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  Behind which door was his chambre du vom?

  She listened. Silence. She felt sorry for him. He was a complete numpty, like the wee boy with the beaky pigeon-like face who always sat cross-legged in the front row of a class photo. Usually called Archie or Angus. The kind that would never be able to cope with the world. They went through their allotted span with nervy eyes and sometimes a twitch and often some anti-social affliction they couldn’t kick, like bedwetting, or snotterynose.

  She wandered along the hallway. ‘Dorcus? Are you OK? Dorcus? Talk to me, Doc …’

  She heard him throw up again, a vigorous release, followed by a groan. Now what room was that? She paused outside a door, pressed her ear to the wood. ‘Dorcus?’ She tapped lightly. ‘I need your key to get out of this gaff. Come on, Dorcus. Open up. Let me out.’

  She heard movement from inside, she wasn’t sure what. She turned the handle slowly, pushed the door open a little way, an inch, two inches. She was struck at once by the force of that brutal disinfectant pong Dorcus dragged round with him as if it had been injected into his sweat-glands. She could even smell traces of it on herself.

  She took a half-step inside the room, which was hard underfoot, uncarpeted. Tiles, white tiles. A soft light burned above a steel sink, where hot water ran slowly and quietly from a tap. Steam fogged the air. This vapour clouded a long-haired figure standing naked at the sink, spine turned toward Glorianna, face hidden by a towel. The figure turned very slightly, revealing a glimpse of breast.

  Glorianna watched her turn and saw the towel fall from the woman’s hands to the floor – slowly, like a wounded game-bird in a dying fall. She saw the figure’s darkened pubic region exposed by an eye of light, and she gasped, pulling the door shut on the steam and the falling towel, and the way the shadow of the figure was thrown halfway across the room to a bed – and although all this was misted, and lacked clarity, Glorianna knew what she saw.

  Or thought she knew.

  She moved quickly along the hallway. She didn’t look back when she heard a door open. She thought, sometimes you see things in mist that aren’t there.

  She heard voices behind. One belonged to Dorcus.

  The other was unfamiliar.

  The voices rose and fell, angry, accusatory, defensive, reproachful. She couldn’t catch what was being said, only the alterations in tone. Strident cry, a lament, the crack of a reproach. She kept going down and the steps creaked under her and she wondered what she’d do if she made it outside the house and into the garden and reached the gate.

  At the bottom of the stairs she turned right, realized in a panic she was lost, couldn’t remember the way to the front door. She’d entered the house directly into a hallway with the two dark portraits on the wall and a chandelier. Now what?

  Confused, she entered the room with the wingback chair and the piano. A lamp glowed in the corner – had this room been lit the first time she saw it? Couldn’t remember. The light was dim, twenty-watt. She thought somebody sat in the wingback chair, a man with his face turned away from her. An outline, an impression – and yet she imagined the head turning, a crick of ossified bone, the face seeking her out.

  The mice plink-planked on the keyboard. Their small rounded outlines squirmed under the dust cover. One emerged from concealment and fell to the floor and ran blindly toward her feet. She restrained a scream, backed out of the room just as the lamp popped, plummeting her into a darkness that would have been total except for the sliver of light from the top of the stairway she’d just descended. She heard the rodent scamper somewhere and the keyboards played on discordantly. The mice had a maddening repertoire.

  She turned another way and saw the chandelier and the stretch of hallway leading to the front door. Familiarity. She couldn’t remember seeing Dorcus lock this door when she’d arrived. Maybe he did, probably he did. She’d kick the door down if she had to. She wanted out of this house and away from Dorcus, and the dim image of a man rising from a wingback chair, and the long-haired figure dropping the towel in that room with the white tiles, and all the rest she didn’t want to think—

  Chuck, oh you bastard, thank you for sending me to Horror House. You didn’t know what this Dorcus was like? Didn’t even suspect he was a fuckup in all departments? Did you even give a thought to my safety?

