Agnes Owens Page 10

  ‘Who wid want tae visit a grave anyway?’ I said. ‘We’ll always remember him the way he wis.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Murdo. ‘Every time I come intae this bar I’ll always mind Paddy staunin’ at the end o’ the counter wi’ his glass.’

  ‘Always crackin’ a joke,’ I said.

  ‘Aye, always the cheery one.’

  We stared sadly into space.

  ‘D’ye know,’ said Murdo breaking the spell, ‘I’m gaun tae be stony broke this New Year. I’ve hardly a tosser left whit wi’ a’ the arrangements. I’m due twenty-five pounds aff the Social Security for Paddy’s funeral, but I’ll no’ lay ma haunds on it for a week or two. You know whit the social is like.’

  Straightaway I said, ‘I’m stony masel.’ There was another silence. ‘I’ll get ye a hauf though,’ I added in the way of consolation.

  Murdo in a bad mood was a grim prospect. He accepted a glass of whisky gratefully. I looked around to see who I could join. Before I could move he said, ‘Did ye ever consider doin’ a job?’

  ‘Whiddy ye mean?’ I knew what he meant.

  ‘There’s a hoose alang the road jist askin’ tae be done. Plenty o’ good gear an’ maybe money lyin’ aboot.’

  ‘A hoose? Do ye mean a mansion o’ some kind?’

  ‘Naw. It’s a tap flat up a close. We could get in through the loft, but I need somebody tae gie me a punt up.’

  ‘That’s a mug’s game. For a start how do we get rid o’ the gear?’

  ‘Dead easy. I’ve got connections.’

  I wasn’t interested. Not that I’m averse to a bit of pauchling. For me the building site was fair game for easy pickings. Many a time I sold Sanny Hamilton, a private contractor, cheap bags of cement and such like. But I didn’t fancy house-breaking.

  ‘Mind ye,’ said Murdo, ‘I only dae this kind o’ thing when I’m stuck. I don’t make a livin’ at it. But things are gettin’ right hard these days. Imagine, nae drink for the New Year.’

  I agreed. ‘It hardly stauns thinkin’ aboot.’

  ‘Well, whit aboot it then?’

  ‘Naw.’

  His eyes hardened. ‘Maybe ye’re jist yellow.’

  ‘Maybe, but if ye come ootside ye’ll find oot.’

  I picked up an empty tumbler. I wasn’t going to be unarmed. Murdo always carried a knife. We stared at each other in deadlock.

  Finally he said, ‘Don’t get yer back up. It wis only a chance I wis gie’n ye. There’s plenty others will take it.’

  He ordered two pints. I accepted mine without any thanks. Time to get going and leave Murdo to his project. There was no point in getting into a drinking mood. I had about twenty pence in my pocket so I might as well go home. I couldn’t even sell anything off the site. Nobody was in business this week. But Murdo’s proposition, unacceptable though it was, had set the wheels in motion. How was I going to lay my hands on the ready? There was nothing to pawn in the house except the telly and I might as well go in for armed robbery as attempt that. It would be a sick business scrounging off my mates at the New Year. I would never live it down. Then I began to figure, if Murdo had decided to do a job the house would be robbed anyway. If it wasn’t me that got the share it would be somebody else. It would make no difference to the folk in the house, but it would make a difference to my financial standing. I gave Murdo a sidelong glance. He was leaning against the counter, shoulders hunched in the get lost sign. The shutters were down, but I took a chance.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said as if the subject hadn’t been dropped, ‘these folks might be mates o’ mine.’

  He said coldly, ‘It’s no’ likely. The daughter is a Sunday school teacher and her faither is Kilty Cauld Bum McFadjan, the Scottish Nationalist. I don’t know aboot the mother, but she must be another bampot. They say she leaves her door open a’ the time tae let the cat in and oot.’

  I was surprised. ‘Surely no’ Cauld Bum! He’s no’ worth much.’

  ‘Don’t you believe it. He goes aboot fixing bagpipes. His hoose is stacked oot wi’ them. These bagpipes are worth a fortune. Tinker Geordie that plays ootside the Clansman wid gie us at least a fiver for a decent set.’

