured my mood. A call from my mother didn’t help. She launched into the interrogation that had become the mainstay of our chats: had I met a nice girl yet? When was I getting married? And was she ever going to be a grandmother? Finally I changed the subject, said ‘How’s dad?’ and listened to her sigh four hundred miles away.

  ‘To be honest, not great. You know what he’s like around this time of the year. Very down. Sometimes he stays in London and I don’t see him. Then I worry. This year he’s promised he’ll be home. I’m glad about that, of course. Not looking forward to it though. It’ll be better after next Thursday.’

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; ‘Want me to come down?’

  ‘No, no, we’ll have a quiet dinner, get through it together.’ She hurried past the suggestion and added a familiar admonishment. ‘Although it would be helpful if you two could talk about it.’

  I imagined her at the window in the lounge surrounded by Laura Ashley prints and Royal Doulton figurines, clutching the phone in her manicured fingers, willing me to say I was coming anyway, and that yes, I would have the conversation with my father we’d both avoided for three decades. The exchange, or something like it, passed between us often since I moved north.

  ‘It wouldn’t change anything. It’s too late, mum.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Charles, he’s always asking about you.’

  Now she was lying.

  ‘I’m up to my eyes at the moment.’

  Now I was lying.

  She cut through the drivel. ‘God’s sake, give the man a break.’ Her voice trembled. ‘You’ve got him all wrong.’

  Reducing my mother to tears wasn’t in the plan, I gave ground. ‘I’ll think about it, Mum.’

  ‘Make an effort. It takes two, you know.’

  ‘I said I’ll try.’

  ‘Do better than try. For me. He’s next door, shall I put him on?’

  Before I could say no I heard her shouting ‘Archie! Archie! It’s Charles. Come and say hello.’

  The world had nothing but admiration for George Archibald Cameron. I was the exception. Archie was chairman of the Conservative Party. A lifetime’s worth of political manoeuvring had earned him the job of Tory top dog; a place on the board of the whisky company my great grandfather started, where he had ruled as CEO for more than twenty years, was a move in the other direction. I never touched the stuff myself, an act of rebellion that went unnoticed and a moot point since the Japanese owned Cameron’s now. He thought my life choices were flawed and inferior set against his own – law then into the family business – and would have preferred me to become another pin striped posh boy in Gray’s Inn Road. Like father like son. It didn’t bear thinking about.