  The front door. A key was in the lock. She twisted it, pulled the door back, the night air was chilly and the only light in front of her came from the miserly bulbs in the chandelier, and that reach of illumination was short, maybe a few yards, then nothing, she’d be out there practically sightless—

  Now she heard dogs bark nearby. Were they loose? She hoped not, they sounded monstrous, but why should that surprise her? Everything here was monstrous – she’d expected this to be a simple brisk business transaction, good massage, blissed-out client, cheerio, Chuck will be happy with you. But it had collapsed entirely and she kept hearing her heel on the tiles and the figure at the sink and whatever else—

  She ran, following the light until it faded close to the driveway. If she continued down the drive she’d reach the locked gates. How high were they? She had no idea. She stumbled when she reached the drive. She kicked her fucking useless shoes off. She felt gravel under her feet. Ow Jesus. An outreached arm of shrubbery brushed her face and she screamed aloud because for a second she thought it was Dorcus who’d come after her, and any moment she’d feel his arm tighten round her throat, or maybe it was the dread figure she’d seen getting out of the wingback chair—

  Just a shrub, a branch, something.

  She spotted a second light now, a street lamp on the other side of the wall. It was thirty yards away or so and its yellow glow too thin to be of much use. She lunged forward into the path of this illumination, but where was the driveway? She’d wandered from it. She felt grass under her feet instead of stones, and she reoriented herself by looking back at the house where the front doorway lay open. The dogs roared. Chains rattled. Maybe Dorcus would come down any moment and free them and they’d hunt her down in the darkness and eat her throat out, rip her to ragged strips of flesh with their fangs.

  She punched her way through more shrubbery, then saw the driveway again as a car passed quickly along the street, its lamps shining a second on the gates. Now she had a sense of direction, all she needed were grappling irons and some climbing boots—

  ‘Stop, p-please, I n-need to talk to you!’

  Jesus he was coming to look for her.

  ‘I’ll g-give you the key, just stop!’

  You’ll give me the key. Aye, right, Dorc.

  The gates, just get to the gates, see what it takes to get over. She lurched down the driveway. Gravel nicked the soles of her feet and she had to hop, redistributing her weight because of the pain. In a few hours her soles would look like blisterpack.

  She made it to the gates, gripped them, shook fiercely. They rattled, but they were never going to yield. Too solid, embedded too deeply in the brick wall. What now?

  ‘Come back, c-come b-back, I’m n-not going to hurt you!’

  She grabbed the gates and hoisted herself a couple of feet, but she was scrabbling, she’d never make the top.

  ‘You want oot?’

  She was astonished by the appearance of a small boy on the other side.

  He was smoking a cigarette. ‘It’ll cost.’

  ‘Just get me out—’

  A group of other kids materialized. A rope came over the top of the gates. She gripped it hard and the kids began to pull.

  ‘Quick, missus!’

  God knows how many kids were out there, five, half a dozen, more. They were a blob of small shapes, straining away at the other end of the rope. She felt the rope burn her palms, but she was fucked if she’d let go. When she reached the top she heard Dorcus call. ‘We c-can talk this over, wait—’

  He was what – oh god, six feet behind her? He could leap, lunge, grab an ankle, bring her down—

  ‘Dreep!’ a boy shouted.

&nb
sp; ‘I’m dreepin,’ and she slid down the rough rope, feeling its friction against the front of her body. She hit the ground and the kids told her to run like fuck. And she ran, she ran, feet aching, stomach lurching, following the kids around the wall and into the scheme where the car still burned, and sparks fever-spotted the sky, and TVs and boomboxes played loud enough to waken long-slumbering demons.

  She stopped running when she realized the soles of her feet were murdering her and she had no breath left. She noticed the kids all had blackened faces and dark gloves. Night operations, mini-marines. They clustered around her. ‘Pay up, missus.’

  ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Whatja got?’

  She reached in the pocket of her coat and fingered some crumpled notes. Shaking, she couldn’t stop shaking. If she gave them all her cash how was she going to get back home, which was miles from here?

  One of kids held open a plastic bag from which an intolerable stench arose. ‘We were plannin to pyzen his dugs wi this. It’s spiled meat wi bleach and stuff in it. Think they’d eat it?’

  She took a step back. No dog would ever go near this noxious mix of rancid meat and chlorine.

  The kid with the bag said, ‘We’re sick o him and his hauntit hoose.’

  A haunted house? No, she didn’t have time to think about haunted houses. ‘I’ll pay you if you can tell me where to find a taxi.’