  This was different. Kilty Cauld Bum was a joke with most people. Especially us of the socialist class. He cycled about, delivering his pamphlets with his kilt flying in the wind like a bad imitation of Rob Roy. I never had much regard for the highland gentry, but he wasn’t even a real one.

  ‘How dae ye know when they’ll be oot?’

  ‘Dae ye want a guarantee wi’ the job?’

  ‘Forget it then.’

  ‘Right.’

  I noticed his glass was empty. So was mine.

  ‘I might have enough for two half-pints,’ I said.

  ‘That’s more than whit I’ve got.’

  I slammed the money on the counter. ‘Two half-pints Flossie, and chalk the difference up.’ Flossie complied with tight lips.

  Murdo softened. He said, ‘I know they’re oot the night. They’re gaun tae a ceilidh up the bay. I know this for a fact because Kilty selt a ticket to one o’ ma mates. He said he wid be playin’ the bagpipes, an’ his wife an’ daughter wid be gaun.’

  There was a pause. ‘Are ye on then?’ asked Murdo.

  ‘I suppose so, but it’s only because it’s McFadjan. I widny rob any other hoose.’

  ‘Don’t gie me the sermon. Are ye on or no’?’

  ‘Right.’

  We shook hands on the matter.

  At ten o’clock the same night we were standing on the top floor of a tenement and facing McFadjan’s door. We took the precaution of trying it just in case it wasn’t locked, but of course it was. We peered through the letter-box, and all was black. We peered through the letter-box of the flat opposite, and all was black, which was an added bit of luck.

  ‘Right,’ said Murdo, taking out a torch from his pocket. ‘Gie’s a punt up.’

  ‘Whit are ye gaun tae dae anyway?’ I asked.

  ‘I jist go alang the rafters for a wee while, bash a hole in the ceiling, then in.’

  I placed my arms on the wall, at the same time stooping a bit.

  He managed to get his feet on my shoulders but the weight was terrible. I straightened myself as best as I could manage, to allow him to reach the trapdoor of the loft.

  ‘It’s helluva stiff,’ he said to my dismay.

  He banged on it for ages. The sweat was blinding me.

  ‘For God’s sake, hurry! I canny take yer weight much longer.’

  Finally he eased it open and the weight lifted from me. I could hardly take my arms from the wall to straighten myself, but when I did he had disappeared into the loft.

  * * *

  Nervously I paced about peering over the three flights of stairs. I was supposed to bang on the trapdoor if anyone came. It occurred to me I couldn’t reach it, so I prayed no one would come. Then I heard footsteps. Skliff, skliff, they came up on the first landing. Skliff, skliff, up to the second landing. Skliff off into a flat I prayed, but they skliffed right on up to the third. Trying to look casual I knocked on McFadjan’s door as if I was a legitimate caller. From the corner of my eye I saw a man and woman approaching. At first they didn’t see me.

  ‘Don’t think I never seen you winkin’ tae that piece behind the bar,’ the woman was saying.

  ‘I wisny winkin’. There was somethin’ in ma eye.’

  He stopped short when he saw me. I knocked again with a show of impatience.

  ‘The McFadjans are no’ in. They’re away tae a ceilidh,’ said the woman.

  ‘Oh dear,’ I said.

  ‘Have I seen you somewhere afore?’ asked the man.

  Nervously I shuffled. Then there was a crash from above and a muffled roar.

  ‘They must be in, Tommy. I hear somethin’,’ the woman said.

  ‘Maybe he’s burst his bagpipes an’ blew hissel up,’ said the man with a laugh and a wink to me.

  The woman banged the door and shouted through the letter
box, ‘Are ye in?’ She looked at me puzzled. ‘That’s funny, they’re no’ answerin’ an’ they left the key wi’ me tae let the cat in.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said, trying to look normal, ‘if they’re in they’ll come oot eventually. But there’s nae point in yous two hingin’ aboot. It’s too cauld.’

  ‘Hmm,’ was her doubtful reply.

  The man was losing interest, God bless him.

  ‘Get intae the hoose,’ he said, ‘an’ mind yer ain business.’ He put his key in the door. Reluctantly his wife turned away. I knocked on McFadjan’s door again. As soon as they disappeared I was getting to hell out of it. The woman closed her door slowly, staring at me all the while. Just then a skinny black cat flew up the stairs. Quickly she opened the door. ‘Tommy!’ she shrieked, ‘There’s somethin’ funny goin’ on. The cat’s still oot, an’ there’s somebody in there, an’ they’re no’ answerin’.’