  ‘That wisny part o the deal, missus.’

  ‘It is now.’

  The kids complained, then whispered among themselves. Finally one of them said, ‘We’ll take you to a guy who might drive you. If he’s sober.’

  She limped after them down a dark street between a row of towers. Noise all around, guys and girls on corners, idling, laughing. She smelled hashish. She flinched at the sudden crack of fireworks, rockets that rose flashing skyward and burst in an array of bright colours.

  One of the kids went inside a building and came out minutes later with a bare-chested fat man whose trousers hung loosely from his hips and his braces dangled.

  ‘Rightyo, who needs a taxi?’ he asked.

  ‘Me,’ she said.

  The man wasn’t altogether sober. Obviously numb to the cold, he swayed as he came toward her, passing under a street lamp that revealed a great tattoo of a shamrock in the middle of his chest. The image was crushed between his flabby breasts. ‘Where you gaun?’

  ‘West End.’

  The man thought about this a minute. ‘Twenty-five pounds in ma haun.’

  She agreed.

  ‘Rightyo, get in the car.’

  ‘That’s your taxi?’ She saw him point to an old black hearse.

  ‘Aye. Take it or leave it.’

  She didn’t have to answer. He unlocked the passenger door, and she climbed in. The kids clustered around for their pay-off. She counted her money quickly. She had fifty-four pounds – two twenties, a ten and four coins. She gave the kids one of the twenties.

  ‘Is this aw we get?’

  ‘It’s all I have.’

  There was some grumbling and dissent. The driver got in behind the wheel. She handed him the rest of her money. He stuffed it in his trouser pocket and turned a key in the ignition and the big hearse rumbled, throwing a great cloud of smoke that engulfed the vehicle.

  ‘Away we go,’ he said, and stuck the hearse in gear. ‘Hing on.’

  The hearse shook and rumbled and tossed her around in her seat. There was no belt to hold her in place, but what did she care?

  ‘Right old fuckn boneshaker, eh?’ the man said. He laughed, a smoker’s crusty laugh, and scratched his chest constantly as the hearse went roaring and vibrating along Edinburgh Road.

  She shut her eyes.

  She felt a deep rage gathering. Fuck you, Chuck. Fuck you. Sending me there. How could you do that to me? Ship me out to that place.

  She knew what she’d do. She’d go to her flat, toss some things quickly in a bag, and leave. And Chuck wouldn’t know where she was. Stew, Big Man.

  She listened to the roar of the hearse. Street lamps flitted past, yellow in the night. The driver kept trying to tell her jokes but she wasn’t listening.

  Knock knock, who’s there?

  Knock knock, who’s there, who’s behind the door?

  Something dreadful—

  She stared straight ahead with her hands clamped in her lap and her mind emptying like suds carrying unthinkable thoughts down a sink.

  26

  Early morning, Perlman drove to Govan. He’d expected word from Betty, but she hadn’t phoned. She may have gone directly back to her flat after the morgue. He thought about her as he travelled west along Govan Road. Sunlit morning, but not for Betty, not for her.

  He parked his Ka and locked it outside the fire-damaged tenement where Tartakower lived. He stood on the pavement with his hands on his hips and studied a group of kids who idled at the end of the block. They were the same young teenagers who’d scoffed at his attempt to kick a ball last time. They wore the regulation street corner threads: tracksuit pants and running shoes and jackets with upraised hoods. They watched him with tough-guy expressions.

  These were in all likelihood the same kids who’d snaffled his wing mirrors. They sent vibes of malicious intent. He was reluctant to leave the car and go inside the building, God knows what they’d nick this time. Tyres? Hub-caps? They openly passed a joint around. In the old days he’d have given them a lecture on narcotics – but you didn’t do that now, not in the new climate where these kids probably carried knives and had total contempt for the polis. Also, these wee bassas spouted the law. If you so much as laid a finger on one, or tried to intimidate them, they came back with smart-arse retorts about their rights and accusations of polis abuse.

  A losing battle, Perlman thought. Glasgow belonged to wild kids.

  He tested the door handles, checking the car was as secure as it could be. The kids were still eyeballing him, and shuffling around. Polis alert. They smoked the joint down to its brown bitter end where it fell apart in fading sparks. They whispered among themselves and kept glowering at Perlman, who was reluctant to enter the tenement and climb up through that burned-out gloom again.

  One of the boys, the smallest, red-cheeked and cherubic beneath the hood, broke away from the group and walked straight past Perlman and kept going, gathering speed as he moved. He had the demeanour of a messenger, the kid who wasn’t quite in the fold yet because he was too young, the menial who did what the others told him, stealing the ciggies, rummaging for money in his ma’s purse, whatever. He looked back at Perlman a second, as if to check whether the polisman was watching him.

  Something’s afoot, Perlman thought.

  He turned to survey the other kids, who’d assumed a collective nonchalance. Polis is here, hee haw, we don’t give a buggery. We just stand on the. street corner and smoke dope, watcha gonny dae aboot it, Mister Polisman? Arrest us?

  Perlman swivelled, saw the small kid vanish inside a corner shop at the end of the block. What was this wee angel up to? Perlman walked after him, reached the shop, which was barricaded with a roll-down steel window peppered with manic graffiti. He peered through the doorway into the murk. The air smelled of boiled ham and spoiled apples.

  A turbaned shopkeeper stood behind the counter, which was protected by strong wire mesh. He regarded Perlman with the air of a man who was thinking: Glasgow or Calcutta, toss a coin.

  Lou was about to back out, wondering if maybe the kid’s move was a clumsy ploy to draw him away from his vermilion car for criminal purposes. Then he glimpsed the kid whispering to somebody just out of sight behind shelves of canned beans and instant soup mixes and Bisto packets. He went quickly to the kid – and there, huddled like a fugitive, Tartakower lurked with a shopping bag in one hand and a ferret on a chain in the other. The small boy instantly did a runner, whipping past Perlman and out into the street.

  ‘Hiding?’ Lou asked.

  Tartakower was flustered, and working not to show it. ‘Just g
athering a few grocery items, Perlman. Is this now against the law?’ He wore a threadbare ex-army coat and a tattered scarf knotted at his neck. His dirty brown shoes were cracked and the soles flapped.

  ‘Is that really a ferret, Tartakower?’

  ‘Sshh. She thinks she’s a dog, Perlman. This delusion I encourage.’ Tartakower rattled the creature’s chain.

  ‘And the wee smout who ran away, what is he? Your lookout?’

  Tartakower shrugged. ‘A lonely man takes his friends where he can find them.’

  ‘My heart flows over like a cheap cistern. He came to warn you I was here.’

  Tartakower ignored the remark, and dragged both ferret and the grocery bag out into the street. Perlman followed. The kids on the corner whooped and cheered and shouted ‘Issy! Issy!’ And then they came pounding along the pavement, all loose laces and happy faces, toward Tartakower. They jostled Perlman aside.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ Perlman complained, only just keeping his balance.

  The kids huddled around Tartakower, patting the ferret, and firing Perlman glares of contempt.

  ‘What is this, Tartakower? Your gang?’

  ‘Fuck off, polis bastart,’ one of the hoodies said. A big kid this one, maybe fourteen or older; you could imagine his future mug shot, a composition in resentment and disobedience.

  Perlman said, ‘Shut your pointy face, scruff.’

  ‘Make me. Come on.’ The boy held his hands out, inviting Perlman forward to fight. ‘Come on then, big baws. Feart, eh?’

  ‘Feart? Aye, right.’ Perlman stared at the boy and saw in those eyes the bare aggression imposed by the blight of the city. He’d seen the look thousands of times, more than. These were the city’s children, brought up in doomed housing, failed by parents and teachers and priests, and all those useless theorists and planners of civic order, shrinks, sociologists and politicians. These kids didn’t give a damn, there was no future, tomorrow, fuckit, they might be dead. They lived in a world they knew to be volatile and cruel-hearted. They saw their unemployed parents’ promises of better times vanish in a litter of useless lottery tickets or discarded betting stubs or racks of empties. They grew up with racial and religious intolerance, casual thuggery, older brothers imprisoned or dead – and who could say that some blissed-out terrorist, dreaming of an afterlife of willing virgins, might not just fly over Glasgow one fine day and drop a fucking bomb?