  The cat rubbed itself against my leg in ecstasy. I could have kicked it to death.

  ‘And bring McFadjan’s key aff the sideboard,’ she added.

  The man came out in a temper. ‘Whit the hell’s up noo?’ he shouted.

  She snatched the key from his hand and opened McFadjan’s door in a flash. I would have ran off, but I was transfixed with indecision. Anyway there might be a chance to bluff it out. If Murdo kept quiet we might still get away with it.

  ‘Follow me,’ she commanded. ‘I don’t like the look o’ things,’ and marched up the lobby. I daresay she had guts, but I hated them.

  The man muttered, ‘She canny keep her nose oot o’ things.’

  We followed her into the living room. I noticed it was even worse than ours. A tattered three-piece suite, a carpet nowhere near fitting wall to wall and leaving large surrounds of floorboards, plus an ancient piano adorned by stale photographs and tinny candlesticks. Then she investigated the bedroom while we trailed behind her, shouting, ‘Is onybody there?’ At this point she gave a shriek.

  My nerves were cracking. ‘Whit is it?’ said the man, ‘Are they a’ deid?’

  ‘Look!’ she screamed. We looked. A leg was dangling from the ceiling.

  ‘Who’s up there?’ she demanded. ‘Answer me!’

  At last came the answer, ‘Fuckin’ Kilroy!’

  Murdo might be trapped, but I wasn’t. I took to my heels and ran.

  * * *

  I didn’t have to worry about drink for Hogmanay. That particular night I was in the police cells. So was Murdo, after the law prised him from the beams where he had been jammed. There was no bones broken, otherwise he would have had the comfort of a hospital bed. My mother bailed me out the next morning and we passed New Year’s day in silence watching the television. Murdo and I are putting forward the plea that we were drunk and breaking into lofts for a bet. After all, who in their right mind would break into McFadjan’s if they were intending robbery? I think this is a good point. Murdo said we will only get a fine at the most and he promised to pay it off Paddy’s funeral money from the social, but whatever happens I knew I had it coming. As the Arabs say, ‘It is written.’

  The Ghost Seeker

  It wasn’t the usual thing for me to be heading over the hills on a frosty morning instead of lying in bed until midday, then afterwards swilling a couple of inches of beer in my glass in the Paxton. It wasn’t usual either being unemployed for a month, but this had happened at the beginning of February. Redundancy was the order of the times for the building-site worker, who was in as much demand as a pig at a palace.

  I decided to take a saunter through the old Douglas Estate. I hadn’t set foot in it since my schooldays. The old lodge cottage was gone, only a bit of broken wall remained to mark the garden where we used to pinch hard green apples which gave you the dreaded diarrhoea and the trees were black and gaunt like monuments to the passing of the cottage and my youth. I reached the stable quarters, deserted, but not quite a ruin yet. It had been the last place to be inhabited when the gentry had abandoned it after a fire had burned the big house to the ground. The loyal workers had hung on here, hopeful that the master would rebuild the place to allow them to return to their happy serfdom. He never did. So the workers left for council houses and factory jobs, leaving the estate to marauding poachers, lovers and vagabonds like myself.

  I studied the many desecrated doors facing me, splintered and barely hanging on by their hinges. Which one was it that another boy and myself had pushed open with great effort to explore its secrets? It had been solid and in good condition then. Steep, wooden stairs had confronted us. The boy had climbed up recklessly, but I had hung back. I remembered having a foreboding about those stairs.

  ‘C’mon fearty,’ the boy had shouted.

  ‘I canny.’ I couldn’t explain, but my legs were paralysed when I placed them on the stairs.

  ‘It’s great up here. There’s furniture an’ everythin’.’

  I had forced myself up, fighting against an invisible weight pressing on me. When I reached the top I had been blinded by the sun shining through the skylight. Except for the boy’s gaping grin I couldn’t see anything clearly other than a vague impression of rafters above me and a bed in the corner.

  ‘This is a great wee den,’ the boy had said. ‘We could play here every day and naebody wid know.’

  He was full of enthusiasm and probably right. But all I could feel was iciness – a dreadful iciness on that warm summer day. My teeth had chattered.

  ‘It’s c-cauld in here,’ I had mumbled.

  ‘Cauld! Ye must be jokin’.’

  I hadn’t waited. I rushed down the stairs, ignoring the boy’s taunts.

  We had returned home together without saying much and he never played with me again. Maybe that’s why I don’t remember his name. I never found out what had created that icy sensation and I never heard of any sinister tale about the stables. Maybe I just imagined it.

  Now I wondered where the door was. I kicked the one facing me wide open, but there were no stairs, just a tangled mass of rubble, and felt only the normal iciness of a February day without any past impression: I also felt cheated, because then it had all been so important. We scruffy kids had been so worthless compared to the grandeur of the nobleman’s wonderland. Even after he had gone the ‘Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted’ notice had remained to warn us not to enjoy what once had been his. But now the bluff was called. The estate was finished. Even the bushes intruding over the estate road in order to establish their position were wasting their effort. It was down on the redevelopment plan that in one year’s time everything would be levelled to the ground in order to build a school for the increasing number of undisciplined and unappreciative council-house kids.

  A few yards onwards I came across the ‘hut wi’ the hooks’ as we called it, reduced to a pile of black rotting planks of wood. Once the hut had been used to hang game or venison until it was decayed enough to eat but when we took it over it was merely used as a base for hide and seek or whatever. At the worst it was a good shelter. Yet I was never too sure of it except when there was a gang of us around. When you were alone and looked at it back over your shoulder as you were leaving you got this funny feeling. At least I did. I remember sitting on its wooden steps with a black dog for company – one of those nameless animals that walked with anyone at all when it took the notion. The dog had shivered, whined and raised the hairs on its back. For me that was proof that the place was haunted. Of course condemning places as being haunted was a vocation with the kids in my day. It ranged from the outgoing community centre to Faroni’s chip shop if you had to pass them in the dark and they were closed. Even your own back green wasn’t above suspicion if you were ordered to bring in a shirt from the line in the dark and it was stiff with frost, waiting for you with outstretched arms. Wee Peter Ratchitt swore blind that he had peered in through our classroom window at ten o’clock one night and saw the ghost of a long-dead janitor cleaning the other side of the pane. He was a notorious liar, wee Peter, but on that subject we believed
him. We had ‘being haunted’ on the brain.

  One late summer evening twelve years ago I had sat on the steps of this hut with two pals. We were tired out playing cowboys and Indians or Tarzan or corpses hanging from the hooks. Strewn all around us were trampled bushes and bits of branches, so we sat in brooding silence for a while scratching our midge bites. Then it began to dawn on us it was dark. Everything looked different. Bushes and trees were assuming the shapes of hunchbacks and Draculas. One of the pals, Bobby Smith, said, ‘It’s in a place like this ye see Frankenstein crashing through the trees.’

  We peered about us and had to admit by the look of things any kind of weird character could show up.

  ‘I think I’ll go hame,’ said the other pal. ‘My ma will kill me for bein’ oot sae late.’

  ‘So will mine,’ I said.

  ‘Couple o’ cowardy custards,’ said Bobby Smith.

  ‘I’m no’ a coward!’ I shouted.

  ‘Ye are so! Ye’re feart o’ yer mother, an ye’re feart o’ this place in the dark.’

  I was stung into a show of bravado. ‘I’ll prove I’m no’ as feart as yous two.’

  ‘How?’ asked Smith.

  I tried to think of something impressive. Then I got an idea that would let me head home at the same time.

  ‘I’ll go a hundred paces in front. Then I’ll wait for the two o’ ye at the lodge.’

  ‘Ye mean ye’ll walk through this place yersel!’ said the other one in a tone of awe.

  ‘Aye.’ Inwardly I was aghast at the prospect. But it was too late now. I had flung down the gauntlet.

  Smith said, ‘I’ll bet ye’ll no’ dae it.’

  ‘Whit are ye bettin’?’

  This was a difficult question. We didn’t own much. Smith searched about his pockets and brought out a pocket-knife.

  ‘This is one o’ the sharpest knives ye can get. I’ll bet this against yon cricket bat ye were playin’ wi’ yesterday